Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel Read Free Page A

totally intense.
    Strafa backed into me. “Grab on.” She was anxious suddenly.
    “Always up for that.”
    “You have a one-track mind, sir. But quit fooling around. We need to get out of here. Now.”
    “Whose fault is that? You being you.” I paid no attention to the kid, other than to note that she was rich enough to rate a magnificent bodyguard.
    My toes had just left the cobblestones. Strafa turned her head. I tried to kiss her, for the moment forgetting what we were up to. She lost her foothold on the sky. We collapsed into a wriggling pile. The little girl stopped to scowl at us, then told me, “If you aren’t more careful you will be the first to die.”
    Strafa ignored her. She sat up. “Gods, I wish we’d met when I was Kevans’s age. We would’ve had so much more time.”
    No. I thought not. When Strafa was Kevans’s age she already had a toddler underfoot and I was still shallow enough for that to make a difference. Too, I was about to head out for my five years in the war zone.
    Chances are, I would have gone off, leaving her with another responsibility about to arrive, which I might have been low enough not to have acknowledged. I wasn’t nearly as nice when I was younger.
    But I’ll never tell her we’re both better off for life’s having kept us apart as long as it did.
    The little girl and her monster moved on hurriedly. I asked, “What was that? Did you get that?”
    “Let’s just go. It turned out all right.” Clearly shaken, puzzled, and maybe a little frightened, like she had only just survived a brush with a very dangerous unknown.
    I got up, helped her get up, got around behind, and this time behaved myself while she did what Windwalkers do.
    •   •   •
    We settled to the cobblestones outside the house where I’d lived till Strafa carried me off to her mansion on the Hill. It was dark red, brick, two-story, in perfect repair because my assistant Pular Singe is a freak about detail stuff. My bedroom lay athwart the front of the place, upstairs. Strafa’s old habit had been to sneak in the window on the left, above the roof of the stoop.
    This time we would go in through the front door, like normal visitors.
    I observed, “Old Bones is definitely awake.”
    I knew because Singe opened the door while we were still getting untangled.

6
    Pular Singe is a rat woman, descended from mutants created by sorcerers several centuries back. She stands about five feet tall when she forces herself into her most upright stance. I sort of adopted her when she was an adolescent. She has become the heart and soul of my investigative business. I go out and have fun digging while she stays home managing records, finances, the house, and all the other stuff I let slide because it’s boring. She has a genius for it. She keeps everything abovewater.
    Singe is also the best scent tracker in TunFaire and, maybe, the best in the Karentine Kingdom. She makes a little cash on her own, on the side, doing contract tracking, usually for the Civil Guard when they’re willing to pay up front.
    None of those guys work for pride alone, but they seem convinced that the rest of us should donate our time and take physical risks entirely out of a sense of civic duty.
    Singe didn’t say a word as she let us inside.
    My housekeeper and cook, Dean, came out of the kitchen drying his hands. He was ancient. He had begun to develop a stoop and was moving more gingerly than he had just weeks ago. His voice was strong when he greeted us, though.
    Dean was a huge fan of Strafa Algarda.
    A rattle and thump thundered down the stair from the second floor. The racket ceased a moment before an utterly cool, studiedly indifferent, totally cute little brunette of fourteen stepped into view. “Oh. It’s only you. Well, hello.” She headed into the kitchen as though that had been her plan all along.
    Penny Dreadful is not a huge fan of Strafa Algarda.
    She is my partner’s pet. Another adoptee of the house.
    We’re all