Isla, I̶s̶ ̶G̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶T̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶H̶i̶m̶  IS NOT ... Maybe?

Greg held the door open for me, and we entered the Bean & Brew in silence. Oh no, it wasn't awkward at all. Just like our Uber ride over. Wouldn't have been a far walk either, but Greg insisted on a car. The night was cold and I was underdressed. Honestly, I was thankful I didn't have to strut all the way home in my ruined pumps. They were soggy and cramped my toes.

But maybe walking and bemoaning my sore feet would have kept my mind from sinking into the hopeless necromantic spiral it had in the car. Greg sat stiffly against the window, as far from me as possible. He kept his gaze out at the passing buildings, but he had to have sensed my staring at him, heart hammering in my chest. Should I tell him? I should tell him. I couldn't possibly tell him. He could turn me in. The Magistrate could accuse him of being my accomplice. Heck with it, I'm going to tell, keeping secrets is clearly torturing the guy. No, girlfriend, no. You're still a unicorn's crotch hair away from real trouble. He didn't deserve to be dragged even further down into your shit. It be real hard to continue whatever's happening between us if it's through letters from prison anyway. Or worse, he wouldn't want to continue this at all. What if vamps thought of necromancy as some kind of gross imitation of vampirism itself? A Prada bag sneering at a curbside knock-off.

I spent all day in Greg's home, and I hadn't even worked up the courage to tell Phoebe what was really bothering me. She was heckin' sweet to keep me company till I dozed off on Greg's couch, but I was careful to guard myself. Anything I said to her would undoubtedly get back to the vamp at some point, wouldn't it?

Tits on a stick. This was confusing. I couldn't think straight. I needed a coffee to focus. Luckily, there happened to be one waiting for me at the pickup counter.

"Hold up," I said, as Greg trudged forward to the side entrance of the apartment building at the back of the café.

"Aren't you anxious to see your cat?" he sighed.

Yeah. Duh. Of course. But it's not like Grumpkin could possibly starve to death. Meanwhile, my usual order awaited me. Extra hot large red eye. The addict I was, two coffees I'd drank at Greg's weren't totally scratching that caffeine itch. Was that what craving blood was like for vampires, just dialed all the way up to eleven? It seemed Greg also had a caffeine addiction on top of platelets. Wonder if compounding withdrawals were leading to all those obvious tension headaches.

"Thanks, Mason."

The bored looking barista glanced up from cleaning the milk steamer and furrowed his brows. "Oh, you're back. For what?"

"Whatever," I moseyed to the register. A pang of guilt for drinking Greg's fix hit me. "Can you get this guy an iced mocha too? Please."

Greg trailed behind, keeping a safe distance. Safe is in, I presumed, neither of us were in immediate danger of succumbing to our raging hormones and uncontrollably making out at the drop of a witch's needle. Still, as I ordered his drink, I thought a caught his eyes softening, and a small close-lipped smile.

"It's freezing out," said Mason.

Aight, so neither myself nor the vampire were stellarly dressed for the frigid weather. Greg replaced those front flattering sweats with a pair of black, rear flattering skinny jeans. He fixed the mismatched buttons and tucked in his white shirt. With his leather jacket trashed, he simply opted for a fluffy gray cardigan identical to one I swear I've seen my grandfather wear. Paired with leather and not at all water-resistant shoes, the judgy side-eye Mason was throwing wasn't entirely unexpected.

"He can take it."

I popped open my clutch. Shit. Kyle had pinched all my money.

Before I could turn to Greg and give him by best pwetty pwease eyelash flutter, he was already dropping money on the counter. His elbow brushed against my arm. Slowly. Deliberately slowly. You could hear the gentle swish of fabric rubbing together.

Mason shrugged and scooped ice into a cup. "Small Matcha Latte with Extra Protein Powder was in here looking for you last night, by the way."

Greg raised a brow.

"Uh, who?" I asked.

"The bald guy. With the beard," Mason rolled his eyes. "One you said worked for the landlord."

Ah.

"Yeah, I caught up with Kyle. Thanks."

