Date: October 21, 1951

  The golden California sun rose into a cloudless sky, lighting up East Palo Alto’s flowering fields and flooding the morning with infinite promise. At a quiet creekside rest stop, a stream gurgled merrily, offering sanctuary to birds flitting in search of food, or whatever else their feathered hearts desired.

  Locals cherished their “second summers,” believing crisp, clear days like this to be the best weather in the world. Fall’s goodbye kiss before the cold, wet winter took hold.

  It was bright. It was beautiful.

  And it was pissing Mickey off something fierce.

  “Mphh… screw off,” she groaned, yanking her jacket, which currently also served as a blanket, over her eyes and rolling over in the back seat of her heavily modified 1941 Ford Super Deluxe.

  The maneuver helped reduce the light. It no longer felt like it was stabbing at her eyelids with tiny knives, but it did nothing about the thrice-damned birds.

  Grimacing, she groped for her purse, glass clinking as empty bottles shifted with her movement.

  Where in all the hells had she left it?

  After a moment of panic, she remembered she’d been using it as a pillow. She dug it out, fished out her Camels and lighter, and sat up, wincing as sunlight seared her retinas.

  She lit up and took a long drag, filling her lungs with smoke.

  By the Nine’s saggy coin purses, her head hurt.

  Eyes now adjusted enough to glare at the beautiful scene, she muttered, “I’m not falling for your—”

  The piercing wail of a train’s horn cut her off.

  Mickey jolted upright with a yelp, cracking her skull on the ceiling and dropping the cigarette in her lap.

  “No-good, dirty son of a—” she grumbled, burning her fingers as she fumbled the cherry. “By the gods, I’m onto you.”

  She ratcheted her glare into her best glower. But the world, and its smug, feathered conspirators, remained unimpressed.

  She took a second drag, leaning back as the locomotive thundered past, its rhythmic clatter dulling the edge of her hangover.

  Survived another one. Of course.

  Mornings like these always dredged up the same bitter question: how could a world so bright, so tranquil, be the same place she clawed her way through every day?

  Her cigarette had burned down to the filter, and the last train car was a speck on the horizon when the Super Deluxe shifted and a familiar voice broke her reverie.

  “Mornin’, Boss! Uh… whatcha doin’?”

  “Bullet,” she murmured, blinking as her thoughts snapped back into place. “Contemplating… deep, deep, contemplating.”

  “Oh yeah, sure thing,” came the reply. The voice was harsh and alien, but delivered in the cadence of a certain cartoon bunny. “And as much as I hate disruptin’ what is obviously deep and world-shakin’ thoughts, you said you’d start early today. Also, you wanted me to remind you that you missed this month’s payment to Madame D’Antona and the Lament.”

  Mickey grimaced, crushing the stub into the overstuffed ashtray.

  “I don’t remember saying anything about payments.”

  “So I added that second part. Still, there’s work to be done and money to make! After L.A. you’re back to zero, and last night you promised things would be different. So, rise and shine! It’s a new day, a fresh start, a clean slate, and all that inspirational nonsense you humans blather on about.”

  “Not me,” Mickey said, stretching. “I hate everything.”

  “Be that as it may,” Bullet pressed, “the fuzz awaits!”

  “Fuzz?” she echoed, tucking her gold bear paw medallion into her blouse.

  “Yeah, you know: the brass, the heat, smokies, coppers, the boys in blue, the bu—”

  “You’ve gotta cut back on the gangster flicks.”

  “And you’ve gotta stop being so cranky,” he shot back. “I told you, you should’ve sprung for a motel.”

  Mickey rubbed her face. “It’s not getting to sleep, or where I sleep, that’s the problem,” she said.

  It was the dreams that came after.

  Bourbon helped.

  Sometimes.

  Knocking over even more bottles, she wormed into the front seat and checked her reflection in the mirror.

  It wasn’t kind.

  Red marks from her purse-pillow creased her tanned skin. Her sun-kissed hair was a tangled bird’s nest. And her golden-flecked, hazel eyes looked like someone had set off firecrackers behind them.

  “And you’re the one who won’t stop talking about how broke we are,” Mickey said, poking at the spot under her left eye. “At least the shiner under Lefty’s almost gone.”

  “Things are lookin’ up!” Bullet agreed.

  “All right,” she said, grabbing her duffel stuffed with workout gear. “Time to put in the daily deposit. Be a dear and find a place with coffee, will you?”

  “Why do you do all that runnin’, boss? Lookin’ to get away from somethin’?”

  She opened the car door.

  “No, Bullet,” she said. “It’s so the somethin’s can’t get away from me.”

