The Devil to Pay (Shayne Davies Book One) Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE

  NEWSLETTER

  COPYRIGHT

  BOOKS BY JACKIE MAY

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT JACKIE MAY

  by Jackie May

  JACKIE MAY NEWSLETTER

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  Copyright © 2018 by Joshua Oram

  Edition 1.2

  Edited by Jennifer Henkes (www.literallyjen.com)

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN 978-0-9977431-6-6

  BOOKS BY JACKIE MAY

  NOVELLAS:

  My Soul to Keep (Late 2018)

  Urban Fantasies (TBD)

  UNDERWORLD BOOKS:

  Nora Jacobs Series

  Don’t Rush Me

  Don’t Cheat Me

  Nora Jacobs #3 (Early 2019)

  Shayne Davies Series

  The Devil to Pay

  Shayne Davies #2 (Mid 2019)

  For the queen of my playlist, Aretha Franklin.

  Nothing but Respect.

  - Shayne

  It all starts when his gorgeous blue eyes lock onto mine. I don’t know how. There are fifty thousand people in this baseball stadium. He’s Ardee Todd, the Ardee Todd. I’m just another face in the crowd, another screaming girly-fan hoping and praying that he can throw one more strike and win the most important game in the history of our Detroit Tigers.

  But his sparkling eyes…there’s no denying it, this is happening. There he stands on the mound, one pitch away from eternal baseball glory. The eyes of the world are on him. And his eyes are on me. I freeze. Surely he’s staring into the dugout, which is just below me. He must be looking for some sort of sign from his manager, or his teammates. Not me.

  Now he nods his head, as if to say, “Yes, you.”

  And I return a melting look that moans, “Oh, Todd.”

  And he strikes a debonair look that says, “Call me Ardee.”

  And I repeat the look that moans, “Oh, Todd,” because hell no, I’m not calling him Ardee. That’s the stupidest name ever given to such a hot guy.

  Well, he doubles down with the arch of one brow, followed by something that will forever cement his legend in the baseball hall of fame: he throws the final pitch of the game without looking. Just, boom, without ever taking his eyes off me, rears back into his windup and—shoom!—pitches a perfect strike three, game over, Tigers win, the whole stadium goes ballistic, and Todd’s team is trying to mob him in celebration. Only they’re having to chase him, because he’s climbing over the dugout to get to me. Fifty thousand voices screaming his name, fifty thousand pairs of hands trying to get a piece of him, but Todd only has eyes for Shayne Davies. He’s inches away now, and the only thing that keeps our bodies from crashing together is the actual, literal thickness of so much raw sexual tension being pressed into so little space between us. The crackling strength of it threatens to unleash a clap of thunder that will level the stadium.

  “Oh, Shayne!” he rasps. He’s breathing heavily, and not because he’s just thrown a 100 mph fastball.

  And I’m like, “Oh, Todd!” My lips quivering just an inch from his.

  And then he sticks his tongue down my throat. The end. Stadium destroyed in a nuclear mushroom cloud of ecstasy.

  No, it’s just that I heard you’re supposed to start these things off with sizzle, right? A sex scene or an explosion. So I went with a sex-plosion, which is exactly and literally what would happen if I ever kissed Ardee Todd. That’s a real damn thing.

  Look, forget all that. I apologize. The actual truth is, I’m snoozing on the filthy, cracked street under my car, curled up against the rear passenger tire. A cold breeze ripples across my fur in soothing waves. My rusty-red tail—tipped in white, as if somebody had dipped it in cream—is wrapped snuggly around my body, tucked like a pillow under my chin. Well, foxes don’t have chins, and our tails are actually called “brushes,” but you get what I mean. And sorry about the baseball story. You’re probably like, “Wait, so you’re actually a fox, and we’re not going with the hottie pitcher?” Maybe that could be bonus content later. Like, Hey, sign up for my newsletter and get a free short story. And then I could finish telling you about how I ended up back at Todd’s penthouse, wearing nothing but his World Series ring.

  Anyway, so I’m finally stirred by the sound I’ve been waiting for: an apartment door opening across the street, third floor, next to the fire escape. I know it’s that particular door opening, because foxes have amazing ears that can recognize as much distinction in a sound as eyes can see in an image. So I know that exact creak and protest of rusty hinges, followed by the familiar, confident step of dress shoes on the fire escape stairs. This is my guy.

  After a quick scan of the street, I crawl out from under my car and arch my back, then reach out with my front paws and stick my ass in the air—a yoga pose aptly called “the downward dog.” While shaking out my hind legs one at a time, I spare a glance up at the blue glow of an LED street lamp. Not many streets in this part of town get the luxury of light these days. The city’s been shutting down grids as more and more houses—even whole neighborhoods—are abandoned. Detroit is becoming the world’s largest ghost town.

  My guy’s name is Dario. As he steps off the fire escape into the alley, I catch the slightest whiff of cologne—the expensive kind that costs more than rent in a dump like his. A good sign. It makes me grin. I cross the street at a prance, knowing that even if there were faces in all the windows of his apartment building, nobody would think twice to see a fox in the road. In the urban fields and back alleys of Detroit, you’re just as likely to see a fox as you are a stray dog or cat.

