Knock Em Dead: Supernatural Security Force, #2

CHAPTER ONE

My boots sloshed through dirty puddles that resembled the gumbo they served at the dive bar below my apartment. The sight of the trash-littered gutters mixed with the revolting odor left behind by last night’s bar hoppers made my nose wrinkle. No matter how long I spent in the French Quarter of New Orleans, the smell never went away. Even on a rainy Monday like today, the odor of vomit, alcohol, and sweaty humans clogged my nostrils. Even my fae magic couldn’t coat the scent—and that was saying something.

Head down, shoulders bent, I let myself blend in with the few pedestrians who’d been forced to venture out this early in the wet weather. No one acknowledged me as I passed. To any of them, I looked human—and probably hungover or half-drowned, thanks to the weather. It was so easy to fool a human; they only saw what they thought was real. Supernaturals were harder to fool, but we also weren’t in the habit of outing each other to the human population.

Not unless you wanted to get dead.

Despite the half-drunk werewolves still wandering around down here and the con-artist witches who read fortunes for tourists and traded secrets for favors, I was safe enough. Even if anyone could tell I was half-fae, half- shifter, no one was going to call me out for it. An agent, on the other hand… An SSF agent would get outed for nothing more than existing if spotted by the wrong supernatural. An agent had to watch her back constantly.

But I wasn’t actually an agent.

Thanks to failing my graduation test, I was now a cleaner.

And according to Rigo, the slimy perv I’d had for an instructor, I was lucky for even that much. God, I didn't want to think about that dreaded night at The Monster Ball ever again. Not the failed final mission. Not the mysterious stranger who’d saved my life—and helped me take down two would-be murderers in the process. And definitely not my favorite pair of heels that now lay at the bottom of the sea, probably off some continent far away from this one.

The harsh reality was that I’d missed my chance to become an agent for the Supernatural Security Force, the Nephilim-run organization that hunted demons and policed the supes of Earth. Instead, I was nothing more than a glorified janitor, cleaning up the supernatural messes of my beloved hometown.

If I’d been tempted to lie and tell myself being a cleaner was somehow prestigious, the address of my new post would have set me straight. Downtown New Orleans, right on the edge of Bourbon Street, and smack in the middle of low-level supe-crimes wasn’t exactly a corner office with a coffee maker.

Hence, the thermos I was currently clutching.

A toothless beggar smiled at me as I passed him and kept moving through the crosswalk just past his cardboard home. The sight of his friendly grin only served to drive home my irritation.

A homeless guy with no shoes should not be having a better day than me.

My phone rang, and I almost declined out of habit until I saw the name flash on my Caller ID.

Hey, Milo, I answered.

How’s my favorite pretend lover?

I smiled at that. Milo and I had met the first day of academy training when he’d snuck into my exam room and made me his sex-alibi. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him hanging, especially after finding out he’d snuck around with an illegal immigrant who also happened to be a literal demon spawn.

On my way to report for cleaner duty. Oh, darling.

I didn’t want to revisit the sympathy he was giving me—or the reasons for it. I’d spent the weekend drowning my sorrows in reruns of Buffy with my mother. That was more than enough pity and comfort for one tragic life turn.

What are you up to? I asked instead.

Knee-deep in paperwork. Toledo still blows, in case you were wondering.

I thought you liked being blown? someone said in the background.

Someone male. And with an unmistakable teasing tone.

I shook my head. That better not be another coworker you’re flirting with.

Hypothetically, if I arrest a guy, is it okay to date him?

Milo.

Enough about me. Let’s talk about you.

We need to work on your relationship decisions, I said with a sigh.

I picked you, didn’t I?

No. You pretended to pick me, and I let you.

Consent is everything.

I rolled my eyes. Why are you calling me so early? I thought they had you on night shift out there.

Just got off.

His friend spoke in the background again.

Are you really talking to me while entertaining? I asked, sloshing through a puddle.

Baby, I’m always entertaining.

The voice in the background laughed.

I rolled my eyes. Why are you calling me if you’re on a date, genius? Milo’s voice turned serious. Have you talked to Tony?

I haven’t exactly been in the mood to catch up, I said.

