“Coppelia Potts, Nightmare Hunter.” Coppelia extended her business card, which proudly proclaimed her name and profession. “You called about a little… pumpkin infestation?”
The farmer’s daughter examined the card and nodded.
“I’m Abby. Where’s your brother? Shouldn’t he be here?”
“Wolfgang’s sick, so I’m going solo today.” Coppelia pulled her bright orange hair
The groom’s lips twisted in a final death cry.
Someone in the wedding party called for a doctor, but US Marshal Roland Chadwick suspected the worst. As the wedding’s officiator, he’d heard both bride and groom swear till death do us part, but not even he could have predicted such a swift separation.
I’ve always considered brevity to be blue. A concise plan, a neat introduction, and a minimalist finish—all speak of a calmness I adore.
Brevity is my greatest ally and my greatest foe. I speak in short sentences. I punctuate my speech with thoughts about the environment—the clues reside in the latter,
Your murderer wears a green coat.
High collar, turned up. His unwavering eyes lock with yours from across the bar as he discreetly pays the door fee and enters like a kryptonite bullet nobody notices but you. His shadowy fedora is olive-tinted, matching every lime-tinsel and kelly-painted shade in this sweaty watering hole.
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When the big guy said he’d give justice to the fatherless, I’m pretty sure this isn’t what he was talking about. I sighed and checked the clock. 7:32 a.m. I had been sitting idle for half an hour, and the pale, cold sunlight was creeping through the side windows.
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Life’s a marathon, and Derek Finley beat me to the finish line. His home health aide, Ms. Baxter, let me in. “He passed just as the clock struck noon,” she told me, lowering the sheet so I could see for myself.
Inwardly, I cursed. I’d heard the grandfather clock’s chimes while climbing the
“Shape-shifter!”
The words echo in my ears, but this time, they’re not aimed at me.
I’m not a shifter, merely an illusionist. It’s people’s eyes who change, not me. We can take on a few characteristics of the animal, like super-speed, flight, or deep-sea swimming. And even if it weakens my other senses,
Before I give you my full report, let me clear something up: I really do have a trillion faces. Please don’t ask to see them or we’ll be here all night.
I’m aware I only show four faces on my website: one, me, Derek Organ, Private Investigator;
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Hot. Smoky. Sweet with an acidic tang. So fresh-from-the-oven it made your mouth water.
Ginger.
I groaned. So much for Aruba. There’s no way the boss would let me go out of town with a gingerbread man on the loose in Cityville. And after I’d just packed my new swim trunks, too.
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Marshal Roland Chadwick pressed his nose to the desert floor and sniffed. A whiff of sulfur entered his nostrils, receded, and returned stronger. He snorted and coughed. The smell of hades wasn’t easily dismissed. But it came with the territory. Without it, he’d be out of a job.
He mounted his horse and rode,
Minotaurs are dangerous enough when they ain’t toting semi-automatics. These young bulls are looking to cause trouble, and I just want lunch.
“My gumbo’s getting cold, Quigley.”
“I don’t care about your stupid gumbo, LaFaye.”
My partner has no soul. He’s crouching behind a wooden shed with me, both of us surrounded
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Of all the underground clubs in this sodden sponge of a city, it had to be that one.
I tugged my fedora lower over my brows, but it did little to block out the damp chill of the October night. My neck prickled as I surveyed the disturbing sight splayed out on the alley’s cracked asphalt.
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