Publisher’s Note: The first four books in the Court of Bones and Ash series were written in serial format. This means each book ends in a cliffhanger, which is also mentioned in the book’s description. Although the series is complete, and compilation volumes are available, if cliffhangers aren’t your thing, it may be best to stop here. If not, I hope you love Rogar and Kyra as much as I do!

CHAPTER ONE

KYRA

“Rick, you got a minute?” I let the schedule drop against the pages stapled to the corkboard.

My boss cocks his head and smiles. We’re standing in a short hallway between the breakroom and his office. “I’ve always got time for you, doll. You look good tonight, Kyra.”

I’m dressed in my usual work attire: jeans, sneakers, and the mandatory black McNamara’s Irish Pub T-shirt. And I’ve probably got dark circles drooping halfway down my cheeks from being up most of the night writing a paper. But that doesn’t seem to stop my boss’s eyes from roaming across my chest.

I cross my arms. “Yeah. There’s a problem with the schedule. I’m on for tomorrow afternoon, but I’m not available until after three.” I have an interview about an internship I absolutely can’t miss. “I left you a note last week.”

“Did you? Hmm . . .” Rick leans in, closing the gap between us.

I press my back against the wall.

“I don’t recall seeing it.” He reaches over to fondle a loose strand of my hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail. “But I could be persuaded to change the schedule if you ask me nicely.”

I’m in a tight spot—literally—and he knows it. I want to slap the pompous grin off his face. If I didn’t need this job so badly . . .

“I’d really appreciate that. I can work closing.” It’ll suck because I’ve got an early morning class on Monday, but it’s definitely worth the aggravation if it means I can keep my job and do the interview with Professor Bradford.

“I’m willing to consider your request, Kyra. Why don’t you follow me to my office so we can discuss this further?”

One of the floor waitresses rushes by us, heading to the pub’s dining room.

I move away from the wall before Rick can slant his body closer, careful not to touch him in the process. This guy has been trying to get into my pants since the day I started six months ago. Looks. Innuendos. Offers to take me out for coffee to help me improve my skills as a bartender.

Puhleeze. He couldn’t mix a solid drink if I threatened to burn his toupee.

It takes every lick of patience I don’t possess not to roll my eyes right now. I see right through his empty promises. The problem is, he’s more than just my manager. His family owns the freaking bar.

I chew the inside of my cheek. I can always quit. But damn, I need the money. And the tips. I won’t make near what I do here in one weekend working anywhere else.

Rick smiles and pivots his body so he’s still facing me, then props his right shoulder against the wall. “So what’s it going to be?”

Breathe, Kyra. Just breathe.

I clear my throat. “Todd’s willing to switch shifts, so I think we’re good.”

He shakes a finger in the air. “I’m sorry, doll, but you know the rules. I need more than twenty-four hours’ notice. However, I might be amenable to turning a blind eye. But it’s going to take a bit more convincing on your part. I can’t have the help thinking I have favorites, now can I?” He reaches over and tugs the loose strand of hair he’d played with earlier. “I don’t bite.”

I don’t know how I keep myself from kneeing this son of a bitch in the groin. I remain standing, stiff as a rod, shooting daggers at him. “Excuse me. I need to get back behind the bar.” My break is almost over. I’m not about to give this asshole another reason to write me up when I fail to show up for work tomorrow.

He releases my hair. “Your call, doll.”

Doll?

Who says that anymore? He’s like a character from a bad eighties cop show.

Fuming, I spin on my heel and head for the pub. It’s that, or smash my boss’s head against the wall, which lands my butt in jail. And let me tell you, getting arrested is looking pretty good right now.

Noise and smoke assault my senses when I resume my station at the bar and take a customer’s drink order. I have six months until graduation. One hundred ninety-two more days until I can shove my notice up Rick’s skinny ass and start phase two of the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

I serve up the cocktail and laugh. Yeah, I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I do.

*

It’s 9:00 p.m, and there’s a line out the door. Not unusual for a Saturday, Sunday, or any night at McNamara’s. The pub is a hit with the locals and the college-aged crowd, which makes the establishment both a convenient hangout and a coveted workplace. Dozens of employment applications come in weekly, and despite Rick’s harassment of the staff, positions rarely open. Some of his employees have been here for fifteen years or more.

Smiling at a patron, I set his lager on the counter. Tonight is shaping up to be on the high end of normal tip-wise, but if I’m honest, I’m looking forward to sleeping more than the cash. I have my poli-sci paper to finish and my interview to prepare for. Everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve rides on me getting this internship. Tomorrow, I need to be alert and functional, not sleepy and cranky.

I still don’t know how I’m going to handle my shift dilemma. Despite my bravado, I can’t not show up for work. I’m just not programmed that way.

Glancing to my left, I spot Sandy standing with her back to the bar, shoulders hunched and her cell phone clutched to her ear.

I momentarily forget my work crisis.

Petite and in her thirties, Sandy’s a single mom with two little kids. She lost her husband to pancreatic cancer four years ago. Besides Molly, my former roommate and best friend, she is the only other person in this world I’d call a friend. She rarely takes personal calls when on shift, and never when she’s tending bar, which can only mean one thing.

Her sitter called.

I serve the IPA I poured, collect payment, and take the next drink order, a Captain Morgan and Diet.

Sandy ends the call and slips her cell phone into her back pocket. When she glances my way, her face is tight. She rolls her lips into her mouth and runs a hand through her curly brown hair.

“Hey.” I migrate to the center of the bar to collect a Collins glass from the rack below the counter. “What’s wrong?”

She quickly wipes the bar down, then reaches for a pint glass. “My kid is sick.”

“I’m sorry.” Rick’s been on her case lately about calling out. The woman works hard, comes in when called to work extra hours, does most of the weekend closings, and rarely switches shifts. But she’s also the only night bartender with young children who get sick, and for whatever reason, he refuses to cut her a break.

“Just sneak out.”

Her dark eyes widen.

I scoop ice from the well into the Collins glass and glance across the sea of tables to the booth on the far right wall of the pub. Our boss is fraternizing with a group of female patrons—all about my age, from what I can tell.

Jerk.

“You know he’ll be half in the bag in another hour.” And then gone with tonight’s unlucky hookup, whoever she might be. Typical Rick Bessette behavior.

“I can’t do that.” Sandy moves to the computer to enter a food order.

“He won’t even know you’re not here.” I set the bottle of Captain back in the well and reach for the soda gun. “I’ll stay and cover your shift.” And Todd, the other bartender on tonight, is cool. He won’t say anything.

“I can’t lose this job, Kyra.” She tilts the glass and pours lager from the tap, her hand unsteady. “I’ve got kids to feed. Bills to pay. And it’s not fair to you. Or Todd. Don’t you have that interview tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” One o’clock sharp with the political science department chair for the opportunity to intern at a prestigious law firm.

I swallow thickly. My future depends on getting my foot in the door and getting that scholarship. I can’t screw up.

But this is important too.

“Hey, I’m a senior. Burning the midnight oil is an essential part of the college experience.” I wink. “Besides, my shift ends in an hour. Whether it’s me here or you, the customers won’t care. So go. Take care of your son. We’ll cover for you. And if anyone should ask, I’ll tell them you’re on your dinner break. You know, the one you haven’t taken yet.” I arch a brow.

Sandy blushes, her dark skin flushing.

“You know he won’t stick around to micromanage the staff when his attention is elsewhere.”

We both glance across the room.

At least I hope not.

Sandy squeezes my arm. “Kyra, thank—”

Knowing what she’s going to say, my throat goes tight. I wave my free hand in the air before she can finish her sentence. “And don’t worry about Todd. He owes me a favor.” Or two.

I serve the Captain and Diet and ring up the sale. “Take my station for a sec so I can talk to Todd. Plus, it’ll make it easier for you to exit unnoticed from my end of the bar.”

We switch, and I get lost making and delivering drinks for a good ten minutes. To my left, Todd mixes cocktails, serving drinks and smiles to the ladies giggling before him. At five foot ten, he’s an inch shorter than me and reminds me of a young Jude Law, minus the accent. And he’s probably a heck of a lot nicer than the English dude.

Todd shakes his head at me. “I know what you’re gonna ask, tall fry.”

I smile at the endearment. Why can’t I be attracted to a nice guy like him? “What? Am I that easy to read?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Just a sucker for a sob story and a poor sap in a bad place. Ask me how I know.”

Handing a patron a menu, I look over my shoulder at him and laugh. “Then from personal experience, just admit I’m right and go with it.” I’d come to his rescue a time or two when a few wild nights got the better of him. “You know, if Rick were any other guy, we wouldn’t have to lie to save our asses.” I don’t feel guilty about deceiving the jerk. We clock in and out, so we’re not stealing from him or anyone else. It’s not our fault he doesn’t remember who’s supposed to be where after the fact.

Frowning, Todd nods. “It always comes down to money, doesn’t it? Rich boys like Rick grow up thinking the world revolves around them. They don’t care about people like us.” His gaze settles on Rick. “Be careful, Kyra. He’s got a thing for you.”

“He’s got a thing for wanting what he can’t have. I can handle myself.”

“Is that your roommate?”

Pushing a drink over the counter, I crane my neck to peer over the guys standing behind the couple seated at the bar. At Rick’s booth, a woman in a cherry red miniskirt, a white sleeveless top, and sky-high gold heels drapes over him, her blond hair falling in waves over the side of her face as she appears to whisper in his ear. I’ve tripped over those Jimmy Choos enough times to recognize the owner.

Victoria Robeson.

Oh hell. The fates have brought together the two people I hate most in this world.

“What is she doing here?” I deliver another menu to a woman with a pretty blue top sitting to my right, then set down napkins and silverware.

“Not her usual place, is it?” Todd comments.

I snort. “Nope. Not even close.”

Victoria Robeson is everything I’m not. Where she’s tiny and blond, I’m Amazonian and dark-haired. She doesn’t have to worry about maintaining a high GPA to hold a merit scholarship. I do. She doesn’t have to bust her ass at the pub almost every night to buy her high-end, barely there clothes. I do. Well, more like off-the-rack Walmart, but you get the picture.

She was assigned to my dorm a few months ago in late September after getting kicked out of her fancy sorority. Even daddy’s money and prestige couldn’t sway the chapter’s decision. So I got stuck with her. What the heck did she do to get herself kicked out of the sisterhood, anyway? Drugs? Bad grades? Neither would surprise me.

Oh, and she hates me. Why? I’ll never know.

Smiling at the lady in blue, I take her order and set off to make her drink, flicking my gaze over to Rick and Victoria. I can’t stop the groan that escapes my throat when I see Rick’s waitress heading in my direction.

“I’ll take it,” Todd says.

The look on the waitress’s face tells me everything I need to know. “Thanks, but it’s okay.” I can handle whatever Rick and Victoria throw at me. “Do you mind making the lady in blue a pomegranate margarita, no sugar?”

Todd nods and starts the drink while I enter her food order into the computer.

Jenna, Rick’s waitress, approaches the counter warily.

“What have you got?” I put a warm smile on my face. It’s not her fault our boss is an ass.

“A Guinness.”

Easy enough. I reach for the pint glass.

“And a Ramos Gin Fizz.”

Oh crap. I set the glass down.

“I’m sorry, Kyra.” Jenna looks over her shoulder.

Victoria’s eyes are on me.

“Shit.” Todd whips out his cell phone. “In the three years I’ve worked here, no one’s ever ordered one of those suckers.”

Yeah, well, lucky me.

“I know,” Jenna chimes in. “I looked like an idiot when I asked her to repeat the order.”

“It’s called ‘the most aggravating cocktail to mix’ for a reason.” Todd shows me the screen with the ingredient list and instructions. The site is one I’ve used before, so I trust it.

Apparently, these are popular in New Orleans, but virtually unheard of anywhere south of Boston. At least in my experience.

I start gathering the ingredients. Gin. Fresh lemon and lime. A fucking egg. Someone is testing me, or aiming to get me fired. Not going to happen. Not tonight, anyway.

Sandy hovers to my right. “You okay?”

“Yep.” I pour the gin into the mixing glass, then squeeze fresh lemon juice into a half-ounce jigger. “You know me. Always up for a challenge.” I move through the next set of ingredients: fresh lime, simple syrup, citrus juice. Wrinkling my nose at the sweet and pungent scent of the orange flower water, I shake a few drops into the mixture.

Double-checking the list on Todd’s phone, I add the remaining ingredients—vanilla extract, heavy cream, and the white of one egg. I wipe my sweaty palms against my thighs, then turn the mixing glass into the shaker tin, banging the bottom to create a good seal.

The secret to a good Ramos Gin Fizz? Shaking. Lots of shaking. And then more shaking. Enough to create the airy, milk-white froth the drink is famous for. But getting the marshmallowy top to rise over the tip of the glass so it’s stiff enough to stick a straw through has me worried.

“Isn’t that served at brunch or something?” Jenna asks. She’s about my age, average height, with pretty auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. “I had a girlfriend once who went to the Big Easy for spring break. I swear she raved about something like that as a miraculous hangover cure.”

“No idea.” My shoulder muscles are starting to ache, but I keep shaking. Adding the ice is the next step, but I’ve got to get the froth right. I catch Todd and Sandy glancing over nervously.

“That’s about a minute,” he tells me.

The longest minute of my life.

I set the shaker on the counter and break the seal, then add two large chunks of ice before I start vigorously shaking the drink again. Several minutes in, I’m mentally cursing Victoria, Rick, and Henry C. Ramos, the drink’s inventor. I could have mixed a boatload of cocktails in the time I’ve been standing here sweating, thank you very much.

After what feels like an eternity, and certainly less than the recommended twelve minutes of shaking, I set the shaker down and strain the white liquid into a Collins glass.

Sandy hands me the chilled club soda.

The moment of truth.

I suck in a breath, and with the aid of a mixing spoon, I stir the liquid and slowly pour the soda into the glass, watching the froth rise. Not over the lip, but it’s pretty enough to serve. Sticking the straw through the center, I grin, then place a napkin on the counter and the glass on top.

My hands are shaking when I pour the Guinness. Jenna trays the beer and Ramos Gin Fizz.

“Nice job, tall fry.” Together, Todd and I watch Jenna deliver the drinks.

“We’ll see,” I say.

Ten seconds later, Rick Bessette lifts his Guinness in my direction.

“Looks like you get a free pass tonight.”

“Nope.” I shake my head and blow out a breath. “Don’t count on it. I don’t get free passes.”

Ever.