Milo didn’t question my snappy answer. Probably because I’d called him the moment I’d been released from the Tiff to tell him about my new assignment. He’d listened to the whole story and then proceeded to cuss Rigo out. While Milo ranted, I did shots of tequila from my empty apartment. For the last few days, the voice of Angel himself, and tequila’s mind-numbing abilities, had been my support system.

Gran kept checking on me randomly, but her overuse of the word peniswrinkle as it related to Rigo Garcia was getting old.

He left me a weird voice mail the other night, and now he won’t call me back, Milo said, and I forced my thoughts back to the here and now. To Tony, our friend from the academy.

Trouble in paradise? I asked.

Tony had been pining for Fiona, another recruit we’d befriended during our time at the Tiff. If not for my own problems, I would have already gone to see the both of them.

I don’t think so. His message sounded cryptic, but not about Fiona. You should check on him.

Milo, this is the part where I tell you I’ve got enough problems to deal with.

And this is the part where I call in my favor. What favor?

The one you owed me after I totally saved your ass from that snorgaut demon.

I’d say we’re even considering I followed it up by saving your ass from the same demon about five minutes later. Milo huffed. Just check on Tony for me.

I huffed right back. Fine. I’ll call him when I get off.

I could practically hear Milo’s answering smile. Thanks, love. Talk soon.

Hey Gem?

Yeah?

Knock ’em dead.

You got it.

Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I trudged another couple of blocks before I spotted my destination. It was a story taller than the other buildings on this street. A wrought-iron fence lined the property, but that wasn’t unusual for this part of the city. Neither was the large sign that labeled this place CLOSED FOR TOURS.

A placard on the corner just before the front doors detailed the origin of the building and the fact that it had once been a meeting site for the first French-Creole civic league.

Everything in this city was a historical site these days. Tourists loved that shit.

And it provided the perfect cover for an agency full of supernatural law enforcement. Some of whom had been alive since before the building’s foundation had been poured.

I made my way up the steps to the front doors and pushed them open, glad to be out of the rain, at least.

A tiled foyer greeted me, the high ceilings offering soft lighting from a low-hanging chandelier that probably cost more than my childhood. I stared up at it—and then beyond, to the coffered ceiling. The etched designs perfectly matched and mirrored the tile where I stood. A not-so-subtle announcement that this particular building might be more than just a restored landmark.

I whistled, and the sound echoed inside the space.

Behind me, someone cleared her throat. I turned toward a woman approaching fast, her sensible flats making almost no sound as she crossed the foyer from what I saw now was a tiny office full of security monitors. If she was a supe, she was something beyond my ability to sense.

Her blouse was baggy on her petite frame, and her mouth was set into a nervous line.

She was the guard on duty?

May I help you? she asked, friendly but quiet.

I’m Gem Hawkins, I said. I’m supposed to meet with Harvey Carter.

She hit a few buttons on a tablet cradled in one arm before looking up at me, a polite-but-distant smile on her small face. Sure, you can go right through those doors, and Harvey will be along in a moment.

Thanks, I said, not sure what sort of doors she was referring to.

Before I could ask, she retreated into her office, hitting buttons on her tablet again as she went. A second later, there was a groaning sound, and I whirled to find the far wall sliding slowly away to reveal another lobby on the other side.

Hot damn, I muttered as I stepped inside. Maybe I’d misjudged the place.

The wall slid back into place, sealing me in, and I wandered the room.

The carpet was soft and neutral—the kind only top-shelf money dared to buy because it got ruined in about thirty seconds. Photos lined the wall, interrupted by a life-size statue of a praying angel in one corner. The photos were black-and-whites of gorgeous men and beautiful women. None of their names were labeled. Not that a name would have helped; I had no idea who any of them were.

Probably Nephilim elites. The real bosses around here.

The narrow door on the far side of the space opened, and a middle-aged man stepped through. He sported stained work pants and a sad comb-over. His expression was set in a scowl with a touch of impatience.

You’re Hawkins? he asked gruffly. Yes.

Follow me.

No handshake then. Fine by me.

