Oddly enough, I knew the feeling. I experienced it anew every time I found myself in a ghost story, or fighting vampires, or dealing with any other nefarious creature I knew in my head didn’t exist. Unfortunately, the head and the heart aren’t always in alignment, and being chased by a bloodthirsty clown or a feral werewolf is the sort of thing to make your brain forget that it’s just a man in a costume.

  A heavy silence settled on us, weighing deep in our chests as we made our way up north along the interstate.

  A coastal town located along the peninsula, Winthrop had a rich history dating back to its founding in the early 1600s. They like to boast that they were privy to all the benefits of Boston while still maintaining that small town feel. We exited near the airport and Tobin directed me into a residential neighborhood two blocks from the golf club. He motioned for me to pull over near the end of the street, and I killed the engine before we exited the car.

  “Where’s Milo?”

  “In there.” He motioned across the street to a cute yellow house with a courtyard entrance and, I kid you not, an actual white picket fence.

  “Friends of yours live here?” I asked.

  Tobin hesitated, a slow blush rising in his cheeks. “Not exactly. We cut their grass. It’s how we knew they were out of town. Italy, I think. Or maybe Greece.”

  Something unpleasant stirred within me. “So you broke into their house?”

  “Not the main house,” Tobin said, a little too quickly. “It’s just around back. We didn’t have any other choice.”

  “That’s what you keep saying.”

  “You’ll understand once you see him.”

  “See who? Milo?”

  He nodded.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s sick. Or hurt. I don’t know, exactly. It’s bad. I think…” He drew in a breath, and then spit it out in a rush, as if anxious to get the words away from him. “I think he might be dying.”

  Afflicted. Thursday, August 6th 0830hrs.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, holding up my hands. “You’re just telling me this now? Try leading with that next time.”

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant Mayfield. I was afraid that if I told you back at the apartments, you would call it in. It isn’t a normal sickness. He’s afflicted. You need to see it in order to understand.”

  I drew in a quick breath and exhaled through my nose. I hate being lied to as much as the next girl, but there was something in Tobin’s body language that made me pause to consider. He looked scared, tired, and anxious. Strung out too. Probably hadn’t found time yet to digest what was happening to him. The way I saw it, I could use his deceit as an excuse to walk away, but I’d be leaving behind two people who clearly needed my help. And at the end of the day, helping people is what law enforcement is all about.

  “Okay,” I said. “Show me.”

  Tobin turned and led me across the street, drawing up beside the white picket fence to unlatch the gate, and then pausing to close it behind me. We rounded the corner of the house and made our way into the backyard where a storage shed shaped to resemble a miniature barn with green walls and pale white trim sat. Tobin headed that way, and I followed two steps behind, keeping a casual watch at the neighboring houses.

  At the door, Tobin knocked three times, then two more. There was no response, and after a moment he slid the lock back and drew the door open just enough for the two of us to squeeze through.

  I’d expected lawn equipment and gardening supplies. What I found instead was a converted exercise gym. There was a squat rack loaded with barbell plates. Some dumbbells, heavy medicine balls, and a rack containing various jump ropes and multi-colored resistance bands. They’d lined the floor with artificial grass matts and hung flags along the plywood walls.

  Milo Greenhill was curled into a small ball beside a well-used Stairmaster. His head was resting on a roll of leftover grass turf, and he was dressed in his gardener’s outfit with a brown hooded sweatshirt draped over him like a makeshift blanket.

  Tobin hadn’t been lying.

  He was sick.

  Or better said, deathly ill.

  The air around him smelled of sour sweat, and the color was gone from his face, fading to a dull gray lined with yellow splotches. His mouth was cracked and bleeding at the corners, and although his eyes were open, whatever he was staring at, it wasn’t me.

  “Oh, Milo,” Tobin said, and dropped beside him. He’d left a stainless-steel water bottle behind, but it looked to be untouched, and he took it in hand, bringing the edge up to Milo’s lips and forcing him to take small, choking sips. “Easy now. Just rest easy. It’s going to be alright.”

  The sight of Milo hit me like a gut punch, but as the moments passed, my anger started to rise. “This isn’t something I can handle by myself. You should have known that. Why did you bring me here, Tobin?”

  “He wasn’t this bad when I left,” Tobin said. “One of the wraiths got ahold of him, before I could get between them. I’ve got no head for medicine, and I didn’t see any other option.”

  I shook my head and drew my phone from my pocket. “He needs to go to a hospital.”

  “You can’t,” he said. “If you do, those wraiths will hear about it, and they’ll come back. Who knows how many people they’ll hurt when they do? Milo wouldn’t want that.”

  I’d started dialing, but my fingers stopped just short of the last number. Tobin’s words made me hesitate. Not because I thought he was wrong, but because I feared he might be right. If the wraiths were willing to attack an apartment complex, they probably wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to a hospital. I didn’t want to contemplate the amount of damage four men with swords could do if they set their minds to it. I’d already experienced something similar a few months back when the Headless Horseman had attacked the morgue, and I was in no hurry to relive that.

