“Pent up aggression?” Asher offered.
“I guess both.”
“Understatement,” Sterling said, elbowing Asher in the ribs. “I was there when it happened. Herald’s – enthusiastic, to say the least. Buttons popping everywhere. Like one of those bodice ripper romance novels.”
Asher whistled.
I sighed, my shoulders drooping. “I’m running out of bodices.”
“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing,” Sterling said.
“I mean, it isn’t, not entirely,” I said, well aware that a goofy, vacant smile was taking over my lips. “It’s incredibly flattering, and I know he looks excitable, but Herald’s actually really gentle.”
Asher went bright red. “Okay, I’m not sure we should be hearing about this.”
“Don’t spoil the fun,” Sterling snarled. He placed his elbows on his knees, bending closer. “Graves. Go on. Spill.”
“How dare you,” I said, chuckling. “I wasn’t going to say anything else.”
“No fun,” Sterling said. “No fun at all.” He sighed, rising from the couch and stretching. “But maybe we’ll have some fun tonight at the Glovebox, hey?”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Sorry. The Leather Glovebox? We’re going? Tonight?”
“I’m coming with,” Asher said.
“Hey,” Sterling said. “No. Hard no. I’m willing to bend a lot of rules for you, but I’m not sneaking a kid into a bar.”
Asher flopped onto the couch, folding his arms and pouting. “I never get to have any fun.”
“This isn’t about fun,” Sterling said. “We’re seeing someone about the dog.”
“Even worse,” Asher grumbled.
Sterling rolled his eyes. “I promise we’ll hang out soon. Okay? I’ll plan something. Just you and me.”
Asher glared at him for some seconds, then finally softened. “Fine,” he muttered.
Hmm. The Glovebox, huh? I twiddled my thumbs, wondering what I was going to wear, at least whatever was left in my closet that hadn’t been burned or torn apart. I needed more clothes either way. Maybe it was time to ask for a raise.
Chapter 8
It was weird, taking a little corgi all the way to a BDSM club, but it had to be done. Sterling said that the Fuck-Tons, the drag queen proprietors of the Leather Glovebox, were experienced foster parents for both cats and dogs. That experience, he said, combined with their own magical talents meant that they might be able to help us
with the small matter of figuring out Banjo’s place in the massacre at the Ramsey House.
The story had gone public, which really wasn’t a surprise considering how so many of the victims were what the general populace might consider fine, upstanding citizens. They didn’t have any way to know that these recently deceased doctors, lawyers, and political figures were also in the business of sacrificing small animals to attract the attention of insane elder gods from beyond the stars, but hey, details.
The prevailing theory – though more accurately, the cover cooked up by Royce and his public relations team at the Lorica – was a psycho with a sledgehammer. Never mind that the police couldn’t find signs of a break-in, or that the injuries couldn’t possibly have been caused by a hammer, but hey, the arcane underground needed to spin a story to uphold the Veil, and that was the best they could do.
And this, dragging a reluctant corgi along to a love dungeon, was the best that we could do under the circumstances. We’d taken a rideshare up until about a block away from the Glovebox because Gil insisted that Banjo had to “make poopies.” How he knew was anybody’s guess. Maybe he was starting to break through to that secret doggie language the rest of us weren’t privy to.
And you would think that the walk of a single block on a nice, quiet night out in Valero wouldn’t have been a problem, but you’d be wrong. There’s always something, damn it. Always something. At least this time it wasn’t the invisible Lorica creep from before.
“Give us the dog,” the man said.
He’d stepped out of an alley, his forehead glazed with sweat, his voice husky and slurred, like someone only getting used to speaking actual words. It took a while for me to figure out what “us” meant. Two more men stepped from out of the shadows. They were similarly sweaty, though from out of fear or an unfortunate affection for drugs, I couldn’t say. All three were wide-eyed, gruff, and meaty, the type of men a gang boss would send if he needed someone to cough up some money – or hand over a hypothetically magical mutt.
“Hand it over,” one of the others said.