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    I turned my gaze toward the bloodhunter. She was starting to stir, her hand gripping her silver knife, the wicked crimson blade now gone—the magic holding it together had vanished when her focus slipped. With a shaky breath, she pushed herself upright, leaning heavily on her good leg as she steadied herself. If I was going to clear this mess up, it had to be now.


    “Waste of time,” I muttered, glancing toward the undead couple and the bloodhunter, who was already standing, her weight shifted carefully onto her stronger leg. But there was no helping it—private investigators had a certain image to maintain. Without the hat, I was just some guy poking around in places I didn’t belong. With the hat? I was hard-boiled. Gumshoe enough for anyone to know they’d hired the right man for the job.