  But if not the hospital, where?

  Milo needed medical attention, and not some fly by night, walk-in clinic. He needed the real deal, and skilled physicians don’t come cheap. My first thought was to take him to see Mickey Carter, a medical examiner who worked downtown. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say for certain if he would help me. Ours was less a friendship and more a pact of mutual disdain revolving around blackmail and owed favors. Last I checked, the scorecard was in his favor, which meant I would have to offer up something if I wanted his assistance. I didn’t have much money, or anything else I could think of that he might want. Nothing I’d be willing to give at any rate, although I didn’t think it would come to that. Not anymore. Mickey wasn’t a moral man, but he had a wife and baby to look out for now, and I didn’t think he’d be willing to risk his livelihood just because I asked. Not without some serious convincing, and I feared that Milo would expire by the time I brought him around.

  Tobin felt my gaze, and his eyes slowly rose, seeing the truth reflecting back at him. “Please, Sergeant, I’m begging you. Don’t let my friend die. Not when it’s within your power to save him.”

  Darn it. As I stood there, it occurred to me that there was one other person I could call. But I couldn’t be sure they would even answer, let alone offer to help. As the saying goes though, you’ll never know unless you try.

  “Wait here.” I stepped out of the shed, closed the door, and walked half a dozen paces across the yard. I didn’t need to hunt for the number. I’d forced myself to memorize it shortly after I received it. All while recovering from almost being turned into Swiss cheese by a homicidal drone.

  I dialed and hit Send. It rang twice before a woman picked up. She spoke with a prim, proper voice that sounded well-rehearsed. “Operator. How may I direct your call?”

  “It’s Sergeant Chloe Mayfield,” I said. “I need to talk to him.”

  “Please hold.”

  The call dropped into oblivion and stayed there for fifteen minutes. Twice, I thought about hanging up, but the knowledge that I didn’t have any other options kept me hanging on the line. Eventually, I heard someone pick up the phone, and a second later the smooth, cultured voice of the Mayor of Boston said, “Good morning, Sergeant Mayfield. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  What he really meant was, what ridiculous situation have you gotten yourself into that has deteriorated to the point where it might affect the city proper?

  “I need a favor.”

  He made a low hmm sound. “What sort of favor?”

  “Big one.”

  “Should I sit down?”

  “Might not be a bad idea.”

  I could see Mayor Altair through the phone. Not literally, but in my mind’s eye. Dark hair with a strong jawline, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. That steely, determined look that had come in handy when he’d led the charge, literally using the American flag as a spear, against the Acadians and Daughters of Goody a few months prior.

  He’d gained the public’s goodwill after that one, a rare feat in a city like Boston, where the winds of political favor blew fast and were notoriously unforgiving. It was no accident that so many of his predecessors had mob ties and criminal associations. The climb to power in Boston was a slippery slope, and few who managed to reach the peak stayed there for long.

  At least until now, anyway.

  Mayor Altair had so far proven adept at turning calamity to his advantage, and while he didn’t necessarily like me, he also didn’t dislike me. At least not any more than I deserved. Blue Moon had earned some credit in his eyes, but we didn’t have enough political sway in the city where he could risk openly naming us as an ally. To his mind, I was a pawn, versatile enough to take down a king, as I’d proven with his immediate predecessor, but easily sacrificed in pursuit of the greater gain.

  “Alright. I’m listening.”

  I drew in a breath. Here goes nothing. “I need a safe house. And a doctor.”

  “Are you wounded, Sergeant?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not for me.”

  “Then who is it for?”

  I hesitated, but for only a moment. “I can’t say.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can’t tell you who it’s for. It’s complicated.”

  “I see.”

  “Nothing personal.”

  “I understand. Secrecy can often be an unpleasant necessity. Am I correct in assuming this request comes in regard to an official case?”

  “It does.”

  “And that there is a plausible reason why you cannot take the injured party to a hospital?”

  “There is, but I can’t talk about that either.”

  “Of course. Unfortunately, given those restraints, I must regretfully decline your request.”

  I blinked. “Wait, huh?”

  “Did you need me to repeat myself, Sergeant?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just… hold on a minute. You owe me.”

  “Indeed I do, and were you wounded and in need of assistance, I would certainly reconsider. But your cases are, to put it delicately, messy affairs. Safe houses are expensive, and once used, they hold no further value. I’ll not throw one away for the sake of your convenience.”

  “Convenience?” I said, my voice rising. “A man’s life is at risk, and you want to talk to me about—”

  “Was there anything else, Sergeant?”

  I bit off my words, forcing my anger into the back of my throat and then swallowing it down. It was a miracle I didn’t choke, but a moment later I was back under control. “Just the doctor then.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, Mister Mayor. I know you keep one on retainer. It won’t kill you to lend him out to me for a couple of hours.” I winced even as the words left my mouth, but there was no pulling them back.

  “On the contrary, depriving one of medical attention prior to an assassination attempt strikes me as just the sort of thing a clever enemy might do.”

  “Did I miss the part where we became enemies?”

  “Perhaps the winds of favor have changed for you.”

