Demons of Good and Evil by Kim Harrison

            Ivy and I shifted direction when a clang of metal rang out, aiming for the three rough, oil-smeared men working with a car on a lift. What I assumed to be Martie’s beater sat in another bay, ignored. A leather cushion lay on the ground beside a low couch, both in the sun by one of the open bays. A chain-link fence around the place made a questionable statement, but the corners were clean and the light on the tool-strewn table was bright. There was a fishbowl of a waiting room with cutouts of ghosts and tomatoes plastered to the walls and windows, but I imagined most of their patrons went to the coffee shop next door, seeing as the enormous trash barrel was full of single-use cups.

            “This is very loose for you,” I said as the heavily tattooed man under the car came out to stand with the others, wiping his hands on a nasty towel as they ogled us. Clearly he was a Were. They all were. “We don’t even have an exit plan. You okay with that?” I squinted at the roof, hoping Jenks had put their cameras on a loop.

            Her faint smile was devious. “You’d be surprised how easy I play it now. Pike . . .”

            I glanced at her, wondering at the extra sway she had put in her hips. But we had been noticed, and there was nothing like flirtation to buoy up the soul. “What about Pike?”

            Her pupils held the faintest hint of widening. “Like you, he’s best when he’s spontaneous. He says you’re cute when you get excited. I told him I’d break his other fang if he ever put a finger or tooth on you.”

            I snorted, but it was nice to be loved. “I can handle myself.”

            “You are not my worry,” she said as we came to a confident halt before the three men. “I need someone to look at my engine,” Ivy added, her feet spread wide and hands on her hips. “Maybe grease it. I’m getting too much noise when I grind.”

            “Good God, Ivy,” I muttered, but whereas the first two Weres were grinning appreciatively, the other had gone pale.

            Crap on toast, they know who we are. Or it could have been Glenn, his fast pace and swinging arms practically screaming FIB as he strode up the sidewalk, nearly a block away.

            Ivy turned, lip between her teeth as she followed my gaze. “Maybe we should have waited for him,” she whispered.

            And then her eyes went black at the metallic ringing of a tire iron against pavement.

            “You’re in the wrong place,” the one hefting the tire iron said, and I drew in my arms and shifted my weight, pivoting where I stood. The impact of my foot into the gut of the nearest man was fast and satisfying. Spinning, I hit his jaw with my other foot, seeing as he had conveniently dropped into my range. It was hard to knock someone unconscious. If you did, it meant you had used enough force that brain damage was a possibility. I’d found out over the years that if you gently smacked them around enough, they often faked being out so you wouldn’t hit them again.

            Ivy, though, liked to be sure, and she knocked the second man out completely with one front kick, snapping his head back to cut his strings and send him to the ground.

            That left the tire-iron guy. “Ivy!” I called in warning as I rolled the man I’d dropped to his front, my knee between his shoulders as I wrenched his arm behind him. He’d have to dislocate it to be free, and with a practiced quickness, I zip-stripped his wrists. His ankles would be next.

            Ooooh, bad idea, I thought, wincing in sympathy as Ivy ducked the man’s first swing, then twisted to grab the iron and yank the man spinning into her. The iron bar was now at his throat, and as he choked, she gave another yank, cutting off his air.

            Glenn broke into a run, light-footed and efficient, but if he didn’t hurry, he was going to miss everything. I got to my feet as Ivy took a hit to the gut. Her eyes black, she let go of him, teeth clenched as she smacked her elbow into his jaw.

            Howling, the man stumbled into Glenn’s grip.

            “Thanks for waiting,” the FIB detective huffed, quickly subduing the squirming, pained Were by zip-stripping his wrists.

            “You’re the one with the swirly lights on top,” Ivy said, her expression bright with adrenaline.

            “Pike and Brad?” Glenn asked next, handing me a wad of zip strips.

            “Inside,” I said as the two men still conscious began to squirm.

            “I wouldn’t,” Ivy said softly, giving one a nudge in the nuggies, and he yelped in surprise, glaring at her with a pressed-lip anger. The other went quiet as well, and I frowned at the clearly defunct cameras. Jenks might be with Pike and Brad, but I didn’t like not knowing.