can't believe we're doing this," Eve hissed, her grip tightening on the silver crossbow as the elevator doors groaned shut. "We are in the middle of a high-stakes extraction, and you insisted on waiting for the elevator because you were worried about 'wind resistance' on your lapels?"
"It's called aerodynamics, Eve. Look it up. At forty miles per hour on a rooftop, this silk starts acting like a sail. Do you want me to be whisked away into the night like a very expensive, very hairy kite? Because I don't. Also, the lobby is forty floors down. My knees aren't what they used to be in the seventeenth century, and neither is my patience for cardio."
"You're a werewolf, Silas. You're supposed to be a tireless engine of primal fury. You shouldn't be complaining about stairs like a retired accountant with a bad hip."
"Primal fury doesn't pay for meniscus surgery. Besides, have you heard this elevator music? It's a low-fi jazz cover of a song that sounds suspiciously like it was written for a funeral home. It's soothing. It balances out your aggressive aura. You should try breathing, Eve. Your cortisol levels are probably high enough to melt a hole through that bulletproof vest. It's bad for your skin, and let's be honest, the Church doesn't offer the kind of dental plan you'll need if you keep grinding your teeth like that."
"If you don't shut up, I'm going to use your tail to mop this floor."
"Threatening a service animal? Classy. And technically, I'm an independent contractor, so that would be a breach of the labor code. Oh, look—floor thirty-two. Someone's getting on. Please, try to look like a normal human being and not a religious zealot having a mid-life crisis. And for the love of God, hide that crossbow. This isn't the Middle Ages; people get twitchy when they see oversized toothpicks in public spaces."
The doors slid open. A delivery driver with a helmet and a bag of lukewarm tacos stepped in. He glanced at Silas's blood-stained cuff, then at Eve's tactical gear, and finally at the unconscious Ronnie slumped in the corner.
"Cosplay convention?" the driver asked, staring at his phone.
"Method acting," Silas replied instantly, flashing a blinding, predatory smile. "We're filming a gritty reboot of Beauty and the Beast, but in this version, the Beast has a crippling debt problem and the Beauty has serious anger management issues. She's very committed to the role. That's why she's looking at you like she wants to exorcise your tacos."
"Whatever, man. Just don't get any 'special effects' on the bag. I'm on a timer."
The doors closed again. Eve looked like she was about to spontaneously combust.
"'Beauty and the Beast'?" she whispered, her voice dangerously low. "I am going to kill you. I am going to kill you, collect the bounty, and spend it all on a vacation where the only thing I have to hunt is a decent tan."
"With what budget? You just spent your quarterly bonus on those silver bolts you're too afraid to fire because you're worried about the paperwork. Admit it, Eve—you need me. Without my 'method acting,' that guy would've called the cops, and we'd be spending the night explaining to a sergeant why we have a kidnapped mobster in a high-rise elevator. By the way, Ronnie is leaking on my shoes. Eve, seriously, his head is touching my Italian leather. If you don't move him, I'm going to bill the Vatican for a full restoration. I'm talking premium calfskin treatment. Don't roll your eyes; they'll get stuck that way, and then you'll really look like a possessed nun."
"He's your informant, Silas. You move him."
"I'm holding the door open with my foot because the sensor is broken! I am literally the only thing standing between us and a very awkward mechanical failure. The least you could do is manage the luggage. And by luggage, I mean the man who holds the key to your continued employment. Show some respect for the cargo."
"I hate you."
"Naturally. But you love the fact that I'm the only one who knows which bar serves the cheapest gin in this district. Floor ten. Brace yourself, the lobby is going to be crawling with security, and I really, really don't want to get any more blood on this shirt. It's dry-clean only, Eve. Dry. Clean. Only. If you use me as a human shield again, I'm taking your boots as collateral