  “Even if they had, we both know none of your enemies would stoop to working with me.”

  “That is a good point.”

  “I did you a solid one not too long ago. Now I need you to return the favor. Please.”

  I forced the last word out through gritted teeth, and Mayor Altair was quiet for a long moment before he said, “Where should I direct him?”

  I considered a list of possibilities but there was only one that made sense. “My apartment. You need the address?”

  “No,” he said, which didn’t surprise me. “And the patient?”

  “I already told you. I can’t give you his name.”

  “Vitals, so that the doctor may prepare.”

  “Oh. Caucasian male, early twenties. Figure a hundred and forty pounds, give or take.”

  “Chief complaint?”

  I shook my head. “Heck if I know. He’s… afflicted.”

  “What?”

  “Just tell him to bring a little of everything. We’re on our way there now.”

  “Very well, Sergeant. The doctor should arrive within forty minutes.”

  I grunted. Forty minutes was faster than I’d dared to hope. Well within the golden hour that most hospitals ascribe to. It was kind of impressive. Having a physician on standby wasn’t cheap. Evidently, Mayor Altair was taking things a bit more seriously these days. Course, given everything that had happened in the city this past year, it wasn’t hard to see why.

  I hung up and slipped my phone back into my pocket. Then I turned and began making my way across the yard. Halfway to the little shed, the hair along the back of my neck suddenly prickled, and the tips of my fingers began tingling. I felt my heartbeat quicken in my chest, and I turned, trying to appear casual as I rested one hand on my pistol while scanning the area behind me.

  I wasn’t looking for a person. My instincts were more refined than that. This was different. I was being watched, and whoever was doing the watching clearly didn’t care to be seen. So instead of looking for them directly, I scanned the horizon, seeking out small changes. Shifting bushes or tilting shadows. Any trace that caught my eye.

  I kept moving backward toward the little shed, and a couple of seconds later I spotted something from across the street. A thick hedge bush with a view between the houses moved in a way that didn’t quite align with the coastal breeze. My back hit the shed door, and I narrowed my eyes, noting how the shadows shifted near the hedge bush’s base. I couldn’t see whoever was crouched down, but the way the branches shifted told me they were inside the bush, rather than behind it. The only reason someone might want to do that was if they needed a clear view. Either to snap a picture, or else…

  My eyes widened, and I jerked down just as the shooter opened fire.

  If I’d had long hair, the crossbow bolt would have taken a chunk off the side. Instead, it passed by my head with an angry hiss, casting a brief flash of the green feathers adorning its rear before impacting into the shed door with a sickening thump. It buried itself half the length of its body into the wood, the angry arrowhead piercing out through the opposite side. Dimly, my brain measured it at around eight inches. A compact bolt then. Not enough to bring down large hunting game, but plenty big enough to rip one petite police sergeant apart if she got caught out in the open.

  Which I was.

  The Shooter. Thursday, August 6th 0835hrs.

  “Tobin!”

  The scream ripped up past my throat as I jerked open the shed door. Tobin was still kneeling beside Milo. His head snapped up, eyes widening as I threw myself inside and slammed the door closed behind me. No sooner did the lock click then a second crossbow bolt struck the door, punching three inches beyond the wood. I squawked and stumbled backward, dropping to one knee beside the two gardeners before yanking my gun from the holster and pointing it toward the doorway.

  “What’s happening?” Tobin asked, wrapping his arms protectively around Milo’s form. “Is it the wraiths?”

  “How the heck should I know?” I snapped, never turning my head.

  Kneeling there, my cop brain started doing some math, and a couple of things stood out to me. Our shooter, whoever it was, had seen me go inside the shed. Presumably, they knew there was only one door. They also knew I was armed, which meant they weren’t going to risk following me through the doorway. They’d need another avenue of attack. I asked myself, if I were in their position, what would I do?

  The simplest option would be to wait us out, but that was no good. I hadn’t called for backup yet, but the shooter didn’t know that. It might take a couple of minutes for help to arrive, but there was no reason why we couldn’t stay put until then.

  Problem was, I couldn’t actually call for help. I mean, I could, my phone was still in my pocket, but once the police arrived, you could bet our shooter would high-tail it out of here. There would be reports, and nothing I could say would prevent the officers in charge from having Milo transported to the nearest hospital.

  Where the wraiths would, presumably, find and kill him.

  I could warn them, tell them he was being hunted, maybe even convince them to assign a security detail, but how much did I trust them to actually keep him safe? Especially if the wraiths came in numbers.

  The answer was, depressingly, not much.

  I couldn’t call for help, but my shooter didn’t know that. Assuming he, or she, was still intent on our demise, what was their best next option?

  They could burn us out. Set the shed on fire and we’d either suffocate or be forced out into the open where they could pick us off. Problem with that was there would be no way to avoid collateral damage.

  Our shooter was using a crossbow because it was a relatively quiet means of dispatching us. Meaning they didn’t want to draw attention to our demise. A fire wasn’t going to stay quiet. Not in this neighborhood. Assuming that option was off the table, what was left?