Page 8 of Shades of Silver City

Unlike the Scouts, the blonde bartender did not adhere to my commands, which only adds to my intrigue. She can see the Reaper, and she’s unaffected by glamour.

I picture her in my mind: dark eyeliner, septum nose piercing, and a pile of white-blonde hair on her head.

“If it isn’t the elusive Phantom!” a much-too-jovial voice calls out.

Turning around, I spot Zeke entering the alley. He stops beside the body, his overgrown green mohawk flopping to the side, a few strands falling into his left eye. He blows them away, his bracelets jingling as he bends down and reaches for the girl’s wrist to check for a nonexistent pulse. His neon-green nails and warm skin tone contrast with the girl’s pale flesh.

“Hello, Zeke,” I say.

Godric grunts. “She’s gone.”

“Aye, Ricky,” Zeke says as he stands and wipes his hands on his skinny jeans. “Nice to see you as always, you cheery bastard.”

“Fuck yourself with that nickname,” Godric mutters. Scowling, he crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest. “Stop wasting time and get your crew. You wouldn’t be here if she had a pulse.”

“Or would she still have a pulse if you weren’t here?” Zeke raises a brow, then whistles, summoning two guys with a gurney a second later.

“Imply shit like that again, and I’ll rip your nuts off, you son of a—”

“Quiet,” I say. There’s no glamour infused in my command. Not that it would affect Godric anyway, but both men shut their mouths. The lower-level Nightcrawlers ignore us and swiftly remove the girl's body from the alley. “We’ve been having some serious issues lately.”

“Don’t we always?” Zeke asks, pulling a joint out and lighting it up. He takes a puff and holds it out to Godric. “Want?”

Godric smacks Zeke's hand away, causing the joint to fall to the ground. “I’m working, asshole.”

“And?” Zeke remains unfazed as he picks up his joint, making sure it's still lit, and takes another drag without bothering to remove the dirt. He casually leans on the brick wall.

Used to their antics, I cut to business. “Rush the results. Slash the wait time in half, and I’ll double the pay.”

Zeke salutes, his joint hanging crookedly from his lips. “Got it, boss.”

As I straighten my jacket, I spot a long strand of white-blonde hair sticking to the leather. A spark of intrigue flickers inside me.

I pluck the hair off and stride over to Zeke, holding it out. “Bag it. Run it. Deliver the results. Quietly.”

He takes another drag from his joint, coughing into his fist before pulling a small, empty bag out of his back pocket. He opens it, and I slide the strand of hair inside.

He raises a brow but says nothing. For all his faults, Zeke’s one of us. A Nightcrawler. As a medical examiner, he’s severely underutilized by the city. They pay him to clean up bodies and send them through the incinerator. Gods know there’s never a shortage of work for him, but we pay him a healthy salary for his loyalty. His grasp of anatomy, access to pathology center resources, and authorization to utilize the incinerator are invaluable.

Plus, he enjoys the opportunity to showcase his education and expertise.

Zeke flicks the roach onto the ground, and I sigh, rubbing the scruff on my chin.

“Pick that shit up, you green-haired twat!” Godric calls from behind me.

“As if it makes a difference,” Zeke mumbles. But he obliges, picking up his litter. “Look at this shithole.” He waves a hand toward a mountain of trash piled high against the brick wall beside us. He kicks it, and a rat scampers out, drunkenly searching for new cover.

“Be part of the solution, not the problem,” I tell him.

He rolls his eyes, muttering something about no one giving a shit as he strides out of the alley, likely headed to wherever he parked his city van on the street.

Godric scoffs in disbelief. “Piece of work, that guy.”

“He’s good at his job. Reliable.”

“Still.”

“He’s as good as it gets,” I say.

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