“Hold up.” He fell behind after a few steps, panting hard as his thick body protested the vigorous exercise. “I didn’t say nothing…about making no pit stop.”

“Be right back,” I called over my shoulder, scooping up a broken tree limb on my way to the pier.

“Make it…quick.” One long wheeze dissolved into a coughing fit. “Be grateful…I’m a nice…guy.”

I was grateful all right. That he was too out of shape to catch me.

My knees trembled as my feet thumped over the warped planks. My stomach soured when I pressed it against the wood, inhaling rot and dampness, getting as close to the rippling water as I dared. Using the stick, I pried the barnacle from the leg of the pier and hauled it up beside me. As the material repelled the last of the moisture, the crusted, pasty exterior darkened to brown leather. I opened it, shoved the balled-up pair of shorts inside the center pouch and hot-footed it back to my escort.

The marshal gathered wind in his barrel chest for an argument, but I slid the bag over my shoulders like I had every right to wear it. “Sorry about that.” I adjusted the tight straps to fit my taller frame. “All my ID is in here. I didn’t want to leave it behind.”

“Dames,” he grunted. “Need anything else, Princess?”

“This is all,” I assured him.

“Hurry up.” He beckoned me to follow. “I ain’t paid enough to play chauffeur. I ought to be out there helping find whoever killed Rogers and Donohue, not carting some fancy-pants agent out to Falco.”

I tuned out his grumbling, and my shoulders tensed as hiccupped bawling erupted. Roni cupped a cellphone to her ear thanks to the persistent marshal who managed to weaken a spot in her shield, and she rocked while crying her eyes out to the person on the other end. The tension drained from me, allowing me to slip back into that comfortably numb space where the last twenty minutes hadn’t happened, where Harlow was safe and Charybdis was defeated, and I resumed picking my way toward the fleet of black SUVs. My stride hitched thinking of the many times Graeson had stuffed me into the backseat of similar vehicles. But there was no warg to twist my arm this time. I climbed inside of my own volition, and let my lids droop closed to keep from checking the forest for the burn of golden eyes.

Chapter 18

The stocky fae drove me back to Falco, Alabama with his meaty fists clamped on the wheel and the blare of country music in my ears. His humming reminded me of the scratch of a match striking, but he seemed happy enough now that our trip was underway, and I didn’t feel like talking, so I let him play songbird.