He led me through the door he’d just arrived by and down a narrow hall that split off in both directions before emptying into a large workspace. By the time we emerged into the open area, the money had run dry, and the décor was run-of-the-mill Office Emporium clearance. What I’d seen in the entrance hall had probably been for show in case higher-ups came to visit. This area was obviously for the grunt workers like me. Nothing fancy. Just efficient.

A dozen or so desks filled the center of the room, most of them unmanned, scarred with age, and covered in manila files. The handful of employees in the room barely looked up as I passed. None of them offered smiles or greetings. Most of them looked just as pissed about being here as Harvey did.

I sighed.

Exactly the workplace morale I’d been expecting from a low-level SSF office.

Harvey led me straight back to the far side of the room and into a tiny office that smelled like cigarettes and dirty socks. He shut the door behind us and pulled the dust-covered blinds closed so the employees we’d just passed couldn’t watch us through the cutout glass.

Have a seat, Harvey said, gesturing to the empty chair sitting before his desk.

I sat.

Harvey went straight to the filing cabinet underneath the window and snagged the pack of cigarettes lying on top. He lit one and then cracked the window before exhaling a cloud of smoke. I did my best not to make a face as the smell hit me. That window wasn’t doing nearly enough for ventilation.

Why did supes think the rules of modern health didn’t apply to them?

Nicotine was poison no matter what kind of creature you were. Even vamps could get a black lung… probably. Not that Harvey was a vamp. In fact, my fae senses made him a dead ringer for a werewolf, thanks to the wet dog smell that permeated the air around him.

Rodrigo and I go all the way back to our training days, Harvey remarked, pulling me out of my thoughts. He said it like I’d asked him a question.

Okay.

He took another drag of his cigarette and turned to study me. On an exhale, he said, You get pregnant or something?

What? I sat up. No, I didn’t get— Why would you ask me that?

He grunted as if he was relieved for me. Or for himself. Had to make sure.

Not going to punch him, not going to punch him. I repeated the words over and over in my mind, and when that didn’t work, I decided to level with Harvey.

Look, Rigo was pissed that I wouldn’t sleep with him, I said. On top of that, my last mission had a . . . complication.

I shoved aside all thoughts of The Monster Ball, vowing here and now to never think of it again. Or him. Well, either of the hims.

There’d been two.

First, Jax McGuire. Over the weekend, I’d asked around. Apparently, he was the alpha of the largest panther pack in the southern U.S. He was also easily the best kisser I’d ever had the pleasure with.

Then there’d been the stranger. Tall, dark, and mysterious. And if my fae senses weren’t lying, he was hot as hell to match underneath that mask he’d worn. The fact that I’d never seen his face hadn’t stopped me from dreaming about him. About both of them.

A complication, Harvey repeated, and I blinked.

Shit, I’d zoned out on dirty threesome fantasies again.

I cleared my throat, all business now. Rigo sent me here as punishment for my last mission—but mostly, he sent me here because he can’t handle rejection. I sat back and didn’t try to hide the snide smile as I said the last part.

Harvey grunted again. That makes sense, he said finally. Rodrigo’s a good ol’ boy, but he can’t keep it in his pants with the cadets.

Apparently satisfied, he ground his cigarette out in the ashtray by the window before moving to take his seat across from me.

Look, he said, his gaze level with mine. The scowl was still there, but it was a matter-of-fact thing. Like it’d been on his face his whole life and every other expression could just work around it. Rodrigo never asks me for favors and for good reason. Being a cleaner is a shit job, but it also takes a very particular kind of creature to do it. He knows that. The fact that he sent you here…well, I’ll be honest. I read your file, and initially, I wasn’t going to accept you.

My brows shot up because I had no idea what was about to happen here, but it didn’t sound good. If the cleaning department threw me out, where did that leave me? Was I out of SSF completely?

That was not an option.

Harvey wasn’t done. Your father was Vic Hawkins.

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway, heart pounding. Did you know him?

"I knew of him," Harvey said.

The disappointment must have registered on my face.

Harvey cleared his throat. Look, I have a friend in Protocol and Procedures. I was going to see if he could pull some strings and get you set up over there. It would’ve at least put you back on track for a decent posting at headquarters in a couple of years, and based on what I read in your file, you can handle it.

I blinked. So, I’m not getting fired?

What? No. If it were up to me, I’d promote you. He sat back and added, I’m assuming that’s what you wanted out of all this.

How do you know what I want? I asked warily.

Screw Rodrigo’s pervy, petty ass for making me suspicious of a good thing.

Isn’t that what every recruit wants? Harvey pressed. A corner office with a coffee pot? Detective status?

I didn’t answer. We both knew that’s exactly what I wanted.

I held my thermos tighter, praying I was about to get it.

But Harvey sighed and shook his head. Anyway, none of that matters because I got an inter-agency alert late last night with your name on it.

I froze.

An inter-agency-anything sounded like bad news.

Had the Nephilim heard about my little double-homicide from the night of that stupid party?

What did it say? I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

According to the memo, you’re to be placed here at division thirteen and remain under our jurisdiction until further notice, he said. Funny part is you’re not reporting to me. Don’t make no sense, but it’s not like I have the clearance—or the interest—in talking back to the assholes upstairs.

I stared at him, my eyes narrowing as a pit of dread curled in my stomach.

The assholes upstairs meant⁠—

The alert came directly from headquarters?

My stomach was doing weird flips, and my panic level was inching fast toward day-drinking status. Despite the lingering hangover from my weekend bender.

You got somebody’s attention, Harvey said, shaking his head. Can’t say that’s a good thing either. At any rate, your handler is one Adrik Romanov. You’ll report to him and only to him for all of your cases, effective immediately.

Who is he? I asked. Damned if I know.

How can he be my boss if you’ve never heard of him? I thought division thirteen was your department.

His eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d struck a nerve. "This is my department, darlin’, and don’t you forget it."

I’ll do my best, I said, failing to keep all of the sarcasm out of my voice.

Harvey continued to glare.

I sighed. How do I find this Adrik guy?

Here’s the address. He grabbed a slip of paper from the pile in front of him and handed it over. That’s all I know. I glanced at the address. What the hell? Are you sure this is right? I asked.

I’m following orders, Harvey said, leaning back in his rolling chair.

It was all I’d get from him.

I rose, cradling my thermos. If SSF wanted to confront me for murder, they wouldn’t send me to the sketchiest neighborhood in the city to do it.

Right?

When I reached the door, Harvey stopped me. Listen, he said, and I turned to see his scowl now included a layer of uncertainty—and maybe the tiniest hint of sincerity. If you get into trouble out there, come see me. I’ll do what I can.

Thanks, Harvey, I said, and this time, there was no sarcasm to be found. If Harvey was the one ally I was afforded in this entire system, I’d take it. He snapped his fingers. Oh, almost forgot.

Harvey chucked something, and I caught it mid-air, frowning down at the badge labeled ‘Cleaner.’ Your credentials. Thanks, I said dryly.

Don’t mention it.

I probably wouldn’t.

Exiting the office, I shut the door behind me and headed back the way I’d come from.

It was time to meet my new boss. Adrik Romanov. Whoever the hell that was. With any luck, I’d win him over in a week and be right back on track for detective once again. Then again, luck had never been my friend. My last mission was pretty clear evidence of that.

But I refused to be stuck here as a cleaner forever.

I’d joined the SSF to do one thing, and that was to track down a killer. As long as I kept my head down and stayed out of any trouble—or any more trouble—I had a shot. With that one goal in mind, I clutched my thermos tight in my hands and walked out the front door. It was time to get to work.

CHAPTER TWO

The scrawled address sent me straight into the worst part of the city. Beyond the French Quarter and its touristy dive bars sat the Ninth Ward. Destroyed by Hurricane Katrina only to be forgotten and left to rot, the Ninth Ward was a death trap in daylight and much, much worse at night. Demons had been a real problem here, especially since a lot of human deaths in these neighborhoods went unreported. Even worse, the kind of supes who hung out in this part of the city weren’t the upstanding, law-abiding kind.

I’d trained at the academy for trips into the sketchier areas and fully expected that was where many of my missions would take me as detective. As a cleaner, it was probably even more likely. But I’d never expected to actually report here