Sixpence & Whiskey
wouldn’t actually hurt you.”
    I raise an eyebrow because what else did Jack target my magic for, if not some diabolical bullshit? Not that I’ve ever known his endgame. My mom had her suspicions, I think, but she never let me in on the details.
    Syana puts a hand to her throat, her eyes narrowing at my expression. “I’ll kill him.”
    “You’ll stay the hell away from him. Jack Frost is way more than you can handle, GI Jane.” I’m not teasing. Sy’s a bit cray-cray. She’s been hanging with me a long while, but she only figured out the truth of my life about five years ago. I use subterfuge like a boss and that—along with the amount of drinking we were prone to back in the day—had let me get away with a lot. Then a few werewolves crashed my twenty-first birthday bash, and one tried to eat her alive. So, that kind of let the cat out of the bag. Or the wolf.
    Whatever. I hate werewolves. Most of them. After that memorable episode, Syana decided that while the whole FTC thing was kinda cool, it was also a lot scary (duh). She doesn’t like being scared, so she got prepared. And how .
    Sy’s a black belt in karate now, among other things I can’t really pronounce, and has an arsenal of guns with all kinds of weird numerical and Russian names. All of which would do about fuck all against Jack. She’s tried to force her kung fu ways on me, but the patience I have not, young Grasshopper.
    She even joined the National Guard awhile back, a move that scared the shit out of me, but she loves it.
    Shaking my head at her mulish look, I finish my coffee and toss it in the trash. “I gotta get to work.”
    Her eyes get that look again. Jack being back in town is freaking me out way more than I can let on, even to myself. And Sy knows it.
    “You want me come to T&T after my shift?” she asks.
    We both know the answer to that, but I shrug. “Well, you know, if you’re in the mood.”
    Sy laughs and blows me a kiss with a little bump and grind shimmy that has two of the late-morning customers blinking and straightening in their seats. Sy doesn’t have much ass, but what she has, she uses to great advantage. “Darling,” she purrs. “I am forever in the mood for you.”
    One of the guys chokes on his coffee. Sy winks at me and I can’t help but laugh as I head out.
    Men.
    They’re too fucking easy.
    Well, most of them, anyway.
 
    I head back uptown, park my bubblegum pink Fiat in the alley and open my bar. 
    Actually, Toil & Trouble is a bar-slash-Laundromat-slash-tattoo parlor. Jett owns the tattoo part, because needles… .ewww . I like my skin just as it is, thanks. Unperforated.
    I’m not surprised to find the door locked. In fact, I’d be shocked if my sis were here already. She likes to roll out of bed around noon.
    Like Toby Keith, I love my bar. Making this place work is something I’m damn proud of. We have a real jukebox that takes quarters only; no fucking dollars or cards, just quarters, as God intended. And we have the best music this side of rock-and-roll heaven, because I custom loaded the tunes right. It’s a two-story building, tucked between Superior and Michigan Streets, one of the oldest ones in downtown Duluth.
    The laundry area is in the back, over which is an open-air loft with four pool tables, an air hockey table and a foosball table. It’s business savvy to be retro these days. We attract a lot of the UMD crowd, but, while it might look it at first glance, this isn’t just some hipster bar. A good deal of my clientele is rough around the edges, FTC and human alike.
    My boots squeak on the hardwood floors as I head to my office down the hall behind the bar. I snag a bottle of Jameson’s on the way.
    Yeah, I love alcohol, maybe a little too much. I love the way it tastes going down, the burn in my throat, the warmth in my belly. Hell, even the way the bottles look lined up in glittering rows behind the bar, jewel-like tones bright in the morning light. I love the way it smooths
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