  And with that, she stepped out into the sun.

  ?

  Washing down the last of her breakfast with a sip of coffee, Mickey was feeling human again as she exited the freeway.

  She rolled to a stop behind a trailer packed with laughing children waiting to enter a tent-filled park.

  The air was rich with the delightful potpourri of a small-town festival. The aroma of grilled sausages, kettle corn, and damp earth instantly took her back to childhood, running wild through the county fair, sticky-fingered and barefoot in the dust.

  A banner fluttering in the breeze read:

  SAN MATEO HARVEST FESTIVAL – SATURDAY, OCT. 20 – SUNDAY, OCT. 21

  She rolled past the festivities and pulled into her destination: a sheriff’s office tucked into a strip mall storefront.

  “I’ve heard of buying cops,” Bullet quipped, “but this is ridiculous.”

  Mickey licked the last of the powdered sugar from her fingers. “All right. Serious time. No talking unless I talk to you first. Got it?”

  “Sure thing, boss. Zippin’ it up. Not a peep. Quiet as a shadow. Silent as the gra—”

  “Bullet.”

  The rambling cut off. Mickey glanced at the empty passenger seat, raising an eyebrow. After a few blessed seconds of silence, she gave a satisfied nod and stepped out of the car.

  A young family strolled down the sidewalk toward the fairgrounds: a mother, a father, and two little girls, all holding hands, all glowing with the easy warmth of a day spent together.

  A typical human family, on their way to some typical human fun.

  Except they weren’t human.

  Their charms were decent, masking them as human, but she could always see through magical disguises. She’d never been able to explain where the True Sight came from. It wasn’t your standard human ability, but it certainly came in handy in her line of work.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Ignoring the familiar sting behind her eyes as her Sight activated, she feigned interest in a window display while tracking the Mythics.

  Goblins, this time.

  Disguising their heritage didn’t make them dangerous. More than likely, these folks were just another happy family out to buy funnel cake, and these days, more Mythics wore guises than didn’t.

  Hells, if she were in their shoes, she’d do the same.

  Still, she had been fooled before.

  So she watched.

  After a few moments, it was clear this group wasn’t up to anything more sinister than indulging their daughters’ sweet tooth, so she exhaled and crossed the street, heading back toward the station.

  The warm sun, crisp breeze, and distant music and laughter floating in from the fairgrounds blended together into something close to a perfect fall day.

  “You’re still not fooling anyone,” she muttered, stepping into the sheriff’s office and walking straight into a dangling bat decoration.

  She flinched, but a clip in her hair snagged on its wing, tangling her further. The bat’s purple eyes flashed, and a tinny laugh cackled from its plastic mouth as she struggled with the cheap Halloween doodad.

  It didn’t help when she heard someone chuckle behind her.

  She turned to find a middle-aged man standing at a partitioned desk, his uniform straining over a more-than-generous paunch. He might’ve been solidly built once, but now his jowly face and sleepy eyes reminded her of her uncle’s old basset hound, Dog-Boy.

  “Better watch out, little miss,” he drawled, tossing two dead succulents into the trash. “Some real… batties in this office.” He sank into his chair, chuckling at his stupid joke. “Now, what can the San Mateo Sheriff’s Office do for you on this fine Sunday mornin’?”

  Mickey peeled off her gloves, catching how his gaze lingered on her chest before flicking up to her face.

  “Officer Calhoun, is it?” she said, noting the nameplate on his desk. “Michelle McFinn. I’m here to speak with whoever’s in charge of the Bounty Board. I have an appointment.”

  She didn’t. But people moved faster when they thought they were late.

  Calhoun produced an indulgent grin.

  “I’m sorry, little lady, but we don’t take appointments here.”

  Whoops.

  She recovered with a cool, patronizing smile of her own.

  “I know that, Officer. I’m not asking for an appointment. I’m here to register with the Illegal Magic Practitioner Bounty Board Clerk. Just closed a job down south and heard about a posting in East Palo Alto. So, if you’d point me to the clerk, I’ll handle it directly.”

  “’S that a fact?” Dog-Boy, she’d already renamed him, asked, squinting like she’d just spoken Elvish. His eyes dragged over her again, lingering far too long. “You sure, honey? Pretty little thing like yourself, gettin’ all tangled up with that crowd?”

  Heat rose up her neck, and she couldn’t quite keep it out of her voice as she met his gaze.

  “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

  There was a pause as the hamster in Dog-Boy’s head finally got off its ass and started spinning his wheel. Once it picked up enough speed for him to realize she was serious, his smirk faltered.

  “Hokay,” he said, dragging the word out. “Well, San Mateo County don’t have a formal Bounty Clerk like they do in the big cities. All hunters report to this desk first.”

