Shadow of Doubt - Hailey Edwards Page 0,1
grown into a new skin.
I had buried the old me where no one would find her and risen with a new identity, a new purpose, and with hope that new and improved me would cancel out all the karmic debt past me had incurred. I was fully embracing the role of phoenix, which was only fitting since one graced the city seal.
Though I had to admit, as a necromancer living in a city teeming with paranormals, my old story hadn’t ended so much as I had flipped to the start of the next chapter.
“I have to make rent.” She stomped on the accelerator but mercifully left the radio off. “To do that, I zip as many slowpokes across town as I can in a night. Gas don’t pay for itself. Neither do groceries. Keep that in mind when you’re typing up the review I can hear you mentally composing over there.”
That stupid taco came back to haunt me as she cut lanes, slashed through an exit, then slammed on her brakes.
I swallowed it back down, hit release on my seat belt, then reached for the handle. “Thanks for the lift.”
“What’s he doing here?” the girl mumbled. “Hey.” She locked the doors, ensuring a captive audience. “What’s he doing here?”
“You’ve got to be more specific.” A manned barricade blocked the sidewalk. “Who?”
“Midas Kinase.”
The sound of his name sent a shiver whispering down my spine. “I don’t know.”
But I could guess, and I only needed one.
The Atlanta gwyllgi pack wouldn’t trot out its heir and chief enforcer for anything less than a capital crime involving a pack member. Crossing paths with him—or his keen nose—was the absolute last thing I needed tonight or any other night.
Gwyllgi scent memories filed away all sorts of information, meaning my true identity was only a sniff away. I had taken precautions, magical ones, to flesh out my new persona, but this wasn’t how I wanted to learn if the witch had sold me the promised charm or just an old silver band that sometimes turned my middle finger green.
“You’re Hadley Whitaker.” Her eyes rounded until they swallowed her face. “The Hadley Whitaker. I saw your name pop up on the app, but…geez. You’re really her?”
“Yep.” I tapped on the window so she would take the hint. “I’m really me.”
“No shit?” She all but bounced in her seat. “You know the Potentate of Atlanta?”
Linus Andreas Lawson III.
Appointed by the Society for Post-Life Management, the ruling body for necromancers, over which his mother presided, to protect and serve this city. He was Society royalty. Rich. Powerful. Influential. And engaged to my former best friend.
Yeah.
Our relationship was…complicated, even before I took a walk on the dark side.
Chills coasted down my arms, and my heart kicked hard once. “He’s my boss.”
“You’re like his heir, right? Scion? I forget what you corpse-raisers call it.”
Corpse-raiser.
This kid could teach a master class on how not to get repeat business.
“Right now, I’m a lowly employee of the Office of the Potentate. One day, if I play my cards right, I might get promoted to upper management.”
“Wow.” She sank back against her seat. “He’s pretty hot if you’re into the grim reaper type.”
Once upon a time, I might have agreed with her, but on bad nights, I still dreamed of him.
The moth-eaten black cloak that hung from his shoulders, the threadbare cowl that hid his pale face. All that, I could stomach, but his scythe…the way moonlight glinted off its blade when he raised it to strike a killing blow…
I stood on the right side of the law these days, but one look at him had me feeling cold steel parting the warm flesh at my throat.
“Is this like official business?” She scanned the scene. “Did someone bite it?”
While she gawked, I manually unlocked my door. “That’s classified.”
“That’s a yes.” She grinned at me, metal glinting over needle-sharp teeth that made me wonder if she wasn’t as pixie as her hairstyle. “I’ll be in the area if you want to call me up special.” She passed me a crumpled piece of paper trimmed into a lopsided rectangle. On the front, she had painstakingly drawn a business card with colorful markers. On the back, she had crossed out the last four digits of her debit card number on a receipt for takeout. “The app won’t let you pick who you get, but I’ll charge their rates for a private ride.”
“I appreciate it.” I tucked the slip into my wallet so as not to ding her pride.