Free Shadow Magic by Cheyenne McCray Page A

hole in the wall of his sorry excuse for an office. Or knocking one of the many stacks of file folders on his desktop across the room.
    As captain of the San Francisco PSF—Paranormal Special Forces—Jake was expected to clean up this whole goddamned mess with Ceithlenn and the demons.
    Immediately. Without the D’Anu and the D’Danann.
    Jake gripped the Styrofoam coffee cup on his desk and crushed it in his fist, realizing too late it still contained a quarter cup of cold coffee.
    â€œGoddamnit,” he growled. The smell of black coffee rolled out along with the liquid that came just about too close to his laptop.
    He slapped scrap paper on the mess and pushed as much of the coffee as he could into a waste can he grabbed from beneath the desk. Damnit, no napkins, no tissue. But he could use a towel from his gym bag.
    It was almost surprising he didn’t take off the desk’s laminate top as hard as Jake rubbed the remnants of the coffee off his desk with the hand towel he snatched out of his bag. When he finished, he wiped the coffee off his hands just as hard.
    Not too much over a week ago, the day after it all went
down, Jake had helped the witches make their escape with the D’Danann to that whatever-the-hell-it-was Otherworld place. He’d been in touch with the D’Anu witch, Silver, and the D’Danann warrior, Hawk, since then, working out the details of getting all of the witches and D’Danann back to San Francisco and setting up shop. But it hadn’t happened yet.
    Jake glanced at a framed picture on one of his walls. From the time he was old enough to grasp the concept of baseball, he’d been a diehard Giants fan. The photo was of the San Francisco Giants, taken the last time the team had won the World Series. A close friend, Raul Jimenez, who’d been a star right-fielder with the Giants, had given Jake the picture. It was probably worth thousands—the photo was signed by every member of the team.
    Most of whom were now dead.
    That World Series Championship win came before Ceithlenn, the bitch goddess, had murdered thousands in the Giants’ stadium. Including his friend Raul and other members of the team.
    That ever-present empty place in Jake’s gut grew larger with every person the goddess murdered.
    Locals had continued to call the stadium Candlestick Park, despite the stadium having been rebuilt and moved into the city—and renamed depending on what corporation was sponsoring it. Once it had been called Monster Park, named after a sponsor’s product.
    How fucking appropriate.
    Now, with the taint of what the goddess had done, the park held terrifying memories for the citizens of San Francisco. Jake couldn’t imagine calling it Candlestick Park again.
    A knock on the doorframe caught Jake’s attention and he turned to see Lieutenant Landers in the doorway, holding a newspaper. Like most of his officers, she looked like hell with blackish-blue circles under her blue eyes and exhaustion darkening her expression.
    â€œGot word, Captain.” Landers’s short blond hair was
ruffled as if she’d just rubbed her hand over it. “Our new HQ is ready for occupation.”
    Thank God . Jake gave a sharp nod as he balled up the coffee-stained towel and tossed it into a corner. “Make sure every last one of our officers packs their crap and gets it to the warehouse on the QT, and in a hurry,” he said. “Grab only what’s absolutely necessary to the mission.”
    It hadn’t taken a hell of a lot to convince the owner to turn the pier warehouse over to the PSF. Martial law, combined with the police department’s authority to commandeer property under extreme circumstances, gave them all the power they required.
    â€œYou’ve got it.” Landers didn’t move from the doorway. Instead she extended the newspaper she’d been holding and he took it from her. “Another