"He's an asshole. Broke the skim milk pitcher. Guess I didn't refill it fast enough. Don't know what Lily saw in that douche-nugget."

Everything seemed to slow. Ice hung in midair as Mason jangled the cup. The whir of the espresso machine melted into a muted hum. Even the steady wash of traffic outside faded away. But my pulse thumped, hard and slow, in my ears. I looked up at Greg. Who stared down at me, his jaw hanging wide open as he slow motion mouthed 'douche-nugget?'

Greg cleared his throat. "Uh. What was that?"

"Hey," Mason frowned. "Aren't you that secret shopper guy?"

I glanced between them. "Secret what?"

"Hush now," Greg leaned forward, onto his elbows over the counter. His voice took on a low, soothing tone that liquified my spine. "No need to think about where you may, or may not, have seen me before."

When Mason got caught in the vamp's glowing gaze, his own went glassy. Lips parted as his mouth relaxed into a little sigh. Tension poured from his muscles as he let the mocha drop, lidless, onto the counter, splashing himself and the register even though the cup thankfully remained upright. For a moment, I worried Mason was going to collapse and smack his head on the expresso machine, but his legs held out. Mine would give. Greg would catch me, of course, and splay me carefully across his high thread count sheets and senselessly ravish me till sunup while I was utterly helpless to resist.

And then he'd dote on me with Band-Aids and orange juice and cuddles. Er, no, not cuddles. We couldn't cuddle at sunup. That wasn't fair.

"Wouldn't it feel good to relax right now? That's it. Just like that," Greg coaxed Mason (and I'm fairly certain he spied me clutching onto the countertop to keep myself upright). "I'm real sorry to do this, but I don't think I asked you the right questions last time. Please tell me: does Lily know the man who orders the matcha lattes with extra protein powder?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"...How?"

"They flirt. And fight.... Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Ah, ah, we're almost done, fella," Greg snapped his fingers just under Mason's nose to guide his slipping attention back to the vampire. "You're doing such a swell job at staying relaxed for me, aren't you?"

Mason dreamily nodded along.

Greg hovered a finger a breath away from my lips, an obvious sign that he did not want me asking any of my own questions. He started: "Can you remember anything else—"

"What they fight about?" I said.

Greg's jaw clicked.

"Something about an old man and money and a plan," Mason replied flatly. "I don't know. I only overheard them that one time he brought her flowers, which was the same day as the old creeper did. Maybe it was her birthday or something. Matcha Latte was so mad he broke a mug."

This time, Greg straight up pressed the pad of his cold finger against my lips. The shock of it sent shivers down my spine. I resisted the urge to flick it with my tongue. For about half a second. Vamp stole his finger back with a drag across my lips.

"Is there anything, literally anything else, you can tell us about Lily and this matcha man?" said Greg.

Mason shrugged. "Haven't seen as much since she ghosted us. Hey, is there anything else I can get for you tonight?"

The vamp flashed a dazzling, sharp, fang filled smile, yet a menacing gleam still shined in Greg's eyes. "Just slide that coffee on over and I think that's going to be enough for tonight. Aren't you just the best barista. Thank you so much for helping us."

Mason's eyes remained vacant for several long seconds after the glow in Greg's cooled. The latter gingerly tugged the mocha from Mason's grip and swept his arm around to usher us both away from the counter. I peered over my shoulder. Mason blinked and came back to himself, scratching his face in evident confusion.

"Did you melt Mason's brain?"

"He handled it last time like a champ."

"Last time?"

"He'll be fine."

We stopped at a table and Greg began furiously emptying his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone, that little notebook of his. Something was happening in that vamp's brain. His brow was scrunched, eyes frantically flit from item to item dumped onto the sticky surface. A little fang poked out over his bottom lip as he bit down in concentration.

"Hey, come to think of it. Prior to last night, Kyle hasn't exactly been diligent in collecting my rent as of late," I said, trying to feel useful and contribute to whatever brain blast Greg was experiencing. It worked, a tad. He looked up, a borderline manic glint in his gaze, that notebook pressed between his long fingers. "He was supposed to collect on the first of the month but was late. He seemed, I don't know, distracted."

