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kicks slathering on glamour and fooling humans into thinking he was one of them. Usually hobs were harmless pranksters, more of an annoyance than a real threat. But Davis had a mean streak. According to his file, he preferred shenanigans his victims didn’t survive to laugh off.
    Oh joy.
    With a recycling empire at stake, Mable was betting he would come peacefully.
    Hey, a girl could dream.
    I stepped inside Davis’s flagship building and into some kind of freakish after-hours’ party.
    A portly nude hob zoomed past me riding a scooter. I wrinkled my nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    “Watch out, toots.” He shook his gnarly fist at me. “You’re standing in the middle of the track.”
    Glancing down, I spotted the dotted and dashed chalk lines of a racetrack under my foot.
    A second hob shot past wearing goggles, followed by a third and fourth wearing nothing at all.
    I found somewhere less nauseating to look and called out, “Mathew Davis?”
    One of a dozen hobgoblins—sans glamour—skidded to a halt with the plastic bottle he had been using as a bat raised over his head. Each of his ears was larger than my whole hand. His eyes were a dazzling shade of blue, his skin a grayish warty hide with thick purple hairs sprouting down his arms. His head reached my waist. His stomach was round and taut, his arms spindly and his knees knobby.
    “Mathew Davis.” He leapt from his scooter and danced a little jig. “At your service.”
    “Hi, Mr. Davis.” I avoided eyeing his free swinging bits. “I’m Thierry Thackeray, the marshal assigned by the conclave to work your case.”
    The other hobs sucked in a collective gasp and scurried like roaches into the darkened corners of the massive warehouse. Their chattering made it difficult to hear what Davis said next, but whatever it was sent waves of hysterical laughter crashing through the room as the other hobs bum-rushed me.
    Before I could react, they knocked my knees from under me and hefted me up on their bony shoulders. The nearest male whacked my forehead with an empty two-liter bottle similar to Davis’s.
    Davis executed a perfect back handspring, landing on a fellow hob’s shoulders and cinching his sinewy thighs around the poor guy’s head. Fisting the red tufts of hair curling out of his friend’s ears, Davis guided his mount—who neighed at me—toward a newly chalk-lined section of concrete floor.
    “Come back later, lassie.” Davis smacked his mount’s ass with his bottle. “I’m busy just now.”
    The sea of hobs washed me past Davis and right out the rear bay door. They tossed me from the dock, where trucks dropped off containers, into a metal box stuffed full of cans waiting to be crushed. The impact knocked the breath out of me.
    Metal groaned and casters squealed. I tilted my head back as they slammed the rolling bay door shut behind me.
    “I could make them pay for that.”
    The simple offer hung suspended on a rich breath of wood smoke.
    I bolted upright as cold sweat drenched my shirt. “Who’s there?”
    No one answered.
    I shoved to my knees inside the shifting container. “I said—who’s out there?”
    “Didn’t you get my text?” a graveled voice called.
    The tension pinching my chest eased enough I could breathe again. “Shaw, texting someone Yes, we do is not the same as Meet you soon or See you at seven .”
    His hands appeared on the lip of the container. One harsh grunt later, his upper body popped into view. His forearms rippled with muscle when he locked his elbows, suspending himself across from me. He stared down as I knelt on the crinkly aluminum carpet. “What are you doing in there?”
    Heat rushed into my cheeks. “How did you know where to find me?”
    He found his footing on the side of the container and shifted closer. “I asked you first.”
    “Congratulations.” I tossed a few can tabs like confetti into the air. “Your prize is...answering my question.”
    “My phone was off when you sent the