  Reaching the alley, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that Dario is shirtless and absolutely rippling with thick muscle. No joke this time, not another dream sequence or sizzle fantasy. He really is shirtless and ripped, like full-on pillows for pecs and river rocks for abs. He could toss me around the bedroom like a Nerf football. His skin is smooth and dark, the distinct shade of Cubans, one of my all-time top ten Kryptonites. Stopping in the shadows and cocking my head to admire the view, I can’t help but whimper in that high-pitched way that dogs do when they beg for food.

  If only I knew what he was. From my surveillance, I’ve already
ticked off a couple boxes. I’ve seen him go out in the day, so he’s not a bloodsucker, and though my underworld awareness is not the strongest, I’d still be able to sniff out my kind—fox, coyote, wolf—so he’s not a shifter. If it came to bets, I’d go all-in on fey, since they’re typically so beautiful it hurts just to look at them. Sure, they use a human glamour to tone down their appeal, but vanity can be a hard master, and many fey can’t stand to not be at least as attractive as a movie star.

  Well, whatever he is, I know at a glance that tonight is my night. In each of his meaty hands is a full twelve-gallon garbage bag. With ease, he tosses them into a Dumpster across the alley. The stars have finally aligned—it’s Saturday night, he’s wearing expensive cologne, and he is still bare-chested because he hasn’t yet decided on a shirt to go with those slacks. Translation: he’s getting ready to go to a club, and I know his brand. Most importantly, he has cleaned his apartment enough to fill those two enormous bags, which means only one thing: Dario expects to bring somebody home for the night.

  And that somebody will be me.

  Okay, see…dammit…that was supposed to be my big out for the scene. Like—“that somebody is me”—and it sounds all badass because I even moved it down to its own line and everything. But I totally forgot that I have to set up for the reader (that’s you) how I’m not actually a fox. I can’t just cut straight to the club scene and now I’m a full-grown woman in a little black dress. You’d be like, “Whaaaa?” And yeah, I know for most of you this ain’t your first rodeo, you know I’m a shifter, you get it. In fact, you’re only reading this because you already read every other shifter series out there, and it was either give my story a chance or reread the Mercy Thompson series for the thousandth time. And already I’m screwing it up. I promise I’ll get better at this.

  Look, just…here: With my brush wagging, I hurry back to my crap-pile of a car and make a quick scan of the surroundings, because while nobody bats an eye at seeing a wild fox in the city, they would definitely take notice of a bare-ass-nekkid grown woman. The coast is clear, so I shift, nice and easy, into human form. I was going to say “back into my natural form,” but is that true? Am I a fox who can shift into a woman, or the other way around? Sometimes I’m not so sure.

  But I will tell you what I’m damn sure of. Tonight, Dario is taking somebody home from the club.

  And that somebody will be me.

  (Nailed it.)

  I don’t have an office, because I’m not a real detective. I’m just a woman who happens to be able to track stuff down, whether information or suspects or even mates (don’t ask). But if I did have an office, it would be Underworld, the club hub of all paranormal types in the Detroit metro area. It’s not glamoured, so humans can gawk all they want at the outside line of impossibly beautiful women escorted by brooding, prowling (some literally) men with severe territorial issues.

  It’s super busy tonight, even for a Saturday. The parking lot and surrounding streets are full. I don’t have time to wait in line. I need to get inside quick, so I bring my Pontiac Crap-pile (trademark) around to the back parking for employees only. No problem; I used to work here a million years ago. One of my many, many attempts at keeping a “regular” job before I found my true calling as a “mobile pawn broker,” otherwise referred to as “homeless person.”

  The back door’s locked, but I know the code, which hasn’t changed in years because the big ass troll who owns Underworld can’t be bothered with “tech-y stuff.” That just means his fingers are too freakin’ fat to hit the little buttons on the keypad. But you can’t say that to a troll if you like the way all your limbs fit.

  Even way back here by the break room and offices I can feel the deep thrum of music shaking the walls. I hear wild laughter and the crash of glass breaking. Gotta love Underworld. It’s a madhouse. One office door is open, and I hear Terrance’s rumbling troll voice say, “Who’s that just come in?”

  Nothing else to do but keep a brisk pace and act like I belong here. When I whoosh past his door, I hear his breath catch, followed by the alarming scooch sound of a solid oak desk being shoved aside and the rattle of wheels from his chair overturning. “No!” he shouts, scrambling to hurry his considerable bulk to the door. “No, no, no!” He barrels out into the hallway. “Shayne!”

  I turn back. “I’m working on something, Terrance. It’s for the Agency.”

  “Line’s out front. No exceptions.” He takes up his usual stance, feet planted apart, biceps the size of basketballs folded across his chest, head bent down to make up for our extreme difference in height. And I’m tall for a woman. At least I’ve already passed his door, so he can’t block my way.

  “First time, last time!” I promise while backpedaling.

  “Stop walking, Shayne.”

  “I’m serious, Terrance. I’m working on something big, and it’s for the Agency.”

  “Bullshit!” he thunders, easily overpowering the din from inside.

