Hallow Point: A Mick Oberon Job Book 2
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Mick Oberon may look like just another private detective, but beneath the fedora and the overcoat, he’s got pointy ears and he’s packing a wand. Oberon’s used to solving supernatural crimes, but the latest one is extra weird...
cat under a ladder. And I’d be a damn beacon. Anything within miles’d feel it. Vulnerable aes sidhe here!” “What do you mean ‘anything’?” “There are things out there, see? Things that normally leave the rest of us Fae alone, things worse’n the Unseelie, worse’n you could even… They might not suss me out, probably wouldn’t, there ain’t many of ’em. But they could. I might be willing to die to keep the spear outta the wrong hands. But I’m not willing to risk my soul for it. Even at my best, I was
Keenan… Yeah, they weren’t supposed to give me anything, but I figured I could sweet-talk a little knowledge out of him. I mean, all I wanted was info on a couple mobsters. Shouldn’t be too tough. When I hung up a few minutes later, my ears burned like I’d been shoving matchsticks in ’em, and, for once, it wasn’t ’cause of the horn itself. “Guess Keenan takes his orders pretty serious,” I muttered, trudging back to the office. “Impressive vocabulary, too.” I stepped in, made a quick rummage
Local Unseelie. Outsiders of Ogma knows what city or what Court. Herne the Hunter. The Wild Hunt. And now, at least sorta, Bumpy Scola. ’Cause there was no way he was gonna let this go, not after what’d just happened to his place and what he already knew about the supernatural. Probably he’d never learn anything of use, would just waste his time poking around the edges of the whole shindig, but… He was another wild card in a deck already full of ’em. If Lugh wasn’t ages dead, I coulda strangled
couple even crossed the street to avoid me. I ain’t a popular guy round here, but I don’t normally provoke that kinda response, and there was no way every single one of ’em coulda known who I was. So I hadda figure they were reacting that way to everyone. And now I’d had that thought, I could feel it in the air, see it in the buildings I passed. Businesses closed, or so empty they might as well be. Pedestrians’ steps were short’n shuffling, trying to move quick while stayin’ as inconspicuous and
as “pathetic.” In the sickly yellow light of the lone bulb, his skin was sallow and his green glad rags looked to be dyed with pond scum. “You gotta understand—” “You ran out on me, Franky-boy. That ain’t mannerly.” “Jesus, Mick! I’d just been ear-mickeyed by a rusalka!” “Which I saved you from,” I reminded him, slowly rising from my seat (a moth-eaten chair with less stuffing than a soup-kitchen turkey). “Come on, pal!” His back bumped up against the door, hard enough I could see my