Chapter 1
CASSIAN
Asharp yelp cracks through the early evening, followed by the muffled thump of someone walking into a sandwich board.
From the vantage point of my office—meaning the steps outside the Blackthorn Bay police station, coffee in hand, feet up on the stone banister—I watch three things happen at once: Mrs. Starling's Yorkshire terrier gets herself tangled up in a string of triangular bunting; an orc toddler on a sugar high launches himself off the face-painting table; and Liza Morales, dressed like spring even though it's forty-six degrees and overcast, dashing out in front of both incidents, intercepting the dog before it can trip its owner, and neatly fielding the toddler before he eats concrete.
She deposits both, calm and efficient, then sets about reattaching bunting with her teeth clamped around a handful of safety pins.
The action takes twelve seconds. Fifteen, if you count the time it takes her to placate both Mrs. Starling and the mother of the toddler, which I do because I'm not technically on duty yet, and I like to see how she manages a crowd.
Three doors down at Hex & Honey, a handful of witches with purple streaks in their hair are watching too, arguing in low voices about the correct ratio of lemon to sugar in their hand pies. Liza will convince them they're both right, and probably fix the display in their window while she's at it.
I sip my coffee and enjoy the view.
The sun is setting over Blackthorn Bay, but the center of town glows with pastel tents and paper decorations.
It's the kind of place that pretends not to know about Halloween all year, but if you look at the festival lineup, you'd see there are more weeks with something called "Pumpkin" in them than not.
There is a Founders' Day parade every year.
There is a pie contest and a cake walk for the kids.
Sometimes I think the whole town runs on sugar and competitive baking.
The Founders' Day Festival is the only event on the calendar where Zadok Infernalis—mayor, tenacious bureaucrat, and literal demon—insists every single department head be visible and cheerful for the denizens of Blackthorn Bay.
A more cynical person might call it a calculated show of interspecies unity, which is why Zadok generally lets Liza handle the speeches.
She's better at dazzling a crowd than anyone I've ever met, and the only human in municipal government who hasn't aged seven years in her first two on the job.
Even now, I can see her scanning the square, mentally tallying napkin shortages and balloon emergencies, then she glances up at my perch and grins like she's actually happy to see me.
The smile is brief but it's real.
It draws an answering warmth in my chest I pretend to ignore.
"Cassian Wolfridge, you miserable old dog."
Alaric's drawl sneaks up behind me, followed by the cold press of his icy hand against my bicep.
"If you don't make your move, someone else will."
I grunt and stuff a Danish in the mouth. "Drop dead, Alaric."
"Already did, if I recall."
He lounges onto the step beside me in a navy suit too tailored for a six-foot-seven vampire.
"You know, a normal person would just ask her out."
"Good thing I'm not normal."
He sighs with mock tragic.
"All I'm saying is, if you're going to pine after the woman, at least do it in a way less pathetic than lurking on public property and watching her wrangle innocent children."
The thing is, he's right, and that makes him insufferable.
We watch as Liza darts into the pop-up bakery booth, says something to Mrs. Ravenscroft that makes the older woman cackle, and then emerges with a plate of scones, which she begins distributing to the setup crews like a field medic handing out tourniquets.
"She's not interested," I say.
Alaric snorts.
"You're full of it. Everyone likes you."
I bark out a laugh at that.
"You're thinking of someone else.”
Alaric smirks, flashing his canines.
"She likes you because you're predictable. Reliable. You're the werewolf version of a weighted blanket, which, incidentally, she probably needs after a day with Zadok."
"Flattering," I mutter, but part of me is absurdly pleased.
Not that it matters. She's a careerist, and anyway, she's human. People like that don't stay long in Blackthorn. They do their time and then move on to places where the most dangerous thing in town is forgetting to set the trash out for collection.
Alaric tears a strip off the almond croissant in his hand and inspects me.
"You know she's not going anywhere."
"Maybe not today," I say. "Maybe not for a few festivals. But she's got plans. She's put together a five-year development proposal for the town, you know that?"
"Sure. Maybe she wants to build something here."
I shake my head.
"Or she wants to leave with a legacy. It's what you do when you're planning an out."
