Shadow Burns: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Preternatural Affairs Book 4) by S.M. Reine Page B
Authors: S.M. Reine
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would have let the press get within miles of the canyon.
Isobel looked as alarmed by their presence as I felt. We’d have to drive right through them in order to get onto the property.
“We have to turn around,” she said.
I might have agreed if we hadn’t already been close enough that the cameras could catch us. Running away would draw a lot more attention. “Just keep your head down.”
Isobel was already pulling a jacket over her head, concealing her face from the cameras as I slid toward the barricades.
The media had left just enough space for me to creep through their vans. I eyeballed the nearest vultures as I passed them. There was a guy in a trench coat and fedora holding a microphone the size of my face. A freaking dinosaur who thought he was doing journalism back in the forties or something.
Another reporter tracked us with a camera, turning to keep us in his sights.
Checking to make sure Isobel’s face was still buried, I gave the reporters my statement for the press in the form of an upthrust middle finger.
They didn’t look bothered. Too bad.
Sawhorses had been erected to keep the press a safe distance from the house. I presented my crumpled invitation to a woman standing beside a gap in the barrier. She was kind of a pretty lady, maybe in her forties, waifish, with red hair down her back.
She read the name on the invitation and smiled.
Whoa . Those were some nasty teeth she had going on there. They were crooked, pocked with cavities. Flashing them made her a lot less pretty.
“Parking is to the right of the house.” She stepped aside.
When I saw the other cars waiting for the memorial, I felt another twinge of annoyance at myself for refusing to borrow the Corvette. There was a sports car that could have easily been in Fritz’s garage. There were also minivans, a semi without a trailer, a couple of sedans. Even an old car with wooden paneling that looked like it should have been driven by gangsters—like, uzi-in-a-violin-case gangsters.
I parked next to a banged up old truck that made my beater look awesome, then got out to look around.
The grieving families had done a good job cleaning up the retirement village. Standing outside the house, I couldn’t tell that anything bad had happened there. The windows were bloodless and opened to the morning air. Definitely an improvement.
Isobel finally lowered the jacket from her face, so I opened the passenger door for her. She took my hand and stepped out.
Until that day, I would have said that I liked seeing Isobel in her work “uniform” the best. She pretended that she was a native princess in order to make her powers seem more mysterious. Apparently, her clients were impressed by it. I was only impressed by the fact that she was bold enough to go to work wearing nothing but an animal-skin loincloth and a headdress.
And I really do mean nothing .
Not that she had anything to hide. Baring those shapely thighs, breasts, and everything in between was a goddamn public service.
But when Isobel wanted to dress like a normal person, she looked amazing in an entirely different way. Think hip-hugging black cotton. Think slinky. Think modestly cut, but leaving absolutely nothing to mystery.
Isobel was as graceful in heeled pumps as she was in bare feet. She stood beside me on rocky ground, smoothing her hands over her hair—which she hadn’t been able to resist decorating with feathers and beads—as she studied the retirement village.
Mourners were moving from the parking area toward the recreation hall in the back. I hadn’t seen that many people wearing black ever since I staked out a Black Death concert to pick up some lethe-stoned witches.
“Don’t you think that having a group service where the mass murder occurred is kind of…tacky?” Isobel whispered.
I thought it was tacky as hell, but what could you do?
“Our priests cleansed the place. An exorcist didn’t find anything to exorcise. There’s nothing dangerous here. So
Isobel looked as alarmed by their presence as I felt. We’d have to drive right through them in order to get onto the property.
“We have to turn around,” she said.
I might have agreed if we hadn’t already been close enough that the cameras could catch us. Running away would draw a lot more attention. “Just keep your head down.”
Isobel was already pulling a jacket over her head, concealing her face from the cameras as I slid toward the barricades.
The media had left just enough space for me to creep through their vans. I eyeballed the nearest vultures as I passed them. There was a guy in a trench coat and fedora holding a microphone the size of my face. A freaking dinosaur who thought he was doing journalism back in the forties or something.
Another reporter tracked us with a camera, turning to keep us in his sights.
Checking to make sure Isobel’s face was still buried, I gave the reporters my statement for the press in the form of an upthrust middle finger.
They didn’t look bothered. Too bad.
Sawhorses had been erected to keep the press a safe distance from the house. I presented my crumpled invitation to a woman standing beside a gap in the barrier. She was kind of a pretty lady, maybe in her forties, waifish, with red hair down her back.
She read the name on the invitation and smiled.
Whoa . Those were some nasty teeth she had going on there. They were crooked, pocked with cavities. Flashing them made her a lot less pretty.
“Parking is to the right of the house.” She stepped aside.
When I saw the other cars waiting for the memorial, I felt another twinge of annoyance at myself for refusing to borrow the Corvette. There was a sports car that could have easily been in Fritz’s garage. There were also minivans, a semi without a trailer, a couple of sedans. Even an old car with wooden paneling that looked like it should have been driven by gangsters—like, uzi-in-a-violin-case gangsters.
I parked next to a banged up old truck that made my beater look awesome, then got out to look around.
The grieving families had done a good job cleaning up the retirement village. Standing outside the house, I couldn’t tell that anything bad had happened there. The windows were bloodless and opened to the morning air. Definitely an improvement.
Isobel finally lowered the jacket from her face, so I opened the passenger door for her. She took my hand and stepped out.
Until that day, I would have said that I liked seeing Isobel in her work “uniform” the best. She pretended that she was a native princess in order to make her powers seem more mysterious. Apparently, her clients were impressed by it. I was only impressed by the fact that she was bold enough to go to work wearing nothing but an animal-skin loincloth and a headdress.
And I really do mean nothing .
Not that she had anything to hide. Baring those shapely thighs, breasts, and everything in between was a goddamn public service.
But when Isobel wanted to dress like a normal person, she looked amazing in an entirely different way. Think hip-hugging black cotton. Think slinky. Think modestly cut, but leaving absolutely nothing to mystery.
Isobel was as graceful in heeled pumps as she was in bare feet. She stood beside me on rocky ground, smoothing her hands over her hair—which she hadn’t been able to resist decorating with feathers and beads—as she studied the retirement village.
Mourners were moving from the parking area toward the recreation hall in the back. I hadn’t seen that many people wearing black ever since I staked out a Black Death concert to pick up some lethe-stoned witches.
“Don’t you think that having a group service where the mass murder occurred is kind of…tacky?” Isobel whispered.
I thought it was tacky as hell, but what could you do?
“Our priests cleansed the place. An exorcist didn’t find anything to exorcise. There’s nothing dangerous here. So
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