Chapter One
The leaves crunched under my feet as I stormed down the
street. I clutched my messenger bag a little tighter and lined up by the
telephone pole, my shoulders trembling like the brittle tree branches as the
gusts of wind blew through.
Two years, but I never complained, even though the pay was
crap and the customers were jerks. Fired and all because of Dave. Smug bastard
screwed over anyone who wouldn’t screw him. The balding little creep had
hounded me ever since Billy and I split up a couple of months ago. Good
riddance to both of them.
I rubbed my bare arms as another gust blew through. The town
lights were twinkling and stores began to flick their neons on. Where was this
bus?
A paper fluttered on the telephone pole, one of those
hastily scribbled adverts with a serial-killer scrawl.
A punk show in Jefferson City? Now that was a rarity.
These people were either the worst marketers ever or looking to raise hell. I
tugged the flyer loose and scanned it. Tonight only, the band Babykiller would
be opening for the main act, Underwater Machine. I lifted the paper, ready to
crumple it up, but stopped.
The subtle glow that ringed the paper and the exotic perfume
wafting off it sent my supernatural radar into overdrive. The flyer was
saturated with a fae glamour meant to reel any average humans in the second
they spotted it.
Unfortunately for them, I was the weird rarity.
Magic, glamour—none of that stuff affected me. I’d been
seeing weird shit my entire life—fae, satyrs, centaurs, nymphs—everything that
walked around disguised as humans. For some reason their voodoo never worked on
me.
Not the best ability when the rest of the world thought you
were insane. After my first ten encounters with therapists trying to talk me
through delusions and my “cries for attention,” I gave up and bounced from city
to city until I moved all the way out here. Biggest perk of living in the
middle of nowhere? Less chance of bumping into any of those supernatural
weirdos, which meant I could live a semi-normal life.
I stared at the flyer, cursing its existence. Should I
ignore this invitation and leave well enough alone? Of course, but now my
curiosity was piqued and I had to find out why supernaturals wanted to muck
around in Jefferson City.
The bus approached in the distance, the groan and squeak of
the brakes echoing over to where I stood. As I stepped onto the bus, I yanked
my cell phone from my pocket.
Time to call Viola.
* * * * *
The kitchen light cast a couple of dim rays over my living
room. A couple of weeks back the bulb inside my coffee-table lamp had burned
out, but I hadn’t bothered to change it. Dark shadows created ample tripping
opportunities, from stray heels to stacks of old Heinlein novels.
I fumbled my way to the bathroom, tugging on the pair of
boots I’d found in the process. The fluorescent light accentuated the yellow
sludge on my walls, a gift from the chain-smoking prior tenants.
I tugged my hair out of its constricting ponytail as my mind
raged with all of the problems that came with losing a job. Rent on this
shitty apartment? Screwed. Bus fare to go interview for new jobs? Screwed.
Food? Unless I start eating roadkill, I’m pretty screwed.
I needed a distraction. A drink, a good tumble,
anything—even this sure-to-be-trouble punk show.
The eyes staring at me in the chipped mirror spelled murder.
That’s what happens when you get sacked without just cause—one pissed-off chica
looking to blow off steam.
I picked out a quick ensemble from the piles of clothes
stacked around my bed. Low, tight-fitting v-neck, a pair of beat-up cargos and
my combat boots. I figured my thrift-store dreads would fit right in. I ran a
comb through my tangled brown waves until the strands were a little less limp
and a little more glossy. Heavy eyeliner, check.
A knock sounded outside my door.
Had to be Viola. I gargled cinnamon mouthwash and spit it into
the sink before stalking the five
The leaves crunched under my feet as I stormed down the
street. I clutched my messenger bag a little tighter and lined up by the
telephone pole, my shoulders trembling like the brittle tree branches as the
gusts of wind blew through.
Two years, but I never complained, even though the pay was
crap and the customers were jerks. Fired and all because of Dave. Smug bastard
screwed over anyone who wouldn’t screw him. The balding little creep had
hounded me ever since Billy and I split up a couple of months ago. Good
riddance to both of them.
I rubbed my bare arms as another gust blew through. The town
lights were twinkling and stores began to flick their neons on. Where was this
bus?
A paper fluttered on the telephone pole, one of those
hastily scribbled adverts with a serial-killer scrawl.
A punk show in Jefferson City? Now that was a rarity.
These people were either the worst marketers ever or looking to raise hell. I
tugged the flyer loose and scanned it. Tonight only, the band Babykiller would
be opening for the main act, Underwater Machine. I lifted the paper, ready to
crumple it up, but stopped.
The subtle glow that ringed the paper and the exotic perfume
wafting off it sent my supernatural radar into overdrive. The flyer was
saturated with a fae glamour meant to reel any average humans in the second
they spotted it.
Unfortunately for them, I was the weird rarity.
Magic, glamour—none of that stuff affected me. I’d been
seeing weird shit my entire life—fae, satyrs, centaurs, nymphs—everything that
walked around disguised as humans. For some reason their voodoo never worked on
me.
Not the best ability when the rest of the world thought you
were insane. After my first ten encounters with therapists trying to talk me
through delusions and my “cries for attention,” I gave up and bounced from city
to city until I moved all the way out here. Biggest perk of living in the
middle of nowhere? Less chance of bumping into any of those supernatural
weirdos, which meant I could live a semi-normal life.
I stared at the flyer, cursing its existence. Should I
ignore this invitation and leave well enough alone? Of course, but now my
curiosity was piqued and I had to find out why supernaturals wanted to muck
around in Jefferson City.
The bus approached in the distance, the groan and squeak of
the brakes echoing over to where I stood. As I stepped onto the bus, I yanked
my cell phone from my pocket.
Time to call Viola.
* * * * *
The kitchen light cast a couple of dim rays over my living
room. A couple of weeks back the bulb inside my coffee-table lamp had burned
out, but I hadn’t bothered to change it. Dark shadows created ample tripping
opportunities, from stray heels to stacks of old Heinlein novels.
I fumbled my way to the bathroom, tugging on the pair of
boots I’d found in the process. The fluorescent light accentuated the yellow
sludge on my walls, a gift from the chain-smoking prior tenants.
I tugged my hair out of its constricting ponytail as my mind
raged with all of the problems that came with losing a job. Rent on this
shitty apartment? Screwed. Bus fare to go interview for new jobs? Screwed.
Food? Unless I start eating roadkill, I’m pretty screwed.
I needed a distraction. A drink, a good tumble,
anything—even this sure-to-be-trouble punk show.
The eyes staring at me in the chipped mirror spelled murder.
That’s what happens when you get sacked without just cause—one pissed-off chica
looking to blow off steam.
I picked out a quick ensemble from the piles of clothes
stacked around my bed. Low, tight-fitting v-neck, a pair of beat-up cargos and
my combat boots. I figured my thrift-store dreads would fit right in. I ran a
comb through my tangled brown waves until the strands were a little less limp
and a little more glossy. Heavy eyeliner, check.
A knock sounded outside my door.
Had to be Viola. I gargled cinnamon mouthwash and spit it into
the sink before stalking the five
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