Kyle was clipping toenails in my favorite chair and totally flippant when I questioned him as to why he was late (wow, that was a dumb thing to ask of a homicidal werewolf. Third eye hindsight is twenty-twenty-twenty, am I right?). Been busy, I think he said.

Greg nodded. It was quick and short. Like he understood what I was trying to say but didn't quite know how to apply it yet. Heck, I barely knew what I was saying.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, hoping the frustratingly quiet smarty pants in the room could shed some light.

He flicked open that notebook. A sliver of chain that had been pressed between the pages tumbled out. Kyle had that chain wrapped around Greg's neck, ready to pop his head off like a cork.

I swallowed. The bruise around my own neck throbbed.

"Sloane was stabbed with a similar necklace," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"Bella," Greg continued, kind of losing me as he thumbed through pages. He pressed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Cabroni. Dang it, I should've written it down sooner, I can't remember it clearly. Only saw when he wound up for a punch. But he had a tattoo on his wrist."

"He's got lots of tattoos."

"Was a name. Isabella? Annabelle?"

"The Arabella tattoo?" I burned my tongue on my coffee. "I think that's his kid's name."

Greg half chuckled. "Of course it is. I suspected—knew the culprit who stole Rosemond's bones was a werewolf. We grappled but he escaped. Managed to sniff out a whiff of tattoo on that mutt's wrist before he got away. It read 'bella.'"

"Did you just say sniff and whiff on purpose?"

"There was a broken glass in Lily's apartment, you said? Just one?"

I massaged my neck to combat the whiplash. My memory of Lily's tiny apartment was already fuzzy at best. She had a dead fish. DVD boxsets. Pictures of beaches. Big old dog plushy. Nipple tassels and a dead woman's pilfered jewelry (as evidenced by that portrait in Dmitri and Sloane's home). Nail clippings, that was gross.

Wait... didn't Kyle have a habit of clipping his toenails in where they didn't belong? In my fucking parlor, for example.

Lily also had dried flower bouquets – one roses and one lilies and ooooooooh I get it now, those were gifts from both Dmitri and Kyle.

"It was one of those rose chalices, smashed like it been thrown."

A faint, adorable smirk touched the corner of Greg's lip. "You noticed it matched the set in Dmitri's home?"

"Yeah, when Sloane had Jules pour me wine. Dmitri was obviously gifting them to his floosies."

The smirk widened. "So you can pay attention."

"When the occasion calls for it," I squeezed my thighs together as a hot flush rushed through me. Shook my head. "Greg where the heck are you going with this you scatter brained weirdo?"

"I'm thinking that the same, quick tempered somebody may have broken both that chalice and your barista's milk pitcher."

I pressed both index fingers against the tips of mine and Greg's noses, respectively, as the realization sucker punched me right in the skull.

He blinked.

"They didn't just flirt. They were smashing. Kyle was her boyfriend Britney talked about. She was so secretive about it because he's married. Well, both of them are married."

"Julian suspected she had other lovers."

"She was planning a supposed vacation, right?" she had so many photos of beaches on her walls. Ripped from magazines and travel brochures. Pink sunsets and white sand. Even Dmitri knew she loved the seaside. "With a boyfriend? Didn't Britney say that?"

Tapping his foot, Greg flipped through his notebook pages again. That sweet, delightful, sexy mmmm purred in his chest again. "A grand vacation. More like an escape plan. She was going to jet off with some mystery lover, but she had a change of heart, according to her friend. Plus, the night Julian went to her apartment, a neighbor heard screaming and—"

"The glass breaking? And the blood. Lily looked—" dead "—worse for wear in my parlor that night."

"Probably because she and her werewolf lover were having a row over the Dmitri scam. The fight turned violent, one of them gets hurt, cut on the broken glass perhaps? Cabroni would've been mighty sore at her—"

"Oh, oh! Because Lily changed her mind! Like Britney said! Despite Sloane's warning about Count Crypt Keeper's other lovers, she was starting to believe his batshit!"

She was so scared. And tired. And desperate. She didn't care how much it cost. She just needed, begged for me to help her talk to someone.

While I vibrated with excitement, Greg'd gone worryingly still. Those usual fidgets and nervous ticks retreated. His body quieted that energy, bound it up tight in his muscles, readying for the pounce. That lopsided razor-sharp grin widened, eyes alit with cold satisfaction. "She stole the fingerbone for you. She accepted Julian's bribe money for you. Because Sloane advised her to find a way to verify Rosemond's ghost was still on this plane and hiring you for a séance was how she planned to do it."

Last night, Kyle had Rocky-punched Greg as if he was meat on a hook. Beaten the vamp beyond the limits of his own ability to heal. The back of his damned skull had crumbled like a Bundt cake stuck to the pan. Shredding open his girlfriend's torso cause he got mad at her for feeling bad about not wanting to rip off a Loony Toons vampire tracked.

I swallowed at the thought of what his wife must've endured before hiring Greg. And after.

"Seems these two kissed and made up, though. How much, you want to bet, Dmitri has a ransom note waiting for him at home from his sugar baby and her werewolf boyfriend for his precious Rosemond's remains, huh?"

The idea of Lily and Kyle reconciling after he murdered her felt farfetched to me. But Greg didn't know that bit of the story, now did he?

"Where would they even be hiding a severely decomposed skeleton?"

"Julian said he once drove Lily out to Gray's Ferry," said Greg.

"Gray's Ferry? What—How're you remembering all this?"

He tapped his notebook.

"Okay but when did you have time to write all—what are you doing?"

Greg had already whipped out his phone. He typed and scrolled furiously, those fingers moving at vampire speed. "A real estate scandal? You dummy. She was right under my fangs this whole damn time," he muttered, ignoring my question. Oh, this was aggravating. I was supposed to be the distraction he couldn't keep his eyes off.

I creeped around his shoulder to see what he was peeping at.

He tapped the phone, "is this Lily?"

Greg held his phone for me to see over his shoulder. The video he queued up was grainy and dark. It was difficult to make out anything beyond shapes. A house. A big, bald guy with a gym bag. A small woman opened the door and welcomed him in with open arms.

"I don't know. It's dark."

"But could it be her?"

Greg replayed the video. She was thin. So much so it looked like the wind would knock her right over. Her hair appeared to be dark, and it was definitely curly. She seemed to sport a shag cut. If I tugged on his wrist to pull the phone closer and squinted, maybe I could make out the missing acrylic nails on Lily's fingers.

My stomach knotted. That was—yeah—that could be her. He found her. But... she went back to Kyle? After he tore her open like that? I peeked around the phone at Greg's fangs protruding over his bottom lip, that predatory instinct settling over him, tightening his shoulders, putting that sharp look in his eye.

I guess good dick leads to bad decisions.

"Why do you care now?"

"I'm not asking this for Dmitri or myself, I'm asking this for you." Greg stared down at me with those big blues, frowning. "Do you want to find this gal or not? Now or never, here's your chance. Your case closed."

"And we never have to see each other again, right?" I snorted. "For all the trouble I've caused you, losing clients, getting you beat to heck."

Please don't agree with me. Please don't agree with me.

"You mean for lying to me and very obviously seducing me into accompanying you to check on your cat and pry me for whatever more information I know about your criminal record while drinking my coffee?"

My blush stretched out from my cheeks to tingle my neck and ears. "Was I that easy to read?"

"Like a vampire drinking iced coffee in January. And it worked spectacularly."

Greg crunched on his straw as he took a long sip from his drink, draining half the cup in a single gulp, eyes studying me intently as he did. Goosebumps broke out across my chest and I pulled my coat tighter.

After several long scrutinizing seconds, Greg solemnly spoke.

"I want to close your case because whatever this is," he gestured between us with his cup. A slight pressure tugged at my neck as he did. I reached up to scratch it, noticing nothing else against my neck but the Band-Aid. Except for moment, I caught a glimmer of a red. I mean, maybe I was imagining it, but it seemed to glisten like a string from my bite to Greg's mouth, "I can't close it."

