Page 3 of The Accidental Detectives

I made a face at her. “I’m betting my fangs even Mr. Rogers would cuss with you two knuckleheads for friends. You’d test the patience of Jesus himself. But okay. Let’s play by your stupid rules. Not swearing doesn’t change the fact that this is the single-most whacked effin’ thing you’ve cooked up to date. Except for the other most-whacked thing you effin’ cooked up in that scary little brain encased in your pretty blonde head.”

My BFF forever—and I do meanforeverbecause we’re immortal, which means I’m saddled with these yokels for eternity—made a return face at me, and then she gave me the middle finger.

She pushed her long, artfully dyed hair over her shoulder, letting the beachy waves (that’s what she calls them. I don’tknow thing one about hair that has a beach in it) fall down her back and rolled her eyes.

Pulling herself closer to her desk, she showed me her computer screen with her inbox, chock full of unopened emails from other paranormals who needed investigative help.

“Look at all these messages. This is not whacked, Nina. This is the natural progression of where OOPS was headed anyway, Mistress of the Dark. I mean, when we aid someone who’s been accidentally turned, and they need our help to find out who turned them, it’s essentially a mystery, right?”

To be fair—because I don’t have a choice, and my two friends force me to be fair—wehavesuccessfully helped many humans who’ve accidentally been turned into one paranormal thing or another.

That’s what Marty means by OOPS, by the way. We also run something called Out in the Open Paranormal Support. We started it because do-gooder Marty figured there were more people like us who’d had accidental run-ins with a paranormal.

Humans who’d been accidentally turned into all manner of supernatural things you wouldn’t believe if I showed you in pictures and a damn power point presentation. We’re three examples. I was turned when my now-husband came to have his teeth cleaned where I worked as a hygienist. As the laughing gas took over, and he relaxed, he clamped down on my hand.

Voila. Insta-vampire.

Anyway, Marty got the brilliant idea for OOPS years ago after a pint of Häagen-Dazs and who knows how many bottles of wine while she was painting her toenails or something that had to do with being a girl.

I think by now you can tell, Marty’s very girly. Makeup, hair, shoes, clothes. That’s how we met. Because I was desperate for extra cash and she sold Bobbie-Sue Cosmetics door to door—before she owned it, that is. Long story, but it’s why I, the fucking anti-girl, ended up being BFFs with her.

I could give a pickled shit if my shoes match my outfit, let alone a purse. I don’t evencarrya purse. I don’t care about hair or makeup. And shopping with her? Christ on a crutch, it’s like death by a million papercuts.

But Marty the Werewolf’s such a good saleswoman. Remember I said she now owns Bobbie-Sue? She wasn’t always the owner of the company. She was a door-to-door saleswoman at first.

I was desperate for cash when I answered her ad in a paper almost sixteen years ago, she talked my ass right into the whole kit and caboodle and had me going to cult-like Bobbie-Sue Cosmetic meetings before I knew what the hell the difference was between lip gloss and lip stain.

And thereisa difference, in case any novices are in the house.

We’ve long since left behind the door-to-door sales malarkey. We got married, had kids, and solved what feels like a million paranormal accidents with our group OOPS since we met way back in 2008.

Anyway, she’s right. There’s almost always a mystery surrounding who turned an unsuspecting human into a paranormal, and some bad guy who wants to hurt the newb paranormal.

When we take a case, we spend however many days, sometimes weeks with the unsuspecting human, teaching them how to live in a paranormal world while we figure out who the hell did ’em dirty so we can string ’em up by their clangers.

That’s my favorite part, because in our unlikely trio, I’m the one who chooses violence to root out the bad guy.

My two cohorts, however? They like to make everyone cookies and warm milk and coddle them while holding their hands and braiding each other’s hair.

So fine. Marty’s right. This bullshit detective nonsense was a natural progression, but—and that’s a big-ass but—I never wanted to be a part of OOPS any more than I now want to be a part of this nutball detective agency.

I definitely didn’t want to turn my castle dungeon into what we’re now calling the murder basement.

But Wanda, our trio’s hand-holder and resident sensitivity checker, gave me the speech about how we’re a package deal, and we do everything together, blah, blah, blah.

In other words, she plays on my sympathies and always wins.

But that’s not what hooked me when Marty suggested we start up this fucknut idea.

It was the part about catching a murderer and actually being able to choose violence without these two Karens (sorry, all you Karens. You’re aces unless you’re asking for the manager because your bread wasn’t soft enough) breathing down my neck with their morals.

I don’t hate a good smackdown, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I’m the muscle. The one who’s the first to put up her fists and pop anyone suss in the face, asking questions later.

Okay, there’s also the fact that I love them, and they’re as much family as blood, and if some shit went down and they got hurt, or worse, dead (which can happen, even if you’re immortal), I’d never forgive myself for not being there to protect them.

I’m not a hugger or into sappy sentimental words, but I am loyal AF. It’s how I show I care. Mess with one of my own and I’m gonna eat your face off, right down to the bone.

So, that brings us here, in my castle’s basement (yes, I own a castle. Don’t all vampires have castles?) turned “detective agency,” with a wannabe filmmaker, and my favorite standoffish, stiff-necked British dude named Tottington, whoneeded a job after the woman he’d cared for all her life was accidentally turned into a witch as our receptionist.

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