ã€ŠBound By Mischief (Valkaria Mysteries #1)ã€‹


 A Quick Spark: Chapter 1

    September 2021

    When Harvest Rosenbloom met her soon-to-be brother-in-law, she never expected to end up falling in love with him. Or is this love, she wonders, looking down at the text message that popped up on her phone screen a minute ago.

    It¡¯s probably not love. Not really. Just a passing whimsy. An idea she keeps circling back to.

    She reads through the message again, wondering if she¡¯s misread it. No, she has the right words, but it¡¯s the most suggestive message she has received from Ezra yet. It feels like the edge of a precipice.

    More like she is preparing to walk through a wall of flame, only if it¡¯s to escape from a burning house or waltz right into one, she isn¡¯t sure. Either way, it¡¯s an apt metaphor considering Ezra¡¯s affinity for fire-work, a gift that runs in his family much like the spellcraft and aura reading that runs in hers.

    Not that she couldn¡¯t acquire some measure of skill working with fire if she really tried. The affinity may be nurtured through family lines, but the mischief¡ªancient magic passed down through birth, bite, or curse¡ªremains the same. Harvest and Ezra are both mischief-born witches, forever bonded in their power despite their different affinities.

    Maybe she could ask Ezra to give her a lesson or two? He¡¯s a teacher, after all, at a magical school just outside of Valkaria town limits. She decided against the formal education route, sticking with the Rosenbloom tradition of apprenticeship, and it would be nice to learn a new skill. Nothing crazy, just enough to light a candle with a snap of her fingers perhaps. Her own gift¡ªa second-sight that allows her to see the auratic energy that people unknowingly give off and leave behind¡ªis far less practical than something like conjuring fire.

    Then again, her second-sight does help to read feelings: she can sense a person¡¯s intentions and emotional state, sometimes even more accurately than the person themselves. It means that she is rarely wrong-footed in a conversation, though clearly she is easily startled by text messages.

    She does wonder vaguely what Ezra¡¯s aura would look like right now, though. A simmering vermilion? A deep rich garnet? A very obvious scarlet, she thinks, reading his words again.

    She shouldn¡¯t respond.

    He¡¯s drunk, misspelling words he would normally never misspell. Sharing thoughts with her he would never normally share.

    I think Hazel can warm you up enough, she types out. Then she deletes it.

    Instead, she navigates to the ongoing messaging thread with her sister and types: Wanna grab a drink?

    The response from Hazel comes a few seconds later: Having a late dinner with Ezra. Maybe tomorrow night?

    Before she can respond to Hazel, Ezra sends another message: Shit. Sorry. I shouldn¡¯t have said that. Just wanted to hang out with a friend!

    That¡¯s better, and probably truer to his original intention than what her imagination had conjured. She wonders idly what Hazel is truly up to; she¡¯s certainly not with Ezra if he¡¯s texting Harvest.

    A few years ago, Harvest would know exactly where her sister was. They would probably be together, truth be told. It is with a sad jolt in her heart that she realizes the distance that has grown between them.

    They¡¯ve been slowly drifting apart, two wayward leaves that have fallen on opposite sides of the tree. Harvest with her entry-level job at a tech start-up. Hazel with her new responsibilities as the manager of their family-owned diner.

    Adult life, once coveted, suddenly seems so heavy to Harvest.

    Maybe Hazel is actually with Ezra right now, she tries to convince herself. Maybe they can spend time together tonight, she lies to herself.

    She types out a reply to Ezra, reads it four times for errors or phrases that could be misconstrued, and then hits send.

    <hr>

    In the heart of Valkaria, miles away from Harvest and her worry-chewed lip and her hesitant words, Hazel Rosenbloom slips her phone back into her pocket and smiles easily at Grayson Locke, the vampire who is sitting next to her.

    The Vintage Lounge is crowded since it¡¯s a Saturday night, but Hazel and Locke have secluded themselves in the corner booth, in just one of many shadows in the bar. A spell contained in her bracelet keeps their conversation from the prying ears of the demons, werewolves, shifters, and vampires packed into the tiny rectangular room.

    ¡°Everything alright, love?¡± he asks, giving her a rakish smile, his canine tooth just a little too pointy to be human. His face is shadowed in red from the neon sign hanging on the wall, but even without the light, his eyes would still be pools of crimson.

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    When she first met Grayson Locke a few months ago, she had been waiting for Ezra at the Vintage Lounge. It¡¯s not their usual bar, but it¡¯s down the street from the diner she manages. He was late, as usual, and she spent the hour chatting to the deceptively young vampire sitting next to her.

    The vampire was attractive enough, if a little too posh for her tastes, but his swept-back hair, well-tailored suit, and cordial, polite smile made her unusually comfortable talking to him. There were no leering looks, no suggestive comments about her body (her auburn hair has been the subject of many pick-up lines over the years). There were no unwanted invasions of her personal space, no cringy declarations of how attractive she was or how much he wanted to wake up next to her in the morning.