His voice broke on a flicker of hope. It fluttered in my entrails like an angry moth. Yeah, yeah, I got it. I understood. The boy wanted me. Bad enough to break his damned professionalism rules. Which was fantastic, wasn't it? Because I wanted him too. So, so badly. But it hurt like heck to feel the words to describe this desirous agony clawing their way up my inflamed throat because—

"Just tell me," Greg said softly. "Why her?"

Because these kind of declarations always came with a but.

I clutched my coffee tight. Witch's titties, why did he have to have eyes that sparkled like a stormy sea when they were wide and vulnerable and pleading like that? My will puddled at his feet when he looked at me like that and he wasn't even forcing me to answer. He could. He could melt my brain to goo and comb through the mess of mind as easily as running his fingers through my hair. But he didn't. Wouldn't. What a gentleman.

"I put her in trouble... I... she's a Tourist, if she gets picked up by the Magistrate..." an oily, wicked sensation pooled in my belly. Don't tell him. "She'd be in trouble."

"Darling, if this is about the license, we can pretend that never happened, alright? Don't give me that face, you don't think I don't know how to make a good cover up? I was bootlegger for Dmitri, remember? Hey, it'll be okay." He thumbed my cheek, finger a relieving cool against my flushed skin. "We'll fix this. If the Magistrate is on her tail, don't fuss, it's not like you revealed magic to her. Without any donor consent forms, Dmitri and Sloane will be on the hook for that. She may've seen a ghost in your office but it's not like you put a curse on her."

Didn't I, though? Is to be a resurrected really any better than a curse, when I already knew the consequences? A curse I planned to remove from her. The heat of shame burned and prickled my eyes and nose.

"It's personal, okay. Can you just respect that?"

Greg sighed. His shoulders sagged. He seemed like a sad balloon for a moment, after somebody had let all the air out of him.

Hating that pitying, judging, angry, shocked, disappointed stare, I grabbed his phone. Pressed the screen nearly up to my nose.

"Yes. I think that's her."

"Okay," he nodded a fraction, gently taking back his phone and returning his focus to this puzzle he needed to solve. "Okay, we'll have to formulate a plan to confront her."

"Where did you record that?"

"Cabroni's mother's house. We won't rope Dmitri into this, but if you need a discreet conversation, and I mean discreet, Isla, we'll come up with some—Isla, where are you going?"

I had shimmied away from the little table we stood over (and were ignoring Mason's glower from) and pressed myself against the café window. Damn. The sky was cloudy. "Is it a full moon tonight?"

Greg checked his phone and groaned. "Yes."

"Perfect. Now's our opportunity."

Not like I could wait for a more discreet window anyway. I was on thin ice with Nazira. I needed to bury this, bury Lily, like, yesterday.

"Are you mad woman? You want to go to a werewolf's home during a full moon? The famously worst time to meet a werewolf," Greg, without looking, flicked his wrist and managed to toss his empty drink cup into the trash several feet behind him. "Not just any werewolf, but this wolf. Do you have a death wish?"

"Hear me out!" I took a long, deep sip of my still piping hot coffee and I swear I witnessed Greg nearly have an eyeball imploding stroke over my mouth's detour. Smacked my lips when I swallowed. "Now's the best time! What kind of idiot allows themselves to get caught shifting in their mother's house? She's human. Kyle's got the scars from where he was scratched to be turned, I've seen them. He won't be home. Denise has everyone run out in the Wissahickon. Like, wolfpack mafia team building exercises or some shit."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "Are you certain about that?"

I shrugged. "One way to find out."

Speak Philadelphian: Wissahickon [Wiss-uh-hick-ken] Valley Park – Many a creature roam in this 2,042-acre wildlife park. On full moon nights, it's the werewolves' howls that echo through the woods. Spring mornings are when fae bath in the Devil's Pool. Trolls camp beneath the bridge trails in winter while the druids celebrate their harvest rituals amongst the Autumn leaves. Summer afternoons are generally reserved for mortal's dogs, however, barking their way up the hiking trails. Good doggos.