WE took the biggest SUV in SPI’s fleet. With the huge Russian werewolf as our driver, it wasn’t like we had a choice.
Yasha drove the Suburban in silence down the subterranean “street,” and after about half a mile, he flipped open a panel on the dash, pushed a button inside, and a section of wall opened to our right that was just large enough to hold the SUV. Yasha pulled in, stopped, and turned off the engine. The doors closed behind us, and Yasha pressed a second button. Almost immediately, the car began to rise; the only sound the low rumble of some serious hydraulics hidden under us. The elevator stopped with a disconcerting jerk, and a pair of doors in front of us opened, revealing another parking garage.
There couldn’t have been more than a few inches of clearance between the top of the Suburban and the concrete slab above it. I didn’t have claustrophobia; I just didn’t like the thought of heavy things squashing me, and concrete slabs certainly qualified. Yasha drove the SUV upward through the parking deck in nearly nauseating spirals until we exited the garage on a familiar section of West Third Street, a block from Washington Square Park.
Ian Byrne took a case out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “You’ll need these.”
I opened it. Inside were sunglasses, really cool and expensive sunglasses.
“These clubs will be dark,” Ian began.
I grinned. “It’s dark and I’m wearing sunglasses.”
My stoic partner didn’t get The Blues Brothers reference; or if he did, he wasn’t amused.
“They’re not sunglasses,” he said. “Put them on.”
I did. Suddenly I could see every detail inside and out of the Suburban as if it were broad daylight instead of o’dark thirty. “Nifty.”
“Does your seer vision work with the glasses?” Ian asked.
I glanced up front at Yasha. His werewolf aura was hunched to fit in the big SUV. “Like a charm.”
“Good. You’ll be wearing those in the clubs.”
“Gladly.”
My partner gave me a quizzical glance.
“If strange men are going to see me in a strip joint, at least they won’t get to see me seeing them. And it’ll make it easier for me to ignore them and anything they may be . . . doing. I can guarantee you I won’t be looking at anything but leprechauns.”
“You won’t just be looking for leprechauns,” Ian said. “Any agents of the Unseelie Court will be glamoured as well; unless they’re using humans, in which case we’re looking for suspicious behavior.”
“There’re behaviors that aren’t suspicious in a strip club?”
Yasha snorted from the driver’s seat. “All behavior is suspicious in hoochy-koochy parlors.”
I sat up straighter and grinned. “That’s what my grandma calls ’em.”
“They’re probably the same age,” Ian muttered.
I considered that possibility. If they kept their snouts clean and didn’t go on people-eating binges, werewolves could live a long time. I studied our werewolf driver/extractor. Yasha seemed to be nice. Though as with all werewolves, I imagined that changed during “that time of the month.” Mood swings, cravings, anger, and irritability—trust me, you ain’t seen cranky until you’ve seen a werewolf trying to force down their natural inclinations during a full moon. I knew better than to ask an older woman her age, but I didn’t think a werewolf would mind; at least I didn’t think this particular werewolf would.
“How old are you?”
“Next month, I am ninety-six.” The big Russian grinned in the rearview mirror at Ian. “For surprise party you are planning, hoochy-koochy parlor will be fine, but make sure is good one.”
“For the last time, I’m not planning a surprise party.”
Yasha glanced over at me and winked. “Your new partner is very good at keeping secrets.”
I slid my Go-Go-Gadget sunglasses up on my head. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“How much do you know about leprechauns?” Ian asked.
“Just what they taught in orientation,” I said. “What they are, where to find them, how to catch one—and to watch out for those wishes. Usually a supernatural doesn’t use a human glamour unless they have a good reason. Are leprechauns up to no good, or do they interact with humans on a daily basis?”
“Yes.”
“Pardon?”
“Yes, to both,” Ian said. “Leprechauns typically work in the Financial District. They have a sixth sense about which way the market’s going to go. If you can get a leprechaun as a financial advisor, your investments are guaranteed to thrive. Though you should always get their commission amount agreed to in writing sealed with a blood-pricked thumbprint, drawn up by a lawyer mage. Otherwise, your leprechaun money manager will skim off the top to top off his pot of gold. Some of the commodities companies that went belly up a few years ago due to creative accounting?”