Free Hard Bitten by Chloe Neill

vampire I suspected, largely without evidence, was Malik.
    “Do they live under the bridges?” I wondered aloud, returning to the trolls.
    “Rain or shine, summer or winter,” Catcher said.
    “And why the open house? Is that just maintaining good supernatural relations?”
    “Now that things are escalating,” Catcher said, frowning as he used the toothpick to push out the seeds from a chunk of watermelon, “we’re working through the phone book. Every population gets a visit—an evening with the Ombudsman.”
    “Things are definitely changing,” Jeff agreed.
    “Things are getting louder.”
    We all looked back as a broad-shouldered river troll with short, ginger hair looked into the office. His wide-set eyes blinked curiously at us.
    He didn’t have much neck to speak of, so his entire torso swiveled as he looked us over. A light breeze of magic stirred the air.

    “Hey, George,” Catcher said.
    George nodded and offered a small wave. “It’s getting louder. The voices. The talk. The winds are changing. There’s anger in the air, I think.”
    He paused. “We don’t like it.” He shifted his gaze to me, a question in his eyes: Was I part of the problem? Making the city louder? Adding to the anger?
    “This is Merit,” Catcher quietly explained.
    “Chuck’s granddaughter.”
    Awareness blossomed in George’s expression.
    “Chuck is a friend to us. He is . . . quieter than the rest.”
    I wasn’t entirely sure what George meant by
    “quiet”—I had the sense it meant more to him than simply the absence of sound—but it was clear he meant it as a compliment.
    “Thank you,” I said with as much sincerity as I could push into those two words.
    George watched me for a moment. Thinking.
    Evaluating, maybe, before he finally nodded.
    The act seemed to carry more significance than just an acceptance of my thanks—like I’d been approved by him. I nodded back, my act just as significant. We were two paranormal creatures—members of different tribes, but nevertheless linked together by the city’s drama and an Ombudsman trying diligently to stem the tide—accepting each other.
    The connection made, George disappeared again.
    “Soft-spoken,” I commented when he was gone.
    “They are,” Jeff said. “The RTs keep to themselves, except when the nymphs request it.
    And even then, they appear, they work the task, and they head back beneath the bridges again.”
    “What kind of things do they do?”
    Jeff shrugged. “Generally they do the heavy lifting. Playing muscle for a nymph along her chunk of the river if there’s a boundary dispute, maybe enforcing the peace, maybe helping clean up that chunk of the river if the waters are moving too quickly.”
    Apparently done with his explanation, Jeff stretched out to straighten a silver picture frame now on one corner of his desk. I’d previously seen the many-tentacled plush doll that sat atop one of his monitors, but the frame was new.
    I walked over and peeked around his desk to get a glimpse of the picture. It was a shot of him and Fallon Keene. They’d apparently hit it off when the Keene family—and representatives of the rest of the Packs—had come to Chicago to decide whether to stay in their respective cities or head off to their ancestral home in Aurora, Alaska. The Packs had voted to stay, and the Keene family hadn’t yet returned to their HQ in Memphis. That respite must have given Jeff and Fallon time to get to know each other.
    In the picture, Jeff and Fallon stood beside each other in front of a flat brick wall, their fingers intertwined, gazing at each other. And in their eyes—something weighty and important.
    Love, already?
    “You look very happy,” I told Jeff.
    Crimson rose on his cheeks. “Catcher’s giving me crap about moving too fast,” he said, keeping his gaze on the monitors in front of him. “But he’s one to talk.”
    “He is already living with my former roommate,” I agreed.

    “Still in the room,”