  He slid a second nameplate beside the first.

  “You got documentation, Missy? ’Cause no license means you can just scoot that classy chassis of yours out the do—”

  Mickey slapped her federal paperwork and laminated license book onto the countertop.

  Dog-Boy blinked, frowning at the credentials like they might sprout teeth, then looked up.

  “You affiliated with any guilds or organizations? San Mateo County don’t give bonuses for affiliations. Even for Cloud Nine folk.”

  She gave a tight smile.

  “I work alone.”

  He paused again, scowl deepening, but apparently couldn’t come up with another reason to say no. With an annoyed grunt, he shrugged and rolled his chair to a side desk, pulling the cover off what looked like a small TV.

  Relief flickered through her at the sight.

  Good. A Com-Track.

  She’d worried a podunk outfit like the San Mateo Sheriff’s wouldn’t have the new magi-tech.

  Dog-Boy retrieved a laminated instruction sheet and started grumbling as he powered up the device. After what felt like an age of muttered curses and clunky clicks, he slid her license into the reader.

  Each license carried a magically encrypted chip, tied to its owner, and verified identity while tracking bounty records across federal and local databases.

  The screen produced a list.

  A long list.

  “Damn thing,” he grumbled, jabbing buttons and twisting dials. When that didn’t work, he restarted the process. “Must be on the fritz.”

  “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  “It’s Sergeant,” he snapped, not looking up.

  “Okay,” she said, watching as the list reappeared. “Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

  His face flushed purple as he swiveled his chair to glower at her.

  “You’re aware that forging these documents is a federal offense?”

  The last of Mickey’s patience fractured like a dry twig, then burst into flames.

  “And you’re aware,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “that accusing someone of a federal crime based on nothing but misogynistic bias is a great way to get your flatfooted ass kicked so hard your balls might finally drop, Sergeant?”

  Dog-Boy froze. His neck and ears flushed an ugly red, his face ballooning into something resembling a festering boil.

  “Now listen here, little miss…”

  “No thanks, we’re past that part,” she cut in. “You’ve checked the license. Twice. That should be enough. But since this is the world we live in, I’m sure it’s not, so here.”

  She tossed her driver’s license and passport onto the desk.

  “Both confirm I’m Michelle McFinn and that my credentials are in order.”

  Dog-Boy gawked, clearly struggling to process as he picked up the IDs.

  So she kept going.

  “Look, Sergeant, I get it. Bounty hunting’s scary. We take the jobs that are too low-priority, too remote, or too dangerous for stations like yours to touch. And because your Neanderthal brain is still stuck in a pre-Revelation fantasy, where lifting heavy things makes you better than a woman, you’re having trouble coping with reality. So let me clarify.”

  She sent a burst of anima through the bear paw pendant at her neck. Her eyes flared, the air around her crackling as she gripped the edge of the desk partition.

  The metal popped with a dull twang as her fingers left faint, indented impressions.

  “I’m here to investigate the disappearances of three women, and the magical beings possibly responsible. And since,” she continued in what she considered a pretty good Dog-Boy impression. “San Mateo County don’t rank women’s lives high enough to bother with, and since you’re all obviously far too busy…”

  She swept a look across the empty room.

  “I’ll take the case, collect the bounty, and take my classy chassis elsewhere.”

  She stepped back, ignoring the whiplash headache, and crossed her arms.

  “The only thing stopping me is a jackass sergeant who can’t seem to see the shit through the flies.”

  Dog-Boy rocked in his seat like he’d been hit by a stiff wind. But eventually, the words sank in and bewilderment twisted into irritation before hardening into anger. He rose to his feet, looking ready to take a swing at her.

  Way to turn on the charm, Mick. After this asshole blocks you from taking the contract, you can go beg the friendly folks at the park for spare change, assuming you don’t threaten them too.

  But before Dog-Boy could respond, a voice cut clean through the tension from the hallway beyond the desk.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I think that’s enough.”

  Mickey blinked, her eyes flicking away from the sergeant as a tall, lean man stepped into the room, lieutenant bars gleaming on his collar. She clocked the quiet confidence in his posture. No question, this one had combat experience. A much younger deputy trailed in behind him.

  She uncrossed her arms as the lieutenant approached. Unlike Dog-Boy, he met her eyes without flinching.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “you’ll have to excuse the sergeant. The Com-Track was only installed a few months ago. We’re still working out the kinks.”

  Mickey glanced at the still-fuming sergeant.

  “I’m sure that’s the problem,” she said, letting her eyes flick below Dog-Boy’s belt as she arched a brow. “Faulty machinery.”

  The lieutenant’s lips twitched, but he kept his face neutral. “Do you mind stepping outside while we get things sorted? I’ll be right with you.”

  She opened her mouth, thought better of it, then gave a curt nod and stalked out.

  Unfortunately, the drama of her exit was somewhat diminished when she got tangled in the same bat decoration on the way out.

  Blushing, she didn’t look back as she yanked the door open and stormed through it, the damned bat laughing all the while.

  Outside, she leaned against the storefront, glaring across the street at a flyer for an event called the Carnaval de Oto?o, doing her best not to fume.

  Movement caught her eye. A young couple strolled by, fingers entwined, window-shopping on their way to the festival. The woman must’ve said something funny, because the man burst into laughter as they rounded the corner and disappeared.

  “Dammit,” she muttered.

  The tall, lean sheriff emerged from the building, a folder in hand, the younger deputy close behind.

  “Miss McFinn, is it?”

  Mickey sighed and turned to face them.

  “That’s what it says on my underwear.”

  “Bill Grady,” he said, nodding to the deputy. “This is Deputy Pomponio. On behalf of the department, I apologize for Sergeant Calhoun. He’s a good man, but he can be…”

  “An asshole?” she offered.

  “…conservative,” the lieutenant finished, this time with a smile. “We don’t get many bounty hunters out here. Even fewer women bounty hunters. You’ve gotta admit, it’s a bit unusual.”

  Mickey rolled her eyes.

  “You got a point there, Lieutenant Bill? Or does a girl need to take a leak standing up before she can get a contract around here?”

  Pomponio looked like he’d been slapped. Grady blinked, then barked out a full, genuine laugh.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, still smiling. “Your paperwork checks out. Officially, we’re obligated to provide any intel gathered since the bounty was posted.” He handed her the folder. “Unofficially, I suggest you walk away from this one, Miss McFinn. It’s a rotten onion. The more you peel, the worse it stinks. Not worth the purse.”

  “Call me Mickey,” she said, flipping it open and skimming through the contents. “And I’m sure the victims’ families appreciate how their tax dollars are being used.”

  Grady shrugged. “San Mateo’s a big county. We’ve only got so many boots on the ground. And some cases require more resources than we have. These women just don’t…” He sighed. “I’m sorry to say, make the cut.”

  Mickey studied him. He wasn’t being cruel, just stating facts, but something about his calm, professional tone, the lack of shame in his voice, rubbed her the wrong way.

  And who are you to judge? When was the last time you took a job solely out of the goodness of your heart?

  “I’ll take my chances,” she said, closing the folder. “I still need to register for the contract. Dog-Boy was too busy choking on his own masculinity to sign me in.”

  Pomponio snorted, drawing her attention.

  Did the kid get the joke?

  “Dog-Boy” came from an old Suni legend about a shape-shifting boy born of a dog. Variants of the story popped up in tribal folklore across the continent. She studied the deputy more closely. Short, stocky, broad features, tanned skin. Native, maybe?

  Oblivious, Grady continued. “I figured you weren’t the type to scare easy. I signed you in. Still, think about what I said, Mickey.”

  “Consider it under advisement, Lieutenant Bill.”

  Grady nodded and headed back inside.

  Pomponio lingered a moment, mouth half-open, then seemed to think better of it and followed.

  Interesting.

  Mickey waited until she was inside the Super Deluxe before asking, “Thoughts?”

  Her hair stirred, like caught in a breeze, despite the rolled-up windows.

  Bullet answered, “I dunno, boss. Maybe we should—what did he say? Skedaddle? That’s a fun word. Skedaddle, skedaddle, skedaddle. It gets funnier the more you say it!”

  Mickey’s eyes flicked upward in exasperation.

  “I don’t like being told what to do,” she said, tossing the folder onto the passenger seat. “Did you get a look at Pomponio?”

  “The Native kid? Yeah. Why?”

  She smiled. Bullet had a better eye for bloodlines than she did. If he said the kid was Native, he was.

  “He seemed like he had something to say.”

  “He’s a young guy. They always have something to say.”

  Mickey gripped the steering wheel, tapping it with her thumb. “Perhaps,” she murmured. “Tail him. Let me know if he does anything weird.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  She picked the folder back up, then paused. “No stopping for doughnuts.”

  “Aww, come on—”

  “No.”

  “Fine. But if I find anything dead, I call dibs.”

  Mickey rolled her eyes.

  “As long as it isn’t part of this case.”

  “You can be a real stick in the mud, you know that?”

  Mickey flipped open the folder and exhaled.

  Stick in the mud or not, she had work to do.

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