Demons of Good and Evil by Kim Harrison

            “We are not getting any closer to Fountain Square in this traffic,” Trent grumbled. “It’s worse than game day. I’ve never seen so many people trying to get into one square mile.”

            David, who was driving, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Which is exactly how we want it,” he said as his gaze returned to the crowd, his pride obvious.

            “The I.S. is everywhere,” Quen muttered, clearly not happy.

            “Ya want me to distract ’em so you can get out?” said Jenks, and David took a breath.

            “It’s too cold,” I interrupted, and when Jenks turned to me to protest, I cut him off. “The sun is almost down, and it’s cold!” I exclaimed. “You either promise me that you will find somewhere warm to serve as lookout and watch my back, or you will be in my bag.”

            “You don’t have your bag,” Jenks practically barked, and I leaned over the seat.

            “Then you had better find a light to park your ass on and be a lookout! I’m not going home to Getty and telling her I let you fall into an ill-prepared hibernation coma.”

            “Fine!” he yelled, sullen as he went to sit on Trent’s shoulder.

            Trent cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable as Jenks belligerently checked his garden sword before slamming it back into his scabbard.

            “Okay, then,” David said as he sent his window all the way down. I thought he was proving a point until he made a sharp whistle, following it up with a rolling motion.

            Immediately several heavily tattooed Weres jogged from the crowd, our headlights brightening against their jeans as they went not to us, but the I.S. cruiser parked at the curb.

            “A distraction,” I mused as I leaned farther over the seat. “Nice!”

            “On steroids,” David said in pride as two of the Weres engaged the officers, leaving a third to hop in behind the wheel and slam the door shut.

            The officers spun, but it was too late and the cruiser took off, lights and sirens blaring.

            “Tink’s a Disney whore. That was slicker than snot on a doorknob, Mr. Peabody,” Jenks said as the I.S. cruiser slowly outdistanced the furious agents.

            Lips quirked wryly, David slipped in behind the stolen vehicle and accelerated.

            “I like,” I said, settling deeper into the seat as we ran a red light. “Do you do weddings?”

            Jenks snickered, but Quen, clearly not amused or impressed, cracked his knuckles, the play of line energy dancing about them obvious.

            The last few blocks took less than a minute, but my tension returned tenfold when the ambient light suddenly brightened and our stolen escort slowed to a crawl.

            Fountain Square was packed. People made a living, moving, noisy wall, and when our escort whooped his siren and continued on, David double-parked so we could get out.

            “I’m not sitting in no bag,” Jenks muttered from Trent’s shoulder, and I reached for the door handle, suddenly unsure. My memories of being cuffed and dragged onto the stage were not that old, and whereas one person is hard to convince, a mob is ready to believe the worst.

            Trent gave my hand a squeeze and I got out. The wind from the river lifted through my blessedly clean hair, and I squinted up at Carew Tower. The noise was tremendous, sound rocking between the shaded buildings to build upon itself. Over it all, a woman onstage yelled through a bullhorn. I couldn’t understand her, but the crowd cheered at every other sentence.

            Trent took my elbow and led me to the curb as I gawked. Behind me, a tattooed Were dove into the cab and drove away, leaving us to melt into the crowd and avoid the I.S. officers still trying to recover their stolen cruiser.

            “Is that Lee with the woman with the bullhorn?” I said, and Jenks darted from Trent’s shoulder to check. “This is worse than the solstice,” I added, shouting to be heard.

            “We’ve got all three major demographics down here, not just one.” David frowned, his good mood tempered. So far it had been a mischief-and-annoyance campaign. Neither one of us wanted those looking to him to do more—but they would if pressed. It was up to me to see that it didn’t come to that.