What with being a goddess and all, albeit a much diminished one, Hel keeps most of the eldritch folk in line. The rune inscribed on my left palm is a symbol that I’m licensed to enforce her rules and act as her liaison between the underworld and the mundane authorities. It works pretty well most of the time, at least with the eldritch who respect order. Unfortunately, there are plenty who prefer chaos.

Especially fairies, of which we have many.

Los Gatos del Sol wrapped their last set. The crowd began to disperse into the warm night. Jen retrieved her brother, Brandon, and we discussed plans to schedule a good old-fashioned movie night with my mom, or maybe a Gilmore Girls marathon.

I was relieved that she didn’t mention Cody again. Generally speaking, Jen and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. My crush on Cody was a glaring exception. It was tied up with keeping his secret, which I was honor-bound to do.

By the time I made my way back to my place, the young couple in the front apartment were making loud and vigorous love, which I could hear on the landing; but on the plus side, Mogwai had decided to make an appearance. I turned on the stereo and poured myself a couple inches of good scotch, my one grown-up indulgence, then lit a few candles and curled up in the love seat on my screened porch to mull over the evening.

Mogwai settled his considerable tricolored bulk in my lap, kneading and purring his deep, raspy purr.

“Not too bad, Mog.” I stroked him absentmindedly. “One changeling scenario averted. Hel would be pleased.”

He twitched one notched ear in a cat-quick flick.

I sighed. “And yeah, one hopeless crush flirting with my BFF. But it’s not really any of my business, is it?”

He purred louder in agreement.

On the stereo, Billie Holiday sang good morning to heartache, her voice fragile and almost tremulous, and yet there was a fine steel thread of strength running through it, a strength born of suffering and resolve. Of all the music in the world, nothing soothes my own savage beast like women singing the blues. The year I discovered it, I was twelve, and my mom was dating a bassist in a local jazz band, the only serious boyfriend I’d ever known her to have. He introduced us to a lot of music. His name was Trey Summers, and he was killed in a car accident that winter. I still missed him, and I know Mom did, too.

I petted.

Mogwai purred.

Outside, the night was filled with the sounds of a resort town in full revelry: partying tourists frequenting the bars, bass beats thumping. Inside, with profoundly poignant resignation, Billie Holiday invited heartache to sit down.

I blew out the candles and went to bed.

Chapter Three

Three