“Anvil Brewery has grown enough that it poses serious competition to other breweries supplying beer to bars in Brooklyn,” Blair explained. “Our beer’s good, but it’s also cheap. Thanks to our magic, we can produce high-quality craft beer at a much lower cost than human-owned companies.”

“Like BrewCorp,” Yuka muttered.

Raven raised her eyebrows. “’BrewCorp?’”

“It’s a large beer company that sell ‘craft beers,’ although the ‘craft’ part is debatable.” Blair grimaced. “It’s mass-produced stuff. Nothing like ours.”

“Marketed as craft beer, though,” Yuka muttered.

“Anyway, they supply many bars in Brooklyn, including the Iron Fist before you switched to us.” Blair sighed. “We’re hurting their business, that is for sure, and they don’t like it.”

“What threats have you received?” Raven asked.

Yuka touched the scar on her forehead.

“Nothing...definitive,” Blair admitted. “We’ve run into the CEO at conferences and events. He always says stuff like, ‘You’re messing with the wrong company’ and ‘You’ll be sorry you’re stealing our customers.’ I thought he was just being an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he’s a bigger asshole than we thought,” Yuka murmured.

“Does he drive a silver Lexus ES?” Val asked.

Blair ran a hand over his beard. “I’ve seen him in many different cars. Maybe.”

“Did any of you see him throw the brick through the window?” Raven asked.

Val shook her head.

“None of us,” Blair confirmed.

“Then human law might not prosecute him. I’m not familiar with it, but this sounds like an NYPD matter. We’ll run the plate and see what we can find out, but Eternity Law doesn’t allow us to go after humans in any but the most extreme circumstances,” Raven explained. “Either way, I suggest you take those threats seriously.”

“Yeah.” Val crossed her arms. “Start by hiring me.”

Yuka and Blair glanced at each other.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Blair hung his head. “I should have listened to you. I should have kept you safe,” he added, his voice cracking.

“Hey, man, it’s not your fault.” Val lowered a hand to his shoulder. “You would never have put Yuka in harm’s way. You didn’t know.”

“I need help to keep her safe.” Blair raised frightened blue eyes to Val’s.

“To keep both of us safe,” Yuka stressed.

“Don’t worry, guys.” Val smiled. “I got you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Val stretched as far as Genevieve’s driver’s side footwell would allow. Her stiff joints protested as she glanced at the clock on the dash. 16:48. She’d been sitting outside Anvil Brewery for nearly nine hours.

She stifled a yawn and scanned the street for the thousandth time. It was tight and narrow, with factories and warehouses crowding the thin strip of asphalt and graffiti splashed on the walls. Apart from the litter and the odd car or truck rumbling by, the street had been empty all day, and none of the vehicles that passed were familiar. Val and Genevieve had been parked in the brewery’s loading bay all day.

Val rubbed her tired eyes, then focused on the street again. This day had been the same as the past three—dead boring. In the bodyguard business, boring was good. She tried to ignore the tension in her cramped muscles.

An engine’s rumble caught her attention. She stared intently into the rearview mirror, a hand straying toward her dagger. A car purred down the street, but it was not a silver Lexus. A red hatchback puttered past, its single occupant squinting at the phone in the windshield bracket like he was trying to figure out where his GPS had taken him this time.

Val tilted her head. “Red hatchback,” she muttered. “Where have we seen that before, Gennie?”

Genevieve’s gear lever moved into reverse and pointed north at the Iron Fist.

Val gritted her teeth. “That’s right. There was one on Williamsburg Bridge Road the night of the attack.” She watched the hatchback as it bumped toward the end of the street. “But was it the same one?”

She remembered Genevieve veering around a red hatchback as they pursued the Lexus a few nights ago, but they’d been going too fast for her to discern the make, model, or license number.

“Think we should go after it?” Val wondered.

Genevieve started her engine.

“Whoa, girlfriend. Calm your exhaust pipe.” Val laid a hand on the keys and turned off the ignition. “I’m not leaving Blair and Yuka. We’ll keep an eye out for it.”

Genevieve’s engine grumbled into silence.

“I know, girl. I know,” Val muttered.

The warehouse door behind Genevieve rose with a mechanical whine. Blair strolled outside and warily scanned the street, hands in his pockets. His Anvil Brewery golf shirt was streaked with stains.

Val rolled down the window. “Coast’s clear, Blair. You guys ready to go home?”

Blair nodded. “No deliveries tonight.”

“Cool.” Val started Genevieve. “I’ll follow you.”

“Anything suspicious?” Blair asked, shoulders tense.

Val shook her head. “Not a thing, but I’ll be right behind you on the drive home. Don’t worry.”

Blair sighed. “If only it were that easy.” He paused. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say you’re not good at your job.”

“I hear you.” Val gave a sympathetic smile. “I’ve got the number of a great therapist if you need it.”

Blair sighed. “We very well might.” He turned around and headed back into the factory, shoulders slumped.

Val followed Blair and Yuka to their elegant old brownstone house in Bed-Stuy. She ensured that the house was clear and the doors were locked, then waved goodbye to the couple and slid into the driver’s seat.

Genevieve revved her engine.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Val agreed. “We do need to blow off steam.” She checked her GPS. “There’s a nightclub six minutes from here. Think you can make it in four?”

Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, Genevieve skidded sideways into a miraculous parking space half a block from the nightclub. The engine hummed with contentment as she squeezed into the spot.