Free The Isis Collar by Cat Adams

right next to my sporty convertible Miata in one of three marked places. Though technically, you could probably park fifty cars in front of my beach house if you didn’t mind digging your vehicle out of the sand on a regular basis.
    I’d nearly reached his car when he held out an arm to stop me, catching me across the chest. The impact made me cough and stopping short almost dumped me on my fanny in the slush thanks to my bad leg. Rizzoli didn’t say anything or look at me, just pointed what looked like a high-end remote control toward the black sedan. A chirp sounded from the remote, and then another. He kept holding down the button until five tones had sounded and the whole device glowed green. “Okay. It’s safe. We’ll talk once we’re on the road.”
    Safe? From what? I eyed the car suspiciously. “Should I be worried about getting in?”
    He shrugged. “Probably not. But careful keeps me alive. This remote checks for both traditional bombs and anything magical or demonic that might affect the car or anyone in it. If I hadn’t already adjusted it, you wouldn’t have been able to get inside with those fangs.”
    Sweet! I needed one of those. “Ooh … where’d you get it?”
    His dark eyes twinkled despite looking bloodshot and tired. He gave me a small smile over the roof of the car that told me the remote wasn’t a consumer model. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
    Of course. The government got all the good toys. Still, I was betting I had some he’d never seen before.
    The engine purred quietly after he put in the key and pressed the start button, but the thrumming under my feet told me there was more under the hood than I’d find in similar cars on the showroom floor. I waited impatiently while he steered out onto the open road. “Okay. So what’s up?”
    “We detained a foreign national last night. I need you to get some information out of him before bad things happen.”
    Um … excuse me? I turned my throbbing head to see if what he was suggesting even bothered him. “Just so we’re clear … how were you planning I’d do that?”
    He flicked his eyes away from the road long enough for me to see that he knew exactly what he was asking. “You’re a siren. Do I really need to say it out loud?”
    I glared at him. “No.”
    When I didn’t say any more, he was forced to ask, “No, I don’t need to say it, or no, you won’t help?”
    “Both.” No way in hell was I going any further in this plan, regardless of whether it would get him in trouble. Because I was controlling myself, my voice didn’t come close to the outrage I was feeling. “I can’t believe you’d even ask! I nearly wound up in prison for mental manipulation, Rizzoli, and that was before I even realized what my psychic abilities could do to a person. So, no. There’s nothing you can do to convince me to help you. Just take me back to my house. Find someone else to help you.”
    He sighed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. I could see it out of the corner of my vision. I stared out at the scenery, refusing to look at him, admiring the ice crystals dripping off waving palm trees. His voice was serious as death when he spoke next. “It’s important, Graves. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
    I felt my eyebrows rise high on my forehead. “Yeah? I’m pretty sure it’s not more important than my spending the rest of my life in a cage too small to sit up straight in. In fact, if I remember right, magical torture is banned by the Geneva Convention. Me using my innate abilities to force someone to talk is torture. It just is. Is this more important than winding up in front of the judges in The Hague? Turn around, Rizzoli. My answer is no.”
    Another exit whizzed by on the interstate and the car didn’t slow. Rizzoli reached down and pulled something from his pocket. Okay, that time I looked. He pressed a button on the cell phone and held it up to his ear.
    “Report. Have you secured