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“Can you smell anything, Brody?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Brody grimly said.

We turned a sharp corner, and I glanced back to make sure Grove was keeping pace. “Grove, mantasps are a fae creature, correct?”

“Yep,” Grove gulped.

“Want to share anything about them?” Brody asked.

“They’re big,” Grove said.

“And?” Brody asked.

“They’re a combination of wasps and praying mantis, except it doesn’t have wings. Front appendages have scythes for claws. And it’s got a stinger in its abdomen. Poisonous,” Grove’s breathing was starting to come at a gasp.

“Brody, could you carry him?” I asked.

“Oooh, please do,” Grove flung himself at the werewolf.

“I’m not a pack pony,” Brody grunted, but he let the fae cling to his back as he raced along.

“This issomuch nicer,” Grove said. “It does jostle my bag though—I hope nothing breaks.”

“Grove,” I called, trying to keep the flaky fae focused. “Any weaknesses?”

“Its underbelly,” Grove said. “It’s got an exoskeleton that covers its back and legs, so the weakest point is its underbelly. Or its mouth, but it’s got a pair of serrated jaws that will mess you up, so maybe not a great target.”

“I’ve got a scent,” Brody announced. “It stinks of fae.”

“There’s blood,” I added a second later as I felt my throat tighten.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Grove said.

We burst onto Goldstein Street, and the scent of blood hit me like a wall.

Five mantasps roamed the street—the exact unnerving combo of wasp and mantis Grove had promised.

The biggest was the size of a large car, the smallest was still as big as a bear and had sapling sized legs. Their carapaces varied from grayish brown to a watery charcoal color, and the stingers Grove had warned us about were the size of my favorite dagger.

One of the mantasps knocked over a trash can that was bolted to the cement sidewalk like it was a toy.

Two of them were sawing at a lamppost with their front claws, clicking their serrated jaws at April—who had scaled the light. April shot the bigger mantasp in the face with a jolt of lightning that made the monster click in anger and stagger backwards, but the other one kept trying to ram her.

Binx—the werecat shifter—was facing off with the fourth mantasp in her human form, wielding a stop sign bolted to a cut-off post—probably the mantasp’s work.

One mantasp was down, its legs still twitching with its death throes.

The situation was bad, but Binx and April were doing a good job at containing the monsters considering the honking cars that had piled up at a stoplight two blocks down.

That makes five mantasps—where’s the sixth?

My sense of blood sharpened, and I caught sight of the last monster.

It was closing in on Clarence—the shyer of our squad’s two vampires.

Clarence was frozen, splayed out in the middle of the road, staring wide-eyed up at the monster, blood dripping from a nasty looking cut on his arm.

It’s going to stab him if he doesn’t move!