I’d spent two years working for the Cortez Cabal. Unintentionally. Hired by Tristan Robard, who I thought was a representative of the interracial council, I’d been placed with True News to keep an eye on supernatural stories, suppressing or downplaying the real ones and alerting the council to potential trouble. My job soon expanded to helping them locate rogue supernaturals.

It had been the perfect way to guiltlessly indulge my hunger for chaos. The phrase “too good to be true” comes to mind, but I’d been in such a dark place—depressed, angry, confused. When you’re that far down and someone offers you a hand back up, you grab it and you don’t ask questions.

Then came my toughest assignment. Capturing a werewolf jewel thief during a museum gala. I’d been so pleased with myself…until that werewolf—Karl Marsten—ripped the rose-colored glasses from my eyes and proved that I was really working for the Cortez Cabal. When we escaped that mess, cleaning services came from an unexpected quarter: Benicio. My employment had been a secret operation of Tristan’s, and his attack on Karl a personal matter, so in apology, Benicio had disposed of the bodies and provided medical assistance for Karl.

In return, we owed him. Until now, I’d never worried about that because I had a codebtor. Karl was a professional thief—capable of guiding me through whatever underworld task Benicio set us.

But now Benicio had come to collect, and Karl wasn’t around to do anything about it.

MY SKIRT GAVE an obscene squeak as I slid onto the SUV’s leather seat. If the man within noticed, he gave no sign, just put out a hand to help me.

As the door closed, the roar of morning traffic vanished, replaced by the murmur of calypso jazz, so soft I had to strain to recognize it. Gone too were the exhaust fumes, making way for the stench of stale smoke.

“Cigar,” the man said, catching my nose wrinkling. “Cuban, though the expense doesn’t make the smell any better. I requested a nonsmoking vehicle, but with high-end rentals, people think if they pay enough, they can do as they please.”

Benicio Cortez. He bore little resemblance to the one Cortez I knew—his youngest son, Lucas. Benicio was at least sixty, probably no more than five eight, broad-faced and stocky. Only his eyes reminded me of his son—nice eyes, big and dark. The kind of guy you’d let hold your purse or take your son into the bathroom. Bet that came in handy when he was telling you he understood why you didn’t want to sell your three-generation family business…while text-messaging a fire half-demon to torch the place before you got back from lunch.

“Do you mind if we drive?” he said. “If we sit here much longer, I’ll be arguing my way out of a sizable ticket.”