"Julian called. Dmitri's invited you to dinner. BYOB. Sorry. Must have slipped my mind since I was so busy gossiping about how big your—" I bit my tongue. No. I'm skipping that bit. "Big smiley face emoji."

Said it once, I'll say it again. Phoebe was a lousy secretary. Late messages, poorly filed paperwork. But I couldn't exactly let the dame go. Not when she died on the job for me. But we had boundaries, my gal and I. She made promises. Swore she wouldn't eavesdrop or spy on this paranoid old bat because we had a relationship, a partnership built on respect and did I mention boundaries.

Glancing up, I caught Isla looking over my shoulder, holding her hands out in front of her, palms parallel. She raised brow and inched them further apart, mouthing what appeared to be more?

I did not like whatever game Madame Margarita was playing at anymore.

But I didn't like the game Julian—clearing his fragile throat over there—was playing at either. What's it Phoebe was always telling me? Priorities.

"Ahem, well," Julian pulled at his boxy tie. "You're underdressed, but better that than being la—"

His sentence ended in a strained gargle. Oh, because I launched myself at him, throwing us both out the door and pinning the scrawny valet to the (now) dented side of his van.

"You set us up, you cowardly snake," I growled, squeezing his throat a little tighter, his flesh squishing under my fingers. Felt good to channel my agitations into something physical. Don't give me that look. It was just a nudge. Not like that raging itch in my veins would make me forget myself and sink my teeth in his soft, tender jugular till he burst open like a bloated tick. Nah. I'd never lose my cool that much. He'd be fine. "You were supposed to meet us on the roof. 'Stead we got a dead girl dropped on us like a steel beam on the sidewalk."

Behind me, Isla lit up a cigarette. "Ah, so that's the guy." She inhaled deep. Smoke scratched at my throat. "Prick."

"Why Britney—Taylor?" I continued. "She tell us too much about sweet, innocent, barista Lily, huh? The illegal blood escort."

Julian gurgled. A bit of spittle popped out onto his lips as he tried to speak, accompanied by a borderline manic gleam in his eyes. As he choked for air, his pulse spiked excitedly. His limbs swung almost aimlessly at the side of the van, not even bothering to put up a fight. Snotrag hadn't even broken a sweat. That wouldn't due.

I bared my fangs at him. Extended them slowly, deliberately, allowing saliva to drip onto the sleeve of his thrifted suit.

He moaned in response. A strangled, desperate sound from deep in his throat as his feet and arms twitched—oh for fang's sake he was half hard.

How do I keep snagging the perverts?

I dropped the roach. Course, I was hoping he'd at least roll an ankle on the landing. Rats that he didn't.

Julian, all smug, cleared his throat, patting it gently, and not so subtly palming his crotch to reposition himself (Isla snorted). "I've lived with vampires for twenty years. You don't scare me."

Heard a flick and a burning cigarette slapped Julian in the face. It bounced off. "Ow!" He yelled. But he was mostly fine. Mostly. Just a little eyebrow singe I certainly didn't notice.

Isla pulled a fresh cigarette from her pack. Lit it. Broad was on to something with that.

I ripped my revolver from its holster and pointed it at Julian's face. This time, the fear in his skyrocketing pulse was unmistakable. "This scare you?"

"Shit!" he ducked, covering his face with hands, because that'll stop a bullet. "I didn't mean to leave you on the roof, but listen, that wasn't my fault. Just get in the van and I can explain on the way."

"'Fraid I don't feel I need to do anything at this moment. Sound familiar? Now," I cocked the gun, "what I'd like to do, pal, is rearrange your face till it matches the Picasso you made of Taylor's."

"Alrighty, cowboy, I think he gets the idea," Isla laid a hand on my arm. Her pulse was quick. Eyes darted up and down the street. She leaned in close (orange and mint and coffee and cigarettes) and whispered, "give me shit about where I live and you're stupid enough to pull a gun in werewolf territory?"

"The whole bottom of this city is werewolf territory."

Isla snorted. "And I'm on the cross for wanting cheap rent."

I swallowed. A bubble of hypocritical shame, thick and hot and vaguely bile tasting, boiled up my throat. She had a point. Least I wasn't actually renting from a mafia pack slumlord.

"So, uh," said Julian. "We getting in the car now, ooooor?"

"Yeah, good on that one buddy," Isla laughed.

"Once was enough for me," I said.

Julian dragged his palms down his face. "Please, just get in the car, it's important."

Isla puffed on her cigarette. Then, as if an afterthought, she leaned over to me again. "Unless you want to take this van down to the river and, you know," she made a falling gesture, a splash noise, a choking nose, what I think was her idea of a jerking off motion, and then jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at Julian. "I know a couple mermaids who'll swear they don't know me, you feel?" she winked.

I nodded. "Hmm tempting, but I still need an explanation for his stunt last night."

"Oh, yeah, totes, my girls can pump," she snorted as she held in a bolt of laughter, "any man for information."

"And they're discreet?"

"You don't hear about bodies washing up on the banks of the Delaware every day, do you?"

"I do not, no."

"I'll take you to Lily!" Julian blurted.

The smirk curling up my lips faded. Right. Stay on mission. This wasn't the time for fun little sidebars. I highly doubted Isla actually knew such rambunctious mermaids anyway. I think. Hoped.

Isla turned from me to Julian, cigarette falling from her lips.

I stomped it out and ground my teeth as hard as my heel on the pavement. Tension coiled in my shoulders and bones and veins so tense and suddenly I'm surprised Isla didn't hear them crack under the strain. First Isla's nonsense. Now this nonsense. Can't I get just one night, just one sensible night?

Julian couldn't be trusted. Obviously. Pleading puppy eyes are the oldest ruse in the book. Dead waitresses falling like raindrops where he was supposed to be standing ain't no coincidence.

And Isla. What to do about Isla? So she was the real deal. But why she let me push her around like she wasn't? And I still didn't know what string she was pulling in this whole knotted mess and wait, what was she—she was jumping in the van.

"Fuck it," she said, shrugging, carnation petals dancing over her exposed shoulders, and allowing Julian to help her into the back.

By all the saints in hell woman you don't get into a stranger's van!

Bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. The flesh tore and burned. Nearly poked a tooth all the way through—actually, wait a moment. I touched my jaw. Tongued my own thumb. Yeah. Put a hole straight threw it. A little one. Just my luck. At least it should heal by morning. Probably barely noticeable.

"Nice piercing," said Isla. "Get your ass in here to make sure I don't get murdered tonight, aight?"

"Thank you. Somebody has some sense," Julian said, trotting around to the driver's seat.

As the engine puttered to life, I sighed, gave one last look into my seemingly empty apartment. "I'm not finished with you," I muttered to the foyer, presuming Phoebe was still loitering, or floating, or whatever it is ghosts did, about, and locked up. Guess I was getting back in that van tonight.

The real mystery of Isla would have to wait the evening.