    He was a perfect gentleman, and when Ezra did eventually show up, she found herself missing the smooth tones of Locke¡¯s voice, his ability to keep his hands to himself, his keen sense of hearing that meant she didn¡¯t have to yell over the crowd. Locke had been remarkably charming and clever in their hour-long conversation, and so impressed with her skill in spellcraft that she demonstrated her homemade shield bracelet for him several times. As a vampire, Grayson Locke may have some measure of mischief in his blood, but mischief-made creatures like him can¡¯t wield or even really understand magic like hers.

    They¡¯ve met up at least once a week since, always at the Vintage Lounge. Even though he looks entirely out-of-place among the burly werewolves and the grungy vampires, he is always perfectly at ease, slipping himself into spaces with a quiet authority, looking as at home in the low lights and peeling vinyl seats as he would standing on the balcony of an Italian villa.

    She hasn¡¯t told Ezra¡ªhasn¡¯t told anyone¡ªabout her unlikely friendship with Grayson Locke. For one, she¡¯s fairly certain he is the head of an underground criminal network. He has never said as much, of course, but between his choice of nightly haunt, the expensive shoes, and ostentatious diamond ring, the ominous scar on his arm, and the numerous times their conversations have been interrupted by other bar-goers for a short conversation about ¡°business,¡± she¡¯s fairly certain her assumption is accurate.

    Further still, his interest in her skills and his casual requests for certain trinkets (a much kinder word for what they could be, which is weapons) have become more frequent and specific as of late.

    Adding it all together, she¡¯s fairly certain that Grayson Locke is an entrepreneur happy to exist somewhat on the outside of the law.

    ¡°Just my sister. I¡¯ll call her later,¡± she says, a small stab of guilt that she hasn¡¯t done the best at keeping up with Harvest lately. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow, they¡¯ll get together and drink too much wine and laugh the same laugh while Ezra rolls his eyes at their sisterly inside jokes. There¡¯s a smaller part of her that realizes this for the lie it is: there will be something to do tomorrow that gets in the way. A work-thing to attend. She¡¯ll be tired. Harvest won¡¯t respond in time.

    There is always something in the way these days.

    Truthfully though, it¡¯s Ezra she should be spending more time with. Their fight last night was not a new topic, and it¡¯s been dominating their conversations lately. It almost feels choreographed sometimes, like they¡¯re rehearsing for a play, saying the same lines over and over until they no longer have any meaning.

    Hazel sips her drink, refocusing her thoughts on the present moment. ¡°What were we talking about?¡± she asks Locke.

    His gaze flickers down to her neck, and he reaches out to touch the most recent addition to her necklace. The new pendant sits next to the H charm given to her when she turned eleven¡ªa Rosenbloom family tradition. Harvest has one just like it. The pendant, however, is not a Rosenbloom family tradition, though she did find it at the bottom of her aunt¡¯s jewelry box. The gold trinket is heart-shaped and has a single red garnet set in the middle of the front. The pendant itself isn¡¯t what matters though: it¡¯s the nifty little bit of spellcraft carved into the back, a mischief of her own making.

    Locke¡¯s finger is cold against her collarbone. ¡°You were trying to convince me that this little piece of gold could make the wearer invisible.¡±

    ¡°Not quite invisible,¡± she says. ¡°More like, not important enough. It works best if you¡¯re standing right next to the person, though you have to be sure they don¡¯t touch you.¡±

    ¡°And how do you activate it?¡±

    ¡°With a kiss,¡± she says, amused when his gaze flickers down her lips. ¡°Press the side with the symbol to your lips.¡±

    She shows him the face of the heart-shaped pendant, the garnet the same shade as his eyes, then she flips it over to show him the alchemical symbol she etched into the metal. The symbol is technically four symbols, overlaid, stretched, and arranged together again to form something new, something layered and complex despite its simplicity in aesthetics.

    ¡°Let¡¯s see it then,¡± he says, leaning back and motioning with his hand, the incline of his head welcoming her to a stage. Locke always appreciates a good performance and she sometimes feels a bit like a court jester, performing silly tricks for his amusement.

    But this isn¡¯t a silly trick, she thinks. The mischief appears simple, but the process was far from it. It¡¯s taken her a year to refine the technique and it¡¯s caused countless migraines and quite a few nosebleeds in the process.

    Hazel presses the gold to her lips, feeling a small spark of mischief, and is momentarily forgotten by him. He blinks, confused, then picks up his drink.

    She watches him as he checks the time and glances around the room, his eyes skating right by her without a hint of recognition.

    She allows herself to admire the smooth planes of his face, his full lips, and his chiseled jawline. He looks impossible, the product of an artist¡¯s wine-drenched musings.

    He is carved marble or paint strokes or smoothed, polished bronze.

    But she reminds herself that he is real.

    All too real.

    It wouldn¡¯t do to forget Grayson Locke¡¯s true nature. The red neon light makes his eyes look simply dark but also frames his mouth in a color it knows only too well.

    She has never seen him consume blood, but it doesn¡¯t take much to imagine his lips on the soft skin of a woman¡¯s neck, to envision the wound left behind by his bite, to wonder how many of those bites have led to death.