  “Ask Gorgeous!” I bluff. “Call him, he’ll tell you.”

  “Nick’s here, Shayne. He’s drinking at the bar!”

  Nick Gorgeous is here? Oops. “I know. I know he is, because I’m supposed to meet up with him. We have an asset—a big asset!—waiting in line out front, and if I don’t get into place, like right now, we lose him, Terrance. It’s a big deal, I swear.” Almost to the dance hall’s back door now. Music getting louder.

  “Oh, you swear? Oh, never mind, folks, we’re all good here, because Shayne Davies swears!” The thought seems to both amuse and anger him. “Dammit, I don’t care if your asset’s big as a frickin’ Sasquatch. Underworld isn’t a playground for the Agency, Shayne. You got no privilege here.”

  Big words, yeah, but he’s not chasing after me, so I know I’m winning this round. “Talk to Gorgeous. I don’t know what else to tell you, boss.”

  “Ain’t your boss no more!”

  “But seriously, you’ve got to change the code outside.” Turning to the door, which will admit me to the party, I add under my breath, “Fat fingers.”

  “What!”

  “I said, I have fast fingers. I could reprogram it for you in two seconds flat.”

  “No good. You’d still know the code!”

  Stopping with my hand on the door, my shoulders drop in resignation, and I sigh. Because, really, I’m not trying to disrespect Terrance. He was a good boss. It’s not his fault I was such a flake and had to be fired after only two days. “Look, I won’t go in there if you say you really don’t want me to.” Big, pouty eyes. Sad puppy face. Try saying no to that, big guy.

  Too quickly, he says, “Damn right, Shayne. I’m saying I really don’t want you—”

  Shit. Before he can finish, I hurry through the door.

  Tonight Underworld is pulsing, throbbing, glowing, glittering. Strobe lights flash with a stop-motion effect, here and there revealing different scenes: an ancient vampire sitting on a red velvet couch, surrounded by his dour-faced harem. His chin rests on the head of a cane while his eyes roam the crowds; inside a suspended cage, a nude sorceress covered in dragon scale body paint spins orbs of green flame; a group of drunk werewolves hoist a buddy on their shoulders and howl to the moon. Another pack of guys stares daggers at them. Brawl imminent. I wish life were like the movies and dance-fighting was a real thing.

  The passage into the cavernous bar room is bottlenecked with bodies. Pushing through, swatting absently at groping hands, I instantly snap into recon mode, scanning all exits (crushed with bodies), the security posts (both occupied by large, frowning men with swords), and the long bar (as always, crowded). In one sweeping glance, I’ve identified two possible hazards.

  See, when Dario finally makes his way in here, he’ll draw plenty of attention from lady-folk and men-folk alike. That’s fine. I have the strategic advantage of knowing he intends to take somebody home, so I can play hyper-aggressive while everyone else is still trying to feel him out. Fine, I’m confident that I have the strong hand at the ta
ble (to use poker jargon, which I always encourage), but the house hasn’t revealed its cards yet, and there are still two possible hands that could beat mine.

  Hazard number one I completely respect, but number two makes me want to pull my hair out. Number one is sitting at the bar—Cecile, a curvy succubus demon who cheats the house by sending out strong pheromones to soften her prey. Fine. By underworld standards, respectable.

  Hazard number two is Underworld’s newest bartender, Nora Jacobs. Her cheat is novelty: she’s human, which seems to be simply irresistible (80’s song reference, which I always encourage) for underworld men. I call bullshit on the human angle. I mean, she’s definitely as beautiful as everybody’s been saying, but getting accepted into the underworld community as a human would take a lot more juice than a pretty face. She shows up out of nowhere a month ago, and already she’s been working directly with Nick Gorgeous on Agency stuff and seems to have several of Detroit’s most eligible underworlders wrapped around her finger. For crying out loud, she’s living with Terrance, the eternal loner, and he even claims to have made her part of his clan. Of trolls. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not jealous. I’m bitterly envious, which is totally different.

  But poker face, girl. When the game’s on the line, you bring in your closer (baseball jargon, encouraged), and I’m wearing mine: a little black lace dress with a wide, plunging neckline designed for cleavage I’ll never have and a flared skirt which barely covers my ass. I need every inch of legs tonight. I’m tall and straight, a body built more for running than seducing. If you were to look at my human form and have to guess what animal I was, you might say gazelle.

  I’d tailed Dario’s car to the club, so I know he’s here, but getting through the line outside might take him a while. I keep my eyes on the front entry while making my rounds, not a quick feat when the place is crammed and you know everybody.

  Both as a fox and as a woman, I’m a wanderer. Always have been. I’ve strolled every street, alley, driveway, lawn, and parking lot of Detroit. Just a solitary fox bumming around, watching people, listening to their conversations, looking through their windows, nosing around their garbage, eating their pets. You can’t imagine the crap you learn about people when they don’t think anyone’s watching or listening. I’m the keeper of all the secrets, the queen of all the gossip, a living tabloid for the underworld. Everybody in the club wants to gab with me. Half begs me to spill my guts, while the other half wants to clamp my mouth shut for fear I’ll tell on them.