We’re Supernatural Protection & Investigations, known as SPI. Things that go bump in the night, the monsters you thought didn’t exist? We battle them and keep you safe. But some supernatural baddies are just too big to contain, even for us…   When I moved to New York to become a world famous journalist, I never imagined that snagging a job at a seedy tabloid would change my career path from trashy reporter to undercover agent. I’m Makenna Fraser, a Seer for SPI. I can see through any disguise, shield, or spell that a paranormal pest can come up with. I track down creatures and my partner, Ian Byrne, takes them out.   Our cases are generally pretty routine, but a sickle-wielding serial killer has been prowling the city’s subway tunnels. And the murderer’s not human. The fiend in question, a descendant of Grendel—yes, that Grendel—shares his ancestor’s hatred of parties, revelry, and drunkards. And with New Year’s Eve in Times Square only two days away, we need to bag him quickly. Because if we don’t find him—and the organization behind him—by midnight, our secret’s out and everyone’s time is up. FIRST IN A NEW SERIES Praise for Lisa Shearin   “Lisa Shearin is on my auto-buy list!”—Ilona Andrews, New York Times Bestselling Author of Magic Rises   “Shearin is a definite star on the rise.”—Linnea Sinclair, RITA Award-winning author of Rebels and Lovers “Lisa Shearin turns expectation on its ear and gives us a different kind of urban fantasy.”—C. E. Murphy, author of Raven Calls “Shearin weaves a web of magic with a dash of romance that thoroughly snares the reader. She’s definitely an author to watch!”—Anya Bast, national bestselling author of Wicked Enchantment “Lisa Shearin represents that much needed voice in fantasy that combines practiced craft and a wicked sense of humor.”— Bitten by Books Lisa Shearin currently works as the editor at an advertising agency.  She has been a magazine editor and writer of corporate marketing materials of every description.  Lisa enjoys singing, reading, writing novels, and fencing (foil and epee, as well as rapier & dagger dueling).  She lives in North Carolina with her husband, two cats, two spoiled-rotten retired racing greyhounds, and a Jack Russell terrier who rules them all. She is the author of Magic Lost, Trouble Found, Armed & Magical, The Trouble with Demons, Bewitched & Betrayed, Con & Conjure, and All Spell Breaks Loose. Most people grabbed a coffee on the way to work. I was clinking my way to the liquor store checkout with three bottles of Jack Daniels. One bottle would probably get the job done, but I snagged an extra pair for insurance. There was no way in hell I was doing this twice. The clerk’s eyes went from the bottles to me and back again before scanning them into the register. “For the morning staff meeting,” I said. “Gets the week off right.” The man gave me an I-just-work-here grunt. “Need a bag?” “Got it covered.” I started loading bottles into the messenger bag slung across my chest, winding an old towel I’d brought with me around and between them, careful to keep the bottles away from the borrowed thermal night vision goggles that were almost as critical as the booze for tonight’s job. I wasn’t far from where I was going, but I was trying to avoid any icy sidewalk accidents on the way there. It was two days until New Year’s Eve. The temperatures hadn’t risen above freezing the entire week, and since we had gotten an extra half foot of the white stuff last night, it felt at least ten degrees colder than it actually was. Though when you added in a wind that was cold enough to give an icicle frostbite, a couple of degrees one way or another didn’t make a hill of beans worth of difference. The liquor store was a block from the subway station, and it was only two more blocks from there to Ollie’s, so I walked and slipped and clinked. A man sitting propped against the outside of the liquor store heard that telltale sound and looked at me like he was a Lab and I’d just bounced a tennis ball. He started to get up, staggering as he did so. I pushed back my coat, giving him a good look at my gun. I wasn’t big, but my gun was. It was also a fake. I’d learned real quick that there was a big difference between owning, carrying, and shooting guns in the big city and doing the same back home. There were lots of rules that the NYPD got real bent out of shape about if you messed with. As a result, my new employer had yet to deem me qualified for a company-issued gun, so I’d bought myself one of those water pistols that looked exactly like a 9mm. If the sight of it wasn’t enough of a deterrent, I’d loaded it with tequila. Aim for the eyes then run like hell. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The man looked at me for a second or two, his eyes shadowed under a tattered hat, and apparently decided that while a small blonde sporting a ponytail wasn’t scary, the gun told him the risk probably wouldn’t be worth it. He actually smiled at me throug