reached for the tracker, more than willing to pry it from her breast, but then he paused. A realization hit him hard. “Blessed Herne. Really?”
The director hadn’t specified the heart he sought would be live and beating inside someone’s chest.
Kizzy peeled the weird little piece of glass from her shirt and handed it to Bron. He clasped his fingers over it, closed his eyes and shook his head. As if regretfully? She didn’t know what the thing was, but everything associated with the man was out there and strange. And if he was up on all things paranormal, then the glass piece could be magical.
That didn’t mean she wanted it stuck to her chest.
All of a sudden he shifted the truck into gear and drove onward. “We need to fill up with gas. I saw a station at the edge of town.”
“Fill? Where are you going? Because I’m not going along. I’m staying in town. That way.” She pointed out the back window. “Just drop me off anywhere, and I can walk. Really. It’s not that far. Pull over here, and I can make it on my own.”
“They are after you—what is your name?”
“Kizzy. Who are after me? Harpies?”
“What kind of name is Kizzy?”
“It’s short for Kisanthra. Kisanthra Lewis.” She offered her hand to shake, which he ignored as he swerved toward the gas station. “Photographer. Blogger. World traveler. Soon to be getting the hell out of your life.”
“Blogger?”
“Yes, I’ve a blog called Other Wonders. All about—oy.” She sighed heavily. “Is this for real? I mean, really? Am I being punked?” She peered out the side window. “Where’s Ashton Kutcher?”
Bron pulled up before a gas tank and shut off the engine. When he turned, he held the piece of glass before him. “Kisanthra, I’m a Retriever. I work for an organization that retrieves lost artifacts, items of magical nature and various other things that I’m sure you’d understand if I took the time to explain, because your acceptance of the harpie was easy enough.”
“I believe in a lot of things. But this is the first time I’ve ever been given tangible proof. I sure hope those photos turn out.” She snapped the small, square piece of glass with a fingernail. “You retrieve things? Does it have to do with harpies?”
“It shouldn’t. It’s to do with this.”
She took the piece of glass when he offered it, and again, it slipped out of her grip and affixed to the front of her shirt.
“Hell,” he muttered. “This mission was supposed to be find and seize. There’s no way—” He beat the steering wheel with a fist.
His anger had come on so suddenly and felt palpable to Kizzy. The thought to flee resurfaced. But it was already dark outside. Not as easy to spy a raven-winged bird man flying overhead.
“I don’t get it.” She tore away the square piece from her chest, which looked innocuous enough. Maybe it wasn’t glass? It wasn’t clear but was smooth and had a good weight to it like some kind of stone. “What is this thing?”
“It’s a tracking device. Sometimes the items I’m sent to retrieve are in an unknown location. Acquisitions had a tracker bespelled, and, apparently, it led me straight to the item.”
“Acquisitions?”
He nodded. “That’s the name of the organization I work for.”
“Generically nonspecific. And you are a Retriever. That’s kind of cool. You get more points for the Indiana Jones vibe you’re putting off. And you had me right up until you said bespelled.”
“Right.” He snatched the tracking device from her and opened the truck door. “The item I’m looking for is the Purgatory Heart. And—” he stepped out and leaned his head in “—apparently it’s inside you.”
Door closing behind him, he turned and shoved the gas nozzle into the tank at the back of the truck.
Kizzy sat frozen, her jaws agape as she watched him stride inside the station. Long sure strides. Peripherally aware as he glanced side to side. His hands flexed at his sides, where she noted a holster strapped to one thigh, but she couldn’t determine what was in it. He was some kind of Indiana Jones Wild West gunslinger. No one would mess with that man. He knew how to take down harpies.
“Purgatory heart? What the...? He’s not making sense. That tracking device landed on me. Right over my heart.”
And if she gave it any amount of thought, putting the words retriever and find and seize together...
“Oh, hell, no. No one is seizing my heart. I think we’ve shared enough adventure for one day, Mr. Jones.”
Checking through the gas station windows, she couldn’t see his tall, dark-haired figure. Must have wandered toward the back of the store.
Grabbing her camera bag, Kizzy slid out of the truck, and, with careful glances toward the red-brick-walled station’s front doors, she ran around beside the building and down an alley hedged on both sides by glossy-leaved forsythia that had long ago shed its bright yellow flowers.
She wasn’t afraid of walking through the town so late. It wasn’t people she had to worry about. She had to hope there had only been five harpies. Of which, Bron had slain them all. She was no longer in the mood to take pictures of vicious flying bird men.
A stretch of garage bays where the gas station mechanics worked on vehicles grew up behind the hedges to her right. The sounds of tools clanking and a hydraulic lift disguised her stumble over a mess of tangled plastic shopping bags and weeds.
Her rental was at the city center. It was a small town, population around eight thousand. When she’d resided here before the accident, she’d lived in a quaint neighborhood, but a handful of blocks’ walk from her elementary and middle schools; it had been her home since birth. Small town. Small, safe upbringing.
Wildly expansive imagination.
Oh, yeah, she had always been the weird girl.
Striding quickly, she guessed it was a couple miles’ walk to her rental apartment. She dodged left and let out a yelp when a growl alerted her to a dark, man-shaped shadow looming beneath a willow tree.
“Bron?”
“Sorry, sweetie, your dog of a boyfriend isn’t here to save you.”
“My dog...?” She didn’t understand that. Bron was actually very handsome.
A man stepped from the shadows. Thin, blond and clad in enough black to give a goth a run for his money. Goths had never been big in Thief River Falls. But they did have a few token outliers that represented all sorts. He grinned at her, revealing fangs that jutted downward from his upper row of teeth.
“Seriously?” Kizzy knew to her bones those were not the fake dental acrylic fangs some goths sported. She clutched her camera
