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heart, if not blood. And with her own unique abilities, the green-eyed brunette was more than capable of protecting herself. And my mom…I pushed down my grief. We didn’t know where she was, which meant she was probably dead. I knew my mother—she would’ve gone through hell to get home to us. That was what Delacys did.
    The truth was that my aunt thought advertising that our agency was now taking Supernatural cases made me a target. But she was wrong. We already had ties to the Supernatural community, and it was these ties and not a small piece of print that had brought me Sunday’s run.
    It had been less than two days since I’d made my deal with Carmel to locate his bosses’ missing money. I was meeting a possible lead at Mag’s, a bar on the outskirts of Hattiesburg (The Burg), Mississippi. The Burg and New Orleans (NOLA) were about three hours apart. Luckily, my home in Gandsai, Miss. was smack-dab between the two. It was good that I had an appointment, because just walking outside wouldn’t have been enough to escape Aunt Helena’s temper.
    At that thought, I glanced in my rearview mirror, but there was only an empty stretch of blacktop. The old farmhouse was miles away. Until the Supernatural’s governing body, the Council, had told the world about us, most Sups had moved from city to city to hide their longer lifespan. Our house and the long number of generations raised there were a testament to my family’s ability to blend in over the years. The space had often been lonely, but I had to admit that the house’s white clapboards and green roof made a charming picture. Charming and expensive. And now mine. Keeping up a house that size cost more than I could make taking on your average cases, which was another reason for my recent advertisement.
    My ancestral home was far enough southwest of The Burg to still be in a rural wooded area. Gandsai was private enough for a witch’s needs but close enough to neighbors to satisfy the town gossips. Yet the house wasn’t so far from NOLA or The Burg that a client couldn’t drive out, which was why the faxed request, from a Council operative no less, had come as a surprise.
    All I knew was that I was to meet the Council’s local sheriff, Josephine Fera, for a retainer and further details. There’d been no phone number, so I couldn’t call to decline. The fax said simply that it involved a man named Nicodemus and that I’d want the case. Presumptuous. The message had intrigued me, especially the mention of Nicky-boy. Never one to stand up a lady, I’d thought it best to make an appearance. Or so I’d tell my aunt…when I eventually told her my meeting had been with a Council operative. I smirked as the wind blew in the Jeep’s open doors, whipping little tendrils of black hair about my face. Maybe for once my family’s emphasis on good manners would play in my favor.
    The Sheriffs, once called Guild Masters, had been leaders of a particular group, like a Were Clan’s Alpha. They’d changed their name right along with the Council, who’d originally been called the Guild Council. With the new name had come new job specs. Now anyone powerful—and crazy—enough to run roughshod over their district’s Sups could apply. I’d never met Fera, but I’d heard she was part Fae, part maverick, and all immortal. But while there were perks to working for the Council, a great deal of their operatives, even the not-so-mortal, tended to live a shorter than normal lifespan.
    So immortal or no, Fera didn’t have time to waste. And neither did I. But if I was lucky, the sheriff would know where a hooded man with fugly teeth and no fashion sense might stash a pile of the bloodsuckers’ mob money. That, and a free dinner, might be worth an hour of my time.

Chapter Three
    “When in doubt, don’t stick it out. They might just bite it off.”
    — 101 Ways to Deal With Weres
    A glorious crimson and gold sunset was fading into a dark night as I pulled into Mag’s. The