ONLY IN MIAMI can you find a gang agent in a beach tent. Before I headed out, I bought suitable camouflage—bikini, sarong and sandals. In the store the bikini had looked lime green. Out in the sunlight, it turned neon. Another typical Hope Adams fashion disaster. I considered trying again, but a glance around the beach assured me I wasn’t the most outrageously dressed. With a big pair of sunglasses, I blended right in. Even had the tan, though mine came with no risk of skin cancer.

I’d been to Miami before, but there’s something deliciously surreal about standing on the sand under the blazing sun mere hours after being splashed with slush. While I knew I had a job to do, I couldn’t resist taking the longer route, strolling along the beach.

As I wove through the carpet of rainbow-hued bikinis and umbrellas, I kept my face uplifted to the sky like a sun-starved flower, and almost tripped over a few outstretched legs. Sandals hanging over my arm, I scrunched through the hot sand to the shore, letting the ocean lap around my feet. When the breeze changed, the smell of empanadas broke through the heady mix of sea salt and sunscreen, and my stomach growled.

I paused by a vendor selling Latin sodas, drawn by the bright, unfamiliar labels, throat constricting as I eyed the sweaty, ice-cold bottles. But walking into this meeting casually sipping a soda wouldn’t set the right tone. So I pushed on and quickened my pace until I saw the tent ahead.

A poster was plastered on the side: Spring Break Party Videos—Come On Girls, Show Us What Ya Got. A blond grinned out from it, her shirt lifted, a blackout banner with the company logo across her chest. I checked Benicio’s directions again, in case I’d taken a wrong turn and missed the “Instructional Tai Chi” video tent where I was supposed to be. No such luck.

My contact was the dramatically named Caesar Romeo. He wasn’t a gang member, just a supernatural they hired to weed through potential recruits sent by Benicio’s agent. As for what kind of supernatural he was, either it wasn’t important or Benicio thought I could figure it out. Doing so—safely—was my next goal.

I took my time sliding my sandals back on, then slowly walked along the side of the tent, but caught not so much as a vision flicker. My sense for supernaturals has about a 60 percent accuracy rating: the “weaker” someone’s power is, the less likely I’d detect it. I’d been told I could hone this skill, but had no idea how except through practice and concentration. There were maybe a half-dozen other Expisco half-demons in the world and I had no idea how to find them, so I was stuck muddling through on my own.