1
Friday Night
I wasn’t always the bad guy. I had a loving family once, all of whom I adored. My pulse raced as the grief tried to force its way out, as it usually did when I thought of the past.
The door of the sleek town car opened. Warm, wet air rushed in, caressing my cheeks and bringing my focus back to the present. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves—no time for a trip down memory lane tonight; I had a party to attend and goods to steal.
I took the driver’s offered hand as I stepped out of the back seat, slipping a few bills into the man’s palm. The trick was to leave just enough of a tip that the driver would be grateful, but not enough that I would be memorable.
Oh, who was I kidding? Any tip would be memorable. No one I knew even tipped these guys in cash anymore.
“Gracias,” I said, sending my white-blonde curls back over my shoulder as I straightened.
“De nada,” he murmured, his eyes widening.
I had entered the sedan’s backseat in day clothes and emerged in a dress and heels, ready for the party ahead of me. The gentleman of a driver respected my request not to look in the mirror while I changed. His stare now was either the radical outfit change or the fact the front of my haute couture dress dipped to my navel in a waterfall of gold fabric, showing off the curves of my breasts.
Desired effect achieved.
After pulling my rather simple red masquerade mask into place, I was off to the ball. Or extravagant party, in my case.
My shimmering gown whispered as I walked across the burnt orange honeycomb driveway toward the front door of the Mediterranean-style villa. I always shopped for clothes with jobs in mind, which meant the dress’s length and swishy fabric hid my thigh holsters with ease.
My looks were both a blessing and a curse. At times, I wanted to scream that I wasn’t just a pretty face. But other times, including this evening, my looks paid dividends. For example, the man collecting the invites was too busy ogling my boobs to notice my invitation was fake.
Lucky me, right? Not that I needed luck; one way or another, I would have found a way in. The man’s lecherous grin made me want to drop-kick him into next week, but no one ever expected someone who looked like me to have the secret life I did.
Or, rather, two secret lives.
I gave him a wink and a mysterious smile before heading inside. Miami wasn’t shy about flaunting its homes of the rich and famous. The prices reached into the upper multi-millions, some even closing in on nine figures. The one I entered now on Star Island was no exception. The plastic surgeon who lived here, one Mr. Albert Renauldo, lived life to the fullest and loved to show it off. His need for displaying his fortune and subsequent fame worked quite well for me.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t there for the party or to “ooh” and “ahh” over his pretty things, although I might have been alone in that. And I wasn’t there to get in the man’s good graces.
No, as it turned out, this was a heist. And not just any heist…
A supernatural one.
I’m Veronica Neill, Master Acquirer of the Fantastical. No joke, that’s what it says on my business card. Though, technically, I leave my real name off and just use the nickname “Falcon.” But no matter what you call me, the fact remains: I have a particular set of skills that make it easy to track down and acquire items with supernatural qualities that have fallen into the wrong hands.
I don’t judge people when it comes to my contracts, so I can’t say my clients’ hands were any better. In fact, I make it a point not to look too hard into the person behind the contract. But the pay is good, really good, and the jobs? So. Much. Fun. With a little hint of danger on the side.
Like tonight. Here I was at a Miami masquerade ball with all the city’s finest. Doctors, lawyers, singers, rappers, drug dealers—look, even a Saudi prince showed up. Name anyone with a lot of cash or a lot of supply, and they were here. Of course, there were also plenty of attendees with little to their name, hoping to score big tonight in one fashion or another.
As expected, I walked past the glass front doors, open to allow the night breeze to sweep through, and straight into opulence. Not like the place needed the breeze to cool it down—the air conditioning kept it at a comfortable enough temperature to keep guests from sweating too much in the endless Florida humidity.
The doors were open solely for show, another display of unfathomable wealth, and one reason I wouldn’t feel guilty in the slightest when I relieved him of the fantastical goods he had hidden away.
The main living space had been cleared of furniture to become a dance floor, with a live band set up on one side. Sweeping staircases on the other side took guests up to even more luxury and drew the eye to the hand-painted tiles of the vaulted ceiling. From where I stood, an artist had molded fancy pineapples or even corn cobs into the tiles.
I squinted and tilted my head to the side. Hard to tell since I wasn’t a botanist by any means, but smothered in gold whatever they were.
A crisply uniformed server approached me, balancing a tray of flutes as if it were nothing but air. “Champagne?”
I accepted the offered glass. “Thank you.”
As he swept away to fill the next set of empty hands, I brought the champagne to my lips and took a sip, the bubbles tickling my nose. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I had a little bit to drink before a job. Not enough to get drunk or even tipsy, just enough to calm my nerves and loosen up. No matter how many jobs I took, the thrill of excitement never ceased, but jittery nerves could interfere.
Opposite the front entry, two more glass doors stood open, creating a cross breeze that mixed with the chill of the air conditioning. Just past the outdoor entertainment area and private dock, the view of the waterways and lights of the city took my breath away, as it always did.
Eager to be free of the eye-watering scents of overdone colognes and excessive hair products, I made my way through the crowd and out the back doors. I would have plenty of time later to enjoy the party itself if I wanted, but for now, the salty air called to me like a lover’s scent.
The wind played a game of chase with my hair while I leaned against the railing, taking in the spectacular view. To my right stood the colossal condominium giants that made up Miami Beach. The fact those behemoths could resist hurricane-force winds and didn’t sink into the ocean continued to amaze me. A testament to man’s ingenuity. Little did they know that witches and warlocks helped keep those towers afloat.
The mainland stood to my left, just past another few islands and the MacArthur Causeway. Oh, and let’s not forget the Miami Yacht Club. I wouldn’t want to offend them. No, seriously, the supernatural Community members there were some of my best customers, both for stolen goods and a well-made latte or cafecito.
They never knew I did both jobs.
You see, when I wasn’t pulling all-nighters at glamorous parties, locating and reacquiring fantastical goods for the Community, I lived my best life as a barista. People always threw me “the look” when they found out about my day job, giving me the “Oh… that’s nice” phrase, as if they frowned upon my ability to make their fancy-ass drink du jour that cost more than a box of tampons. Maybe it was because I wasn’t a high school or college student anymore.