Val snorted as the men exchanged glances and hung their heads.

One cop turned away from the group, shaking his head—a stout man with a salt-and-pepper mustache as meticulous as the knot in his tie. He strode to the cruiser that held Val and opened the back door.

“Miss Stonehold, isn’t it?” the cop asked. “I’ve seen you on the news.”

“I go by Val,” she told him.

The cop tilted his head. “Are you going to press charges against those bozos?”

“Why should I?” Val grinned. “Do you see a mark on me?”

The cop chuckled. The name beneath his badge read HARRIS. “Nope.”

“No charges,” Val reassured him. “I’d like to go home and sleep off my drinks if I’m allowed, Officer.”

“You are. None of your, uh, opponents are pressing charges either.” The cop snickered. “When they realized they’d have to stand up in front of a jury and explain that a girl kicked all six of their asses, they lost interest in prosecution.”

Val grinned. “So, I’m free to go?”

“It means you’re being let off with a warning.” Officer Harris stepped back. “Watch your head.”

Val shuffled out of the cruiser, and the officer released the cuffs, then returned them to his belt. Val rubbed her wrists to keep up the pretense. “My dagger, sir?”

“Yes, yes.” The officer retrieved it from a lockbox in the back of the cruiser and handed it to her. She’d had the presence of mind to magically shrink the blade to four inches before they got the cuffs on her. “Interesting weapon for a famous jewelry maker.”

“I’m a bodyguard too, sir.” Val buckled the dagger’s belt around her waist and tugged her tank over it.

“So I’ve seen on TV.” Officer Harris tilted his head. “Hey, can I have your autograph?”

“My...” Val raised her eyebrows.

“Your autograph.” The cop blushed. “My daughter’s a huge fan.”

Val shrugged. “Sure.”

The cop produced a black notebook and a cheap pen, and Val scrawled her signature on the page.

“Thanks. She’s going to love this.” Officer Harris tucked the notebook into his pocket. “I have to say, I’ve never seen a bar fight like this one. You know you’re a gifted fighter, right?”

Val shrugged. “I wasn’t popular growing up. I had to be.”

Officer Harris chuckled. “All I’m saying is I’d pay good money to see you in a cage match.”

Cage match? Val wondered. She nodded like she knew what he meant.

“You have a nice night, Miss Stonehold.” Officer Harris grinned. “Thanks for the autograph. You’re not driving home, are you?”

“No, sir. I have a driver,” Val told him. It was true.

“Good. Be safe, and don’t pick any more fights,” Officer Harris warned.

Val nodded. She strode down the street with a last smirk at the six guys, who cringed.

Officer Harris needn’t have worried. Three human-made drinks had barely gotten Val buzzed, and she’d sobered up during the few minutes she’d spent in the back of the cop car.

She drove Genevieve toward home, her hands automatic on the wheel and gearshift these days.

“Cage match, huh?” she muttered.

She’d Googled the term before she backed out of the parking space by the nightclub, and the idea fascinated her. She hadn’t known that humans had the chops to fight each other in mixed martial arts battles that didn’t play by rules as strict as in other sports.

It seemed like a legal way to beat the crap out of somebody. Val grinned at the thought.

The amulet throbbed. Warmth pulsed through the metal, and the red glow of its eyes reflected from the galloping horse emblem on the steering wheel.

Val frowned and touched the amulet. “What the⁠—”

Loud purrs rose from the passenger side.

Val groaned and thumped her head back against the headrest. “What do you want?”

A hairless cat lay on Genevieve’s passenger seat, curled into a ball. Her paws were neatly tucked beneath her naked chest. She purred ecstatically and blinked huge amber eyes at Val instead of responding.

“I’m really sick of you. Do you know that?” Val growled. “You always pop up at the worst possible moment.”

“I’m your mystical guide,” Cleo the Sphynx reminded her. “I do what I want.”

“Yeah, about that,” Val snapped. “If you’re my guide, where in Merlin’s name were you when I got my ass magically bound to a faerie who hates my guts? That seems like the kind of thing you should have been there to guide me away from.”

Cleo’s purr became a chuckle. “That was very amusing.”

“I’m getting a spray bottle,” Val threatened. “I’m a dog person.”

Cleo yawned, exposing every tooth. “Empty threats.”

“Not as empty as your weird-ass promises!” Val raged.

“Eyes on the road,” Cleo murmured.

Val huffed between her teeth and turned her attention to the quiet suburban street she was currently traversing. The brownstones’ smooth curves were close to the asphalt here. Wrought-iron railings bordered tiny strips of grass that struggled from the lack of sun.

“Can I ask you a question?” Val demanded.

Cleo removed a paw from under her chest and licked it. “Sure.”

“Sir Bedivere said that much Iron Dwarven magic was lost during the Second Pendragon War.” Val bit her lip. “Is that true?”