This unsettles Alaric enough that he's quiet for a moment. He's older than me by maybe a century, but sometimes I think he just stopped maturing at twenty-five and decided to be content there.
"You could at least give it a shot," he finally says, nudging me. "Worst that happens, she lets you down nicely. Best, you get to buy her a drink and talk about nothing for an hour. Or, knowing you, you'll talk about zoning ordinances and dog leash laws."
I squint at Liza, who is now absorbed in some kind of negotiation with the parade float coordinator, and try to picture a universe in which we are uncomplicatedly together.
In my limited experience, those universes only exist in Hallmark movies and weathered paperbacks in the cozy section of the public library.
She's too bright for Blackthorn.
She's too bright for me.
But even knowing this, and knowing it thoroughly, I finish my coffee, rise, and adjust my badge so it points straight.
"I don't have anything to say to her," I say, but I'm already moving. My body's halfway across Main Street before my mouth even catches up.
Behind me, Alaric's laughter is loud and sharp and carries halfway down the block.
"Go get her, champ!"
On the square, festival prep is a controlled riot.
There's a pop-up stage for the shifter jazz collective, a cordoned-off area for the dog parade, and a dozen food booths whose only job is to keep the festival attendees in some kind of carb-fueled trance.
Volunteers run everywhere, half of them costumed, half in matching "I <3 FOUNDERS' DAY" T-shirts.
The bunting overhead still sags a bit, like it knows defeat is inevitable.
Liza is at the center of it all, clipboard in hand, ponytail slightly askew as she handles a steady barrage of complaints and last-minute changes.
Even when she's exasperated, her voice is even and clear—she talks like she's solving puzzles, not problems.
I catch up with her just as she's strong-arming a pair of students into moving a hundred folding chairs across the lawn.
"Need backup?" I ask.
She glances over, quick and cheerful, the way she always looks at me.
"Chief! Please tell me you have someone in holding who can assist with heavy lifting."
I shake my head.
"Let two kids do it. Builds character."
She mock glares at the students, who respond by rolling their eyes but picking up the pace.
"Are you here for crowd control or just to supervise the doughnut stand?"
"I'm here to admire your work ethic," I say, because it's true and because it makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Also, to inform you that per city ordinance, the use of open flames on town property is limited to three feet from food service, which means the hot pretzel cart needs to shift north by six feet. "
She accepts this with the solemnity of a judge in session.
"Your sense of timing is impeccable, as always."
"You get used to it."
She whips out a walkie-talkie and barks at the pretzel vendor to relocate, then tucks the device back into her waistband like she was born for it.
The breeze picks up, carrying a note of cinnamon and deep-fried dough down the street. Liza inhales, her expression turning almost dreamy.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, quieter than usual.
This is new.
She's not the type to hesitate.
"Of course."
She hesitates anyway.
"Does it ever get less weird? The festivals, the chaos. I mean, you grew up here. Do you ever just... get used to it?"
I consider this.
"The first hundred or so, it's overwhelming. After that, you kind of miss it when it's gone."
She nods, thoughtful.
"I think that's what I'm afraid of. Turning into someone who can't function without the chaos."
I smile.
"Most people move here because they want peace and quiet. You keep signing up for more."
Liza shrugs.
"I like knowing where I'm needed."
"Blackthorn Bay would shut down for a day if you took a vacation."
She tilts her head, regarding me for a second.
"Maybe I should try it. A weekend off. See if the town combusts."
"It wouldn't," I say, and I mean it. "But I'd have to find an excuse to see you somewhere else."
I'm not sure who's more surprised by that—me or her.
It lands, though.
She blushes, a real, full-color blush, and swats me on the arm.
"Are you flirting with me, Chief?"
"No, of course not. I was just thinking out loud."
A lie so obvious even I don't believe it.
She smiles, warm and genuine.
"Oh, well. I'd better run. We'll chat after the fireworks."
And with that, she's off, striding toward her next microcrisis like a general advancing on a sugar-fueled battlefield.
I stand in her wake, feeling ridiculous and hopeful and a little electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
Across the square, Alaric gives me a sarcastic thumbs-up and mouths, "THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE."
I shake my head and follow Liza, already looking forward to the fireworks.