Supernatural Security Force Complete Series

The punk behind me was right on my ass. Adrenaline pumped through me until my magic hummed at the same vibration as the engine’s purr. Eyes locked on the pavement ahead, I pressed my foot harder on the gas and let the speed take over. Stress and worry fell away. Problems didn’t matter. For this forty seconds of asphalt, it was just me and the expert piece of machinery I now controlled.
“Eat our dust, bitchnuggets!”
Okay, me and Gran.
“Gran, you can’t call people bitchnuggets,” I said. “Why the hell not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because no one else’s grandma makes up weird curse words.”
“No one else’s grandma is a fucking beetle either.”
She had a point.
Last year, my grandpa Cal had passed away in his sleep. The next morning, overcome by grief, two things had happened to Gran. First, she accidentally shapeshifted into a June bug and lost the ability to shift back. And two, after realizing she was stuck in the body of an insect, she’d developed a potty mouth worse than a drunken sailor at Mardi Gras.
My mother was mortified by Gran’s new vocabulary, but I mostly just rolled with it. I’d be pissed too if I couldn’t change back to a form that included opposable thumbs. Or any creature whose number one predator wasn’t a mole or prairie dog.
“Shitmonkeys, he’s gainin’ on ya,” Gran said.
“I see it.” My gaze slid to the rearview and then back to the road. “Well?” Gran said. “Kick his ass already.”
“I’m working on it, Gran. Stop distracting me.”
A buzzing along my outer ear was my only answer.

“Hey, I’m trying to drive.” I swatted her away.
She huffed and landed on the dashboard again.
Just ahead, the road wound sharply left. It was a turn I’d made a thousand times without so much as a tire over the edge of the pavement. Anticipation built in my stomach, and I held my breath as I whipped the wheel around with one hand. With the other, I gripped the shifter. Tight and loose. It was the mantra Juice had taught me that I now repeated to myself over and over as the street lamps fell away, washing the view ahead in darkness.
The only light came from my headlights, and that wasn’t much help at this
speed.
Eighty-five. Ninety.
Ninety-five.
My personal best on this stretch was 101.
The highest speed on record was 112, but that guy hadn’t made the S-turn. I wasn’t interested in beating his record if it meant hydroplaning off the edge of the bulkhead and into the river churning below.
My tires hugged the corner as I went into the first of the double turn.
“Yeehaw,” Gran called.
My vision sharpened, the headlights not quite keeping up with the front end as I whipped expertly around the switchback curve.
The cool night air seeped in around me, but my insides were hot. Intent on the speed, the precision, and the Jetta coming up on my right.
“Gem, this little pissant is makin’ a move,” Gran said in warning. “I see it.”
Asshole thought he could take me on the inside.
I snorted, my eyes darting to the mirror that showed his front bumper inching closer.
Dumbass was still giving it gas.
He’d regret that in about eight seconds.
The second half of the switchback sent my tires screaming. I smiled to myself, knowing full well I’d just kicked up a solid cloud of smoke for my opponent. It also meant I’d need a new set of tires after tonight. Juice was going to go off, but it was worth it.

A second later, my fae hearing proved me right. The roar of the Jetta’s engine dialed back just enough to let me know he’d eased up.
“Hot damn, girl. That’s some badass driving,” Gran hooted.
My muscle memory had me anticipating the last turn even before I saw it. A benefit of having raced this track so many times before. The Jetta behind me was new. He was holding his own a lot better than I’d expected, but it wouldn’t be enough.
I knew this course like the back of my hand.
Besides, after all the work Juice and I had done to this baby, that Jetta was no match for my Acura.
A sudden shove sent me lurching forward.
“What the—” Gran’s wings buzzed as she was flung off the dash and barely
caught air before being slammed into the window.
Outside, the sound of metal crunching had my eyes narrowing. I straightened, eyes darting to the rear mirror. The Jetta had dropped back and was coming in again.
“What in tarnation was that?” Gran demanded.
None of us had the heart to tell her “tarnation” wasn’t a curse word. “Son of a. . .” I trailed off.
The jackwad had hit me. On purpose.