Page 33 of A Dead End Wedding

I got a bad feeling.

Since Shelley was sweeping close to where I stood dusting shelves, I turned to face her.

“Hey, kid, how about you finish up that thing I asked you to do in the back room?”

“What thing—oh, right. The thing,” she said, catching on to my tension. “Going to do that right now.”

“Maybe text to see where our lunch is,” I said quietly.

Shelley glanced at the newcomers, then back at me. “I’ll do even better! I’ll call the lunch delivery guy.”

Yep. She was a very smart kid.

I watched her until the door closed behind her, and then I turned to offer a smile. “Hello. Welcome to Dead End Pawn. How can I help you?”

The woman continued to stare at me, but the man seemed to realize he should at least pretend to be interested in the shop, and he hastily looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here. We’re in the market for, um?—”

“Vampire fangs,” the woman interrupted with a sweetness that made my skin crawl. She was definitely up to something.

I pointed to the sign on my wall, but let my smile fall away. “We don’t buy or sell vampire fangs. You might try a shop in Orlando.”

“Oh, I think we preferyourlittle shop,” she said. “You being so famous and all.”

Uh oh.

There’d been many people who’d wanted to meet the famous “death-sayer” (not my word) after the news got hold of the story about Annabelle Hannah Yorgenson. Most were weirdos who wanted to gawk at me, lots of others were press, especially of the sleazy tabloid sort, but a few showed up to demand I tell them how they were going to die.

I had always declined.

“I’m not famous,” I said calmly. “I’m a small-town pawnshop owner, and if you’re not interested in buying or pawning anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Now, see here,” the man blustered, giving up any pretense of shopping. “Twyla and I can be here if we want. It’s a public place. We have rights.”

“You don’t have any rights in my shop, especially not the right to harass me. This shop is private property.” I moved behind the counter and picked up the phone. “But if you like, I have the sheriff on speed dial. Let’s call her up to settle the issue.”

“We just want you to answer a few questions,” the woman said, raising her own phone and pointing it at me, clearly filming. “We understand you’re in a battle with a Fae queen. Any comment?”

Great. Reporters.

“Yes,” I said cheerfully, in my best used-car-sales-commercial voice. I grabbed one of the T-shirts and held it up, logo side facing the camera. “Welcome to Dead End Pawn. Rush right down, because we’re having a sale on our logo merchandise. Twenty-five percent off today only! We carry them in all sizes. Not a T-shirt fan? Come on down and pick up one of our mugs. They’re going fast!”

Twyla made a growly frustrated noise, and I laughed out loud. If she thought her puny growl could scare me, she clearlydidn’t know I lived with a man who could turn into a tiger anytime he felt like it.

As if on cue, the front door slammed open, and my favorite Bengal tiger prowled into the shop. He stalked up to the man and snarled at him, and the guy stumbled back so fast he tripped over his own feet and fell butt-first into a display of taxidermied raccoons.

I winced.

Hopefully, he hadn’t crushed any. Those raccoons weregreatsellers.

Twyla was made of sterner stuff, though. After one startled “meep,” she turned her camera toward Jack. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Jack Shepherd, the perpetrator of many horrible atrocities during the vampire wars. Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Shepherd?”

Jack walked up to her, looked her in the eye—which was easy, because his head was level with hers—and yawned in her face. Then he sat down and scratched his ear with the claws on his hind foot.

“Out, please.” I held up my phone. “I already called the sheriff. It doesn’t take her long to arrive.”

“Freedom of the Press!” the man shouted, but somewhat sheepishly since he was brushing raccoon fur off his pants.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Just not in my shop.”

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