Karl would have found it entertaining too. If I’d been assigned this story a couple of months ago, I’d have been waiting for his next call, so I could say, “Hey, I got a werewolf story. Can I get a statement?” He’d make some sardonic comment, and I’d curl up, settling in for a long talk, telling myself it was just friendship, that I’d never be fool enough to fall for Karl Marsten. Kidding myself, of course. The moment I let him cross that line past friendship, I got burned…and it was just as bad as I’d always feared.

I pushed memories of Karl aside and concentrated on the story. The officer had just let slip a lead on the kids who’d found the body—two girls who worked at the 7-Eleven on the corner—when clouds suddenly darkened the day to twilight. Thunder boomed, and I dropped my pen. As the officer bent to grab it, I snuck a glance around. No one was looking at the sky or running for cover. They were all carrying on as they had been.

The officer kept talking, but I could barely hear him through the thunderclaps. I gritted my teeth and waited for the vision to end. A storm moving in? Possible, if it promised enough destruction to qualify as chaotic. But I suspected the source was a Tempestras—a “storm” half-demon. One offshoot of my “gift” was the ability to sense other supernaturals through their chaotic powers.

I cast another surreptitious glance around. My gaze settled instead on the one person I hadn’t noticed before. A dark-haired man, at least six foot three, with a linebacker’s body ill-concealed by a custom-tailored suit.

He seemed to be looking my way, but with his dark sunglasses it was impossible to tell. Then he lowered them, pale blue eyes meeting mine, chin dipping in greeting. He walked over.

“Ms. Adams? A word please?”

HOPE GODFATHER

HOPE

GODFATHER

I checked for chaos vibes and felt nothing. Still, any time a hulking half-demon stranger sought me out hundreds of miles from my home, I had reason to be alarmed.

“Let’s head over there.”

He nodded to a quiet corner under an elm. When we stopped, he shivered and looked up into the dense branches.

“Not the warmest spot,” he said. “I guess that’s why it’s the one empty corner in the park. No sunshine.”

“But you could fix that.”

I braced myself for a denial. Instead I got a grin that thawed his ice-blue eyes.

“Now that’s a handy talent. I could use that in my line of work.”

“And that would be?”

“Troy Morgan,” he said, as if in answer. “My boss would like to talk to you.”

The name clicked—Benicio Cortez’s personal bodyguard.