    How many shirts has he ruined with spilled blood? Probably not many, she thinks. Locke seems like he has impeccable manners. Surely, he knows how not to make a mess of a meal.

    With a sigh, she deactivates the charm and almost laughs at his startled look. He quickly recovers, smiling widely.

    ¡°Incredible work, as always,¡± he says, reaching for his wallet. ¡°How much?¡±

    ¡°Actually, I had another form of payment in mind,¡± she says, her hand on his thigh.

    He arches a delicate eyebrow as he slips his wallet back into his pocket. ¡°Indeed.¡± He glances down at her hand, her pale skin stark against the black of his suit. ¡°Let¡¯s take this somewhere a little more private, then.¡±

 A Quick Spark: Chapter 2

    The bar is out-of-the-way, almost outside of town limits, in a relatively new area of Valkaria. It¡¯s on the southern border of the town, so Harvest isn¡¯t surprised to see that there is no welcoming symbol affixed to the door or on a bronze plaque or somehow worked into the logo.

    Valkaria may look like an average-sized, rural municipality on the map, insignificant due to its lack of notable landmarks or tourist-worthy attractions, but the reality is that there is an unspoken divide. A line splits the town in half: the north is all magic and mischief while the south is mundane. Normal. Mortal. The mischief-bound community has never settled on a word for those who are non-magical; at the end of the day, it doesn¡¯t matter the language used. The divide must be maintained and so it is, through the continued efforts of the Valkaria¡¯s northern residents. The welcoming symbols are just one of the ways to delineate which side of town is which.

    Of course, it¡¯s not the symbol itself that matters, merely the presence of one.

    All welcoming signs are variations of the symbol for salt, the carved or painted lines denoting a circle of protection that is largely agreed upon more so than physical. The lack of a symbol is a reminder to Harvest that she¡¯d do well to keep her mischief to herself.

    Then again, even if she were to blink into her second-sight momentarily, the resulting white glow could always be played off as a trick of the light. The fact that it is Saturday night means that the bar is packed with people, all of them with no clue that beyond their gated communities, or hiding in their sprawling suburbs up north or disguised as a rundown dilapidated warehouse district, is a world of mischief and magic. They are drunk and laughing and carefree. A flash of white glowing eyes would hardly warrant further inspection.

    Harvest has never been to this bar, but it¡¯s not an entirely unusual choice for Ezra. The institution that Ezra teaches at is the Valkaria-Grim College of the Arcane, a magical school that lies to the west of Valkaria city limits, not too far from the unspoken southern line. The southern residents know it as a nature preserve, which is off-limits due to the almost constant reports of a wild boar infestation. It¡¯s entirely possible that Ezra was on his way home from the college and merely stopped off for happy hour.

    Then again, it¡¯s almost nine o¡¯clock and happy hour has long since passed.

    Harvest pushes her way through to the far side of the room where she can just see Ezra¡¯s messy hair above the crowd. He sits at one of the high-top tables, nursing a glass of whiskey, darting his eyes around until they land on her rose-gold hair. He stands to meet her and suddenly, it all feels more like a date than it should.

    ¡°Hey, you,¡± he says, dropping a quick kiss to her cheek, his hand on the small of her back. He¡¯s not as drunk as she thought he¡¯d be, or maybe he¡¯s hiding it well. ¡°Ordered you a glass of Pinot Grigio.¡±

    She takes the proffered glass with a smile and clinks it against his tumbler of whiskey. The sound is drowned out by the crowd around them though, the voices and laughter and thump of heavy bass seemingly louder all of a sudden. She takes a sip and then leans closer so he can hear her as she asks, ¡°So, how was your day?¡±

    ¡°I had my first years today,¡± he says with a grimace.

    Harvest laughs at his miserable look. His latest class of first-year students are learning the basics of elemental magic and more than a few are having difficulty grasping the concepts. It doesn¡¯t help that the Saturday morning start time is an abomination at that particular age and the students are less than alert most times. Of course, the coursework should be entirely theoretical, but a few of the students are more enthusiastic than Ezra would prefer. ¡°And what did they burn today?¡±

    ¡°Nothing. Today was water. And the entire classroom was flooded within a minute.¡±

    ¡°Lucky for them, you can heat up a room in mere seconds,¡± she says, thinking of his affinity with fire and not quite realizing the implications of her words.

    He smirks and leans closer. ¡°Is that right?¡±

    She hates that her cheeks are flushed, and she hides her emotions in her glass as she takes another sip of wine. ¡°Well, my day was terrible,¡± she says.

    He frowns and places a comforting hand on her knee. ¡°Tell me about it.¡±

    So, she does.

    They chat about nothing and everything for two hours, while the crowd around them ebbs and flows. The music seems to disappear, though maybe that¡¯s because their heads are bent so close together, they might as well have transported themselves to a pocket universe, populated only by them.

    Her glass is refilled twice, his three times. Harvest takes a sip, aware that she hasn¡¯t eaten dