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“I once bludgeoned a man with a pineapple in Majorca.”
Devon closed his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath.
It seemed like another lifetime, he’d actually been enjoying himself—having what was meant to be a lively family discussion over dinner in the backyard. Wisps of smoke drifted lazily from the barbeque, the dogs cheerfully massacred the remaining piles of snow. If he closed his eyes and listened carefully, he could make out the faint strains of Christmas carolers a few streets down.
Then just like clockwork, things had gone disastrously off course.
Someone had discovered a numeric sequence embedded inside a scavenger hunt. The lively discussion had sharpened, the burgers caught fire. By the time the ashes finally settled, a new course had been set. The disaster didn’t reveal itself until later. Until after Devon had already volunteered.
Angel had made the discovery. Angel had provided the contact.
Angel had been selected to come along.
“Well, half a pineapple,” she amended. “An entire pineapple seemed excessive.”
She wasn’t selected, she volunteered. To torture me.
His eyes opened slowly, coming to rest on a single face in the middle of the crowd.
Instead of donning a tragic holiday sweater like the rest of the city, the lovely assassin had opted for a signature leather bodysuit—the kind of sleek, cinematic ensemble that had made half the people crammed in the little café check for a futuristic motorcycle parked outside. A pair of combat boots had been laced to the knee, and sheets of frosting-white hair framed a face teeming with such giddy merriment, you’d never have guessed she just admitted to assault.
Or maybe you would, if you knew her.
“That’s a funny thing to say,” he answered pointedly, feeling the curious eyes of the other patrons. “If you have any other funny stories, maybe you should save them for the car—”
“We’d been tasked with an aerial incursion and the pilot overshot our drop-point,” she continued, twirling a set of keys around her finger. “Breached the compound and landed us right in the middle of some poor guy’s lunch. He reached for his weapon...I grabbed the next best thing.”
Devon stared in spite of himself before casting a quick look around.
By now, there were several people watching—inching discreetly closer to hear over the commotion and random bursts of steam. They were always watching, he realized vaguely. From the moment the two of them had stepped into the café, they’d had a captive audience.
“You really don’t have to tell me stuff like that,” he muttered, as half a dozen whispered conversations broke out around them. A set of classic holiday tunes piped from the speakers, but the words still managed to carry. “Especially not if the statute of limitations is already—”
“I read somewhere the key to every good relationship, is to keep discovering new things about each other,” she interrupted bluntly, turning to face him. “I once bludgeoned a man with a pineapple in Majorca.” Their eyes locked for a split second, then she gave a dainty shrug and moved up a place in line. “That’s something you might not have known about me.”
Devon stared after her in silence, too surprised to have progressed to anything else. It wasn’t until someone tapped him on the shoulder, he remembered he was supposed to move as well.
“I almost forgot,” he said on a chuckle, understanding at the same time, “your crusade against me.”
He probably should have put it together when she’d volunteered the night before. Or maybe that morning, when she’d clambered into his car. They might have been up to their ears investigating the world’s most irritating abduction, but leave it to Angel Cross to have her own agenda.
“That’s right,” she answered lightly, keeping her eyes on the display. There were only a few remaining pastries, but she’d come armed with a knife. “My endless crusade to build a meaningful relationship with one of the most important people in my life.” She glanced back with a wan smile, whipping at least three people with her long hair. “I’m a real witch.”
Your words, not mine.
The fox decided not to engage, turning his attention to the rest of the room. Despite how long he’d lived in the city, it was a place he’d never been—more of a bakery, than a café. One of those places that was across the street from something slightly more interesting, and always escaped notice. Angel had insisted upon it that morning, though he could hardly imagine why. Aside from a stray-like tendency to steal from other people’s plates, he’d never met anyone less motivated by food.
Except maybe Gabriel.
He smiled to himself, putting it together.
“Just like your brother,” he murmured.
Her head tilted a little, though her eyes stayed on the pastries.
“What’s that?”
“We’re about to make some dark foray into your childhood stomping grounds, and you kick things off by stopping at a bakery.” He smiled again. “Your brother did the exact same thing.”
They moved up another place in line. They were close now, nearly to the counter.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with my brother,” she remarked, shooting another look over her shoulder. It was hard to decipher her expression. “What’s that been like?”
He let out a hard breath of laughter. “Like he hasn’t been telling you all about it.”
The words rolled swiftly off his tongue, but to be honest, it was hard to guess what Gabriel might have shared. The siblings were a closed unit, but the assassin was notoriously private. Then again, their world had opened a great deal when Cromfield’s safe house had mysteriously caught fire.
“He’s told me a little,” she admitted, as the man ahead of her started to order. “He’s told me his side.” When the man pointed to an éclair, she clapped loudly for attention, then shook her head very slowly. He got a croissant instead. “I’ve been reading between the lines.”
And what have you been reading...?
Devon held the question back, considering hers instead. How were things going? What had their time together been like? Things had been so chaotic, it felt almost impossible to summarize.
“It’s been—” He caught himself almost as soon as he’d started, the words jumbling together in his mouth. The problem was, it was never just one thing with Gabriel. If you stepped into those waters, you swam with the sharks. “It’s been a lot. For both of us, I think.”
Their eyes met in the silence.
It’s been a lot.
She studied him a moment, as the man in front of her paid. For as many things as the fox was keeping to himself, there was just as much swirling behind those blue eyes. If he hadn’t felt the effects of her tatù personally, so many times, he might have sworn the girl was just a tad bit telepathic.
“It was a big thing you did,” she said quietly, “covering for him, like that.” She started to say something further, then merely shook her head. “Thank you, Devon.”
He stared back in surprise, unable to process it.
“...you’re welcome,” he finally managed.
A moment passed, then another.
“Excuse me, miss?”
They turned at the same time to see the cashier leaning nervously over the counter. At first, Devon thought he was prompting her to order. But the man’s gaze was fixed upon the floor.
“I think there’s something on your shoe,” he concluded apologetically.
The friends lowered their eyes slowly, the rest of the line lowered theirs as well, and stared at the violent red smears on the tile. The ones that led directly to a pair of combat boots.
That’s blood.
“That’s paint,” Devon said quickly, flashing a grimacing smile. “I’m so sorry about that. We just got back from...” Excuses failed him; he could only repeat. “She was painting.”
At the very least, he expected Angel to corroborate the pitiful story, but the assassin was far more concerned with her boots. It wasn’t until he nudged her, that she even bothered to reply.
“I was painting with a bookie this morning,” she murmured, turning her leg to examine the extent of the damage. “He got paint all over me.”
And just like that...we got arrested.
“You know what, honey?” he said with another strained smile. “How about you wait in the car? Outside the car,” he amended quickly, casting a fearful look at his beloved Porsche. “You can get yourself cleaned up. I’ll get us some breakfast.”
She lifted her eyes, smiling at little at honey.
“Well, that sounds lovely, darling.” She cast a final look around the shop before making her demands. “I’ll take the largest white mocha they have. And that éclair—get me that éclair.”
The words echoed ominously behind her, as the door swung shut.
Devon flinched in the silence that followed, bolstered only by the anemic strains of “Jingle Bells” coming from somewhere near the heater. He turned slowly to the counter, already bracing for whatever he might find, but the culprit had relocated to the sidewalk and no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention. The cashier was draped over the counter, staring after her with a moonish expression he hadn’t seen since primary school. It took him a second to notice Devon was there.
“Dude...well done.”
The fox stared back in surprise as he began working on the order—blending the mocha and carefully transferring the éclair into a paper bag. He’d been expecting questions, threats. At the very least, he expected a pointed ‘suggestion’ that he make some effort to clean the floor.
But the man was utterly sincere, adding a flourish of ribbon to the bag.
Well done.
“How do you mean?” Devon asked cautiously.
The man let out a snort of laughter, stirring in the cream. “That is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Like—movie star beautiful. I don’t know how you can even...” He cast another look at the sidewalk and promptly lost his train of thought, staring with a vacant expression. “Bloody hell.”
Devon followed his gaze.
Really?
The girl in question was currently hopping from foot to foot, muttering curses in Italian, as she attempted to clean a bookie’s arterial spray from her shoes. Crowds of festively-dressed tourists parted to avoid her. A squirrel, who’d been watching with interest, had retreated to a higher branch.
Devon raked back his hair, turning his attention to a cinnamon roll.
“Yeah, she’s all right.”
The man let out another bark of laughter.
“All right?” He reached for the tongs, gesturing invitingly to the roll. “Are you having a joke, mate? Have they lost your prescription?” He kissed his fingers like a chef. “Perfect. Ten.”
On second thought, I’m going to be sick.
* * *
DEVON PAID QUICKLY and walked back outside.
It was still early, so early that the sun was just barely rising, pushing fecklessly against a thick layer of winter clouds. He pulled in a deep breath of the frosty air before lowering his eyes to the scene in front of him. The tourists were gone, and the squirrel had vanished. The combat boots were immaculate, though it looked like the surrounding snow had witnessed a massacre.
Angel stood in the middle of it, cheeks flushed pink with exertion. Her long hair had been swept into a snow-dusted ponytail, and both hands were stuffed inexplicably with coins.
He studied her a moment, trying to be objective.
“Are you that good-looking?” he finally asked.
She nodded sagely, like she was used to the question. “I actually am.”
It was only then, he spotted the capsized parking meter behind her. Apparently, when she’d gotten bored cleaning, she’d decided to pick the lock. It was sagging precariously to the sidewalk.
They stood there a moment, then he gestured to the coins. “What are you going to do with those?”
She looked down at her hands. “Drop them in the sewer, I guess.”
He fought back a grin. “Get in the car.”
* * *
DEVON AND ANGEL DROVE to a part of the city he’d never seen—one that was so far north, he nearly asked if they were heading into Cambridge. He nearly asked quite a lot of things, but after stealing cars and sharing cigarettes by the docks with Gabriel, he’d learned better.
They were leaving the regular world behind and diving into its shadowy reflection. A place that bred the monsters and criminals that prowled on the edges of the light. A place where two of his best friends in the world had cut their teeth. For better or worse, he was just along for the ride.
That being said, he did allow himself certain questions.
“So this contact of yours...you’ve used him before?”
A bit of a rhetorical question, but there was an etiquette to these sorts of things, and he needed at least a little information so he wasn’t walking in blind. Most contacts didn’t know the agent by their real name. He’d once spent thirteen years developing a military asset in Turkey who knew him only as Amir. If there was some kind of cover story in place, better he got it in the car.
“I’ve used him a hundred times,” Angel replied, pointing almost lazily to indicate another turn. “We call him the puzzleman. The guy’s a certified genius—he can solve anything.”
The fox gave her a quick look, spinning the wheel. “What’s his ink?”
“No ink,” she replied, tapping her head with a slight smile. “It’s all up here.”
...unlikely.
“You PC kids and your trust issues.” She chuckled, pointing again. “You remember the DeCordi letters? The Bukeski Heist in 2012? That was all him. The man’s got an entire page dedicated to himself on the Interpol website. At one point, I had it taped up in my room.”
Of course you did.
They pulled onto a street that reminded him of a slightly impoverished version of San Francisco—half-residential, half-business. The kind of place you’d leave with a handful of stories, but you’d never let your children walk alone there at night. She pointed to a faded Victorian and he scanned around for parking. No point in discretion, they were going in through the front door.
“The puzzleman,” he muttered under his breath, easing into a space between two retired delivery vans. “Where do you guys come up with this stuff?”
She zipped up her jacket, taking the final swig of her drink. “You know when the rest of you were home, eating warm meals and soaking in all those family values?” She flashed a look across the car, and he nodded. “We were watching The Matrix.”
That actually makes a lot of sense.
Without another word, the two of them stepped out of the car—taking a moment to stretch out their arms, before peering up at the crumbling gable above them. If she hadn’t pointed it out specifically, he would have driven right past it. It was the kind of place that seemed designed to avoid memory. Everything from the withering garden beds, to the cracked sidewalks, right down to the overflowing recycling bins looked perfectly identical to everything else on the street.
The one thing he hadn’t expected, was the music.
“What is that?” he asked with a touch of surprise. Like something from a dream, tinkling strains of piano drifted from the open window, hovering over the garden beds. “Is that Chopin?”
She threw him a quick look, surprised herself.
“How did you know which...?”
They shared a look, both thinking the same thing.
Julian.
“The woman who owns the house,” she answered, flipping up the latch on the gate, “she used to give piano lessons to the neighborhood kids. I guess she still does.”
He followed her down the pathway, memorizing everything at a glance, whilst trying to appear casual. He’d learned to accept a certain level of ambiguity when it came to his friends’ old street contacts, but there were already too many inconsistencies for his liking. The address on the door had one too many numbers. There was apparently a woman teaching piano inside.
“The guy’s a certified genius, huh?” he muttered. “And he rents a room here?”
She came to a stop on the landing, throwing him a stiff look. “Try not to be yourself, all right?”
He zipped his lips sweetly, while she knocked a rhythmic pattern on the door. A moment passed, then she knocked another. There was a quiet whirling sound, almost too slight for notice. The sound of a hidden camera twisting around to catch their faces. He resisted the urge to look down.
The door opened. A pint-sized boy appeared in the frame. “You need to wipe your shoes.”
For a split second, they merely stared. Then with almost comical synchronicity, both agents began obediently stomping their boots on the frayed welcome mat outside the door. He watched with a stern eye. Not until they were entirely finished, did his expression relax into a smile.
“Are you here for a lesson?”
Uh...
“Ollie?” a woman called in the background.
A second later, she swept towards them. Towering and formidable, and inexplicably dressed like an old-fashioned schoolmarm. Her hair was brown and graying, and swept into a loose bun on the top of her head. It was the kind of thing one usually only saw on cartons of baking powder, or in the silhouetted profile of a coin. Devon straightened his posture without thinking, plagued with a sudden memory of rulers and recitations and smacked hands.
“Good morning,” Angel said preemptively, flashing a honeyed smile. “We’re very sorry to interrupt, but we actually have a little problem, and we were hoping to see...?”
The woman’s face soured, as she cupped a hand around her mouth. “Didian?!” she screeched, loud enough to make ears bleed. “You have some customers!”
She left without a backwards glance, stalking down the narrow hallway. The little boy trailed in her wake, flashing a parting smile, before hopping back onto the cushioned stool by the piano.
What now?
The friends shared a quick look.
“I know the way,” Angel said lightly.
With the sounds of faltering Chopin chasing after, they made their way further into the house—bypassing the main living area, and heading down to the basement instead. Things seemed to deteriorate the further they strayed from the sunlight, or perhaps they got a thousand times more interesting. Crates of yellowing newspapers were stacked according to location and decade, whilst a series of handwritten letters had been framed on the wall. A rusting bassoon had somehow earned a place of prominence, and the stairs themselves were lined with hundreds of tiny glass bottles, each of them with a different numerical value scribbled on the side. By the time they reached the lowest level, any design aesthetic had utterly vanished, and they were standing amidst a hoarder’s paradise.
“So...Didian?” Devon repeated, half to break the unnatural quiet, half to break the news to himself. Embarrassing as it was to admit, he’d genuinely started to think of their elusive contact as the puzzleman. It was almost disappointing that he had an actual name.
“Didian Squeller,” Angel said briskly.
Okay, not an actual name.
He snorted with involuntary laughter, trailing in her shadow as they picked their way across the basement. Over two decades, he’d been working in covert intelligence. This man was a certified genius—but in all that time, he’d never heard an alias so bad. That was counting a few that a fuming case manager had assigned to him and Julian, after they’d accidently sideswiped his car.
“Seriously?” he quipped, trying to control his smile. “Didian—”
The door ripped open.
“Squeller, that’s right.”
Devon stepped back without thinking, a tiny breath catching in his throat. Given the man’s reputation, he’d been expecting something of a Bond villain. Lithe and brilliant and wicked. Possibly with a monocle, definitely with a cat. This man bore a closer resemblance to Dr. Frankenstein. Small and borderline emaciated, with a shock of white hair and ridiculously over-magnified eyes.
He seemed hesitant to leave the doorway, clinging to both sides of the frame.
“Have you come for the droid?” he asked bracingly, eyes flitting over the fox in a brisk summation. “Because it’s not...Angela!”
There was a quick shuffling, then the two came together in a lingering embrace.
Devon stood to the side, lowering his eyes politely to the floor.
While most agents kept their contacts at a distance, Gabriel and Angel had done things a bit differently. Perhaps it was because they’d been so isolated, living in a secret labyrinth beneath the ground. Perhaps it was a fundamental human need to be seen. But the pair had cultivated genuine relationships with a privileged few. Mary DeWinter, the old chemist from the gambling ring, had embraced him as Gabriel. No cover names, no false stories. He’d embraced her in return.
You make your own family, I guess.
“Things are well, I see.” Didian looked her up and down, tugging the end of her ponytail with a bespectacled smile. His face grew abruptly serious. “How’s your brother?”
“He’s fine, everyone’s fine.” She reached into her jacket, pulling out the crumpled bag they’d picked up before. “I have something for you.”
He lit up with excitement, clapping his hands like a child. “Oh, goody!” He smelled the bag before opening it, weighing the contents with an appraising hand. “I’m guessing—”
“It’s an éclair,” Devon blurted, feeling the sudden urge to be included.
Time seemed to pause, as the others turned slowly in his direction. They stared a moment, armed with matching expressions, before turning back to each other.
Angel grimaced apologetically. “It’s an éclair,” she repeated.
Didian sighed a bit wistfully, as if she might as well take it back, before turning abruptly and pushing open the door. “Come in, then. Mind the wasps, they need little provocation to sting.”
Wait...what?
Devon froze on a dime, while Angel breezed into the apartment—without a care in the world as to whatever might lay beyond. It wasn’t until the door started to shut behind her that he gritted his teeth and reluctantly followed, training his sharp ears for the hum of bees.
Having met the man for only a moment in the hallway, the rooms of Didian Squeller were exactly what Devon might have guessed. It was a wonderland. A dark and twisted wonderland where things moved when they shouldn’t, lights flickered and colors swelled, the clutter seemed to have become a living thing, and everything—everything, was suffused in the scent of freshly made bread.
He paused in the entrance of the living room, pulling in a tight breath.
“Are you baking something?” he asked mildly.
Didian glanced over his shoulder with a frown, like he’d said something strange. Instead of answering, he merely pushed aside some boxes—making room to sit at the table. The surface itself was covered in a combination of seven different board games, all strung together into a single quest.
All right, this guy needs to be institutionalized and studied for future generations.
“I have something else for you,” Angel said conversationally, settling herself at the table. A tiny cat jumped into her lap; she scratched it behind the ears. “Though I’m guessing you knew that.”
Didian sharpened with anticipation, standing behind his chair.
“A puzzle.” He sounded almost hungry.
“Not quite a puzzle,” she tempered, slowing things down. The cat leapt onto the table, chewing absently on the head of an action figure. “It’s just a number.”
His face wilted ever so slightly. “Just a number,” he repeated, like it might change things. “A number by itself is nothing. Give me context. A book code, a rotating cipher...”
Say something useful. Don’t be the boring PC guy.
Devon cleared his throat. “It’s the weight of a rare metal we found on a statue of Margaret Thatcher after breaking into the British Museum.”
It was quiet a few seconds.
Didian blinked at him, then turned away. “Well that’s completely irrelevant. No help at all.”
Angel flashed a secret grin.
“He means you,” she whispered loudly.
Devon shot her a punishing glare, but Didian was already pacing into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a heavy leather-bound text—something the fox could only assume was a book of spells. He watched with a rising feeling suspense as it opened in an explosion of dust.
Angel straightened as well, leaning over the table. “You had it laminated,” she remarked.
Didian nodded wordlessly, flipping through the pages. “There were a few spills...”
It was hard to see from such a distance—even with Devon’s sharp eyes. To make matters worse, very little of it was written in a modern language. The parts that were, made even less sense.
“This would be current?” the man asked, never looking up.
Angel nodded. “Market value, auction pricing. Things like that.”
Devon looked between them in a daze.
What the hell is happening?
It took him another second to understand.
“Wait, is that like...some kind of rolodex?” he asked incredulously. A black market rolodex for all the underworld’s ghastly little crimes. “You guys actually have a book—”
“What’s the number?” Didian interrupted, latching with singular focus onto his task.
He dug hastily in his pockets. “I wrote it down—”
“Eighteen thousand, five hundred and forty-seven,” Angel recited promptly.
He cast her a sideways look.
Freak.
Didian nodded mutely, fingers moving at the speed of light. It wasn’t until that moment, the fox realized the script on the pages was moving as well. What had first appeared as a regular book, was actually digitized in a way he didn’t completely understand.
It was quiet for a few seconds, when the man suddenly stopped—jamming his finger in the center of a page. “Here we are. Just a single match, that’s fortunate.” He cleared his throat, adding a little flourish. “According to the latest installment, that is the exact price of a Sumatran tiger.”
He closed the book, regarding them with a bland smile.
“I believe they have a few at the London Zoo.”
* * *
WHERE IS THE LINE...?
Devon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, keeping his eyes on the road. For the last thirty minutes, he’d been asking himself the same question on loop. He was no closer to an answer.
They had left the puzzleman not long after—right around the time he invited them to stay for a game of ‘galactic chess.’ While Angel had appeared intrigued, the fox had whisked them out the door. His threshold for the surreal and unsettling had been reached. He needed time to process.
A tiger. Where do we draw the line, if not at a tiger?
“These are so good.”
They had stopped for more food on the way home. While he could have just as easily abstained, his passenger had what could only be described as a wraithlike metabolism, and had demanded they stop for pastries at the first place they found. It was a drive-through that specialized in tiny cream-filled doughnuts. Angel had purchased a bucket, and proceeded to wolf them down.
He cast a look across the car. By now, she must have eaten the weight of her own leg.
“How can you still eat like that?” he asked, bordering on fascination and disgust.
She glanced over in surprise, a smear of powdered sugar on her chin. “What do you mean? You don’t like this anymore?”
He chuckled in spite of himself, wiping her face with his sleeve. “Of course I like it, I just can’t eat it. Not unless I want to spend an extra hour at the gym.”
She wafted the scent invitingly towards him.
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I get sugar hangovers.”
She wafted it again. He took a doughnut.
“You’re a bad influence,” he muttered, popping it into his mouth.
She spritzed him with powdered sugar. “Yeah, but you’re smiling.”
...yes, I am.
Decades earlier, when the troublesome assassin had first burst into their lives, he couldn’t understand Julian’s attraction. Yes, she was beautiful—but so were a lot of girls. Girls who wouldn’t betray his secrets to their darkest enemy. Girls who didn’t bring home dangerous felons for dinner, and hide spare firearms under the kitchen sink. His best friend had enough stress in his life without adding the twisted machinations of one Angela Cross. But if he was being honest with himself, if he was being brutally honest, there was times he wondered if she might be the best thing for him.
Of course, he could never admit this to the psychic. He would carry it to the grave.
“So...?” she asked expectedly, as they finally pulled onto their block. “We left with a number, and we came back with an oversized jungle cat. I’d call that a great success.”
Devon sighed, rolling to a stop at the curb.
“I guess, but just...how far do we indulge this? The man has us tearing around the city on a wild goose chase; we’ve already ended up in jail. Now there’s a tiger? Where do we draw the line?”
“Somewhere after the tiger,” she replied without hesitation, eyes twinkling with mischief. It was the same look she got while waiting to gleefully ambush the mailman. The same look as when she’d considered the parking meter. “The line is somewhere after the tiger.”
He let out a breath of laughter, rubbing at his eyes.
“Why am I asking you where the line is...?”
“Listen, I’m not the one who set this into motion,” she replied, popping another doughnut into her mouth. “But if you’re serious about following Kraigan’s clues, we just solved the next one.”
“And what?” he asked with a trace of desperation. “The man has no limits. Now he wants us to break into the London Zoo?”
She wiped a bit of cream from her mouth. “Or he’s telling you to sell the Hasting twins into slavery.” They shared a silent look. “All right, we’ll go with your idea.”
He laughed again, unable help it. It didn’t seem possible, but there was a part of him that had actually enjoyed himself. A small part, but it had staked an undeniable claim. He remembered when Rae had undergone a similar revelation, shortly after the first mission she’d taken with Angel. She’d spent the three days leading up to it nearly sick with dread, then got home and couldn’t stop talking about it. She’d kept him up for half the night, bouncing off the walls.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said suddenly, surprising them both. “I know it can’t be easy to...” He trailed into silence, remembering a little boy with golden curls—staring with wide eyes into the dark. “I know it can’t be easy to dredge up old places, dip back into your old life.”
She studied him a moment, then shrugged.
“Some places aren’t so bad. You want to come inside?” she added, pulling open the door. A gust of frosty air swept inside, smelling of nutmeg and pine. “We can make some cider, add in some rum. Figure out the best way to smuggle a tiger out of the London Zoo.”
He found himself smiling again, reaching for the handle.
He caught himself just as fast.
“Get out of my car, Angel.”
She flashed a wicked grin, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Next time.”
