Page 2 of Paws & Order

They're romantics.

CHAPTER 1

CASSIAN

Asharp yelp cracks through the early evening, followed by the muffled thump of someone walking into a sandwich board.

From the vantage point of my office—meaning the steps outside the Blackthorn Bay police station, coffee in hand, feet up on the stone banister—I watch three things happen at once: Mrs. Starling's Yorkshire terrier gets herself tangled up in a string of triangular bunting; an orc toddler on a sugar high launches himself off the face-painting table; and Liza Morales, dressed like spring even though it's forty-six degrees and overcast, dashing out in front of both incidents, intercepting the dog before it can trip its owner, and neatly fielding the toddler before he eats concrete. She deposits both, calm and efficient, then sets about reattaching bunting with her teeth clamped around a handful of safety pins.

The action takes twelve seconds. Fifteen, if you count the time it takes her to placate both Mrs. Starling and the mother of the toddler, which I do because I'm not technically on duty yet, and I like to see how she manages a crowd.

Three doors down at Hex & Honey, a handful of witches with purple streaks in their hair are watching too, arguing in lowvoices about the correct ratio of lemon to sugar in their hand pies. Liza will convince them they're both right, and probably fix the display in their window while she's at it.

I sip my coffee and enjoy the view.

The sun is setting over Blackthorn Bay, but the center of town glows with pastel tents and paper decorations. It's the kind of place that pretends not to know about Halloween all year, but if you look at the festival lineup, you'd see there are more weeks with something called "Pumpkin" in them than not. There is a Founders' Day parade every year. There is a pie contest and a cake walk for the kids. Sometimes I think the whole town runs on sugar and competitive baking.

The Founders' Day Festival is the only event on the calendar where Zadok Infernalis—mayor, tenacious bureaucrat, and literal demon—insists every single department head be visible and cheerful for the denizens of Blackthorn Bay. A more cynical person might call it a calculated show of interspecies unity, which is why Zadok generally lets Liza handle the speeches. She's better at dazzling a crowd than anyone I've ever met, and the only human in municipal government who hasn't aged seven years in her first two on the job.

Even now, I can see her scanning the square, mentally tallying napkin shortages and balloon emergencies, then she glances up at my perch and grins like she's actually happy to see me.

The smile is brief but it's real.

It draws an answering warmth in my chest I pretend to ignore.

"Cassian Wolfridge, you miserable old dog."

Alaric's drawl sneaks up behind me, followed by the cold press of his icy hand against my bicep.

"If you don't make your move, someone else will."

I grunt and stuff a Danish in the mouth. "Drop dead, Alaric."

"Already did, if I recall."

He lounges onto the step beside me in a navy suit too tailored for a six-foot-seven vampire.

"You know, a normal person would just ask her out."

"Good thing I'm not normal."

He sighs with mock tragic.

"All I'm saying is, if you're going to pine after the woman, at least do it in a way less pathetic than lurking on public property and watching her wrangle innocent children."

The thing is, he's right, and that makes him insufferable.

We watch as Liza darts into the pop-up bakery booth, says something to Mrs. Ravenscroft that makes the older woman cackle, and then emerges with a plate of scones, which she begins distributing to the setup crews like a field medic handing out tourniquets.

"She's not interested," I say.

Alaric snorts.

"You're full of it. Everyone likes you."

I bark out a laugh at that.

"You're thinking of someone else.”