Emerson Maxwell Pierson was a man whose looks appeared as nondescript as the stuffiness oozing from his given name. Except neither facts about him were technically true. Everything from the square-cut black rimmed glasses to the gray Hutton Stripe tie was presented to the casual observer by design. Dull. Bland. No flash for a passerby’s second glance. The man’s thick black hair often remained anchored down by an even darker colored Fedora—a hat that had probably been crafted at the beginning of the design’s popularity almost one hundred years prior yet still remained in pristine condition. Sapphire blue eyes were almost always cast in the direction of down. Intentional to keep people from remembering their mesmerizing gaze.
Max Pierson was a man who did not want to be noticed. Except for today.
Luck didn’t enter into any equation about me being the person he’d sought out. Those same compelling eyes he more often than not kept averted were now boring a hole through my forehead. His gaze sought mine, I knew, but I’d decided the buttered croissant I pecked at was the better choice with holding my undivided attention than the man seated across from me at the table.
“No.” Lifting a delicate, white cup, I took a sip of tea. Set it down. Pulled up Instagram on my cell phone and pretended my unwanted guest had vanished. The quaint, cloistered cafe with outdoor seating along the side of a cobblestoned alleyway wasn’t quite as tucked out of sight as I’d originally thought. Either that or Max’s tracking skills had vastly improved since our last meeting.
“I’ve not yet asked my question.” His voice was low… one I’d not heard in at least sixteen months, but remembered all the same. A fleck of humor hinted in the tone. Something else lurked as well… A something I’d done my best to avoid ever since our introduction nearly two years before.
“I do not need for you to ask,” I said. There was only one reason Max Pierson would have sought me out, and the answer would always be the same. “I said no.”
“Ah, but you’ve not yet heard my reasons.” He settled against the back of his chair. “There are many and all are irresistible to refuse.”
Less than three minutes into our conversation and my rationalization for avoiding all things Max Pierson were already proven. A bullhorn broadcasted the reasoning for why I didn’t want to waste one more second of my time with this man.
Arrogance.
Despite that Max’s entire job was about being everywhere and seeing everything all without being seen himself, he was too self-assured, too cocky, too used to getting his way, and too damned handsome. And the man knew it, which meant the complete package of Emerson Maxwell Pierson came with a dump truck sized ego wrapped neatly with a silver bow.
Exactly the sort of man I’d learned at an early age to avoid. My time was too short and in demand to play games. Yet it wasn’t entirely the man himself that made me keep my distance, but his employer.
“Perhaps this particular request would surprise you into acceptance?” he asked.
I finally allowed my gaze to clash with his. “There is nothing you could say that would shock me.”
“How about a job offering?”
“An actual position? You’re talking W-2?” Reluctant as I was, I had to admit hearing it said aloud was a bit on the side of startling. The offer was a step up from the previous one two years ago as a consultant, and it was not a light proposal at that. Funding was tight for Max’s department, hence the previous request for contract work only. No, this time it would not be an assignment with a predetermined separation date along with a lump sum payment. I currently had income, but nothing consistent and the thought of a steady paycheck was… nice.
It was who would be signing those checks that gave me pause. The Paranormal Investigative Governmental Unit—or P.G.U. since Uncle Sam loved his acronyms—had never been a division to receive a large share of the pie whenever it was time for the collected taxes to be allocated. The local PIGS, as I secretly referred to the department—thus proving that not all childishness had left my body at the ripe age of twenty-five—had been more robust in the 1920s when dealing with a city-wide vampire epidemic. Over the past two decades the P.G.U. numbers for the local offices had dwindled down to almost nothing since no longer was there a high concern about the paranormal letting the humans in on the little secret that everything bump in the night was a reality. Without the thirst for blood ruling the city, the Fey and the few demons who’d managed a living arrangement inside the human realm of existence kept primarily to themselves.
Were I to accept the job offer, no doubt the lack of work would compensate for the meager pay. But I had issues to working with the pubic sector. The restrictions. The secrecy. The damned red tape that refused to allow me to work efficiently at the job I’d been born to do. My methods of operation no longer taking precedence. I’d be at the will of a faceless bureaucracy.
No thank you.
“The answer remains the same.” My gaze shifted back to my croissant. The flaky crust was less appealing than it had been ten minutes before.
“There are five of them. We need help determining their location.”
“What? The government didn’t tag them at birth?”
Max sighed. “If the technology had been advanced enough at the time for it to go unnoticed by the parents, that would have been a possibility.”
My gaze snapped up. “Now you understand why I don’t wish to have anything to do with the government? Officials with too much clout and not enough empathy want to wreck five innocent human lives… for what?”
“That’s classified.”
“Yet you want me to sign on without knowing any facts?”
“We need a Tracker to locate five Immunes.” His gaze held mine. “We need you, Maddie.”
“Please don’t call me Maddie. My name is Madeleine…” The planned scolding fell flat as his words sunk into my thoughts. “Why do you need to locate an Immune? They’re rare.”
Max leaned forward. “If you want to know more, sign the employment contract I’m offering you and get clearance.”
The man was too close. His eyes too piercing. My own curiosity was getting the best of me, and everyone knew what had happened to the damned cat.
A large span of black wings whooshed over our heads, informing me that my savior had arrived. Finally. A bit late if I had any say. I’d needed assistance the very second Max Pierson had sat his toned, expensively-clad ass down in the seat directly across from mine. Completely uninvited.
The raven perched on the back of the chair at the next table, her ruffled feathers settling down into sleek elegance. With head cocked, she studied my seat mate intently.
“Calling in backup?” Max asked, looking less than amused. His jaw appeared set, and I knew he’d said what he’d came to say. Now the man was willing to wait me out. Stubbornness could be added to his long list of sins.
Before the decision of my next move could be made, the fluttering of wings alerted me that the raven was once again on the move. With a calculated swoop, the Fedora was pulled off Max’s head, leaving the hat’s brim clinched firmly in a strong beak. The raven appeared to smile at Max, the softening of her nib allowing the Fedora to drop to the cobbled ground with a soft plop. The hat rolled upside down upon impact, and the bird gracefully landed inside the crown, settling down with a shake of her feathers.
The dismissive snort was the only verbal reaction from the man seated across from me, but the whitening around his mouth as his jaw tightly clenched was telling of his current thoughts.
“Perhaps she required a new nest?” I glanced away. The smile curving up my lips was tame in comparison to the laughter I felt wracking my insides. Two seconds later all amusement fled as the soft warning sound rumbling from the raven’s narrow throat reached my ears. I glanced toward the direction that had captured the bird’s attention and felt an invisible punch to the gut, knocking all breath out of me. Tightening my grip around the porcelain cup in my hands, I sucked in needed air before exhaling a steady breath. “Would today’s visit have anything to do with a rogue pure demon on the loose?”
“Why do you ask?” Max’s head swung sharply to face me, vivid blue eyes darkening almost into black by the intensity of his stare.
Swallowing, I sought to keep my next words light regarding a situation that didn’t appear to be at all funny. “Probably because there’s an ugly looking beast walking toward us, and I think he’s standing on the wrong side of the veil.”
Needless to say, the first conversation I had with Emerson Maxwell Pierson in sixteen months, four days, and twenty-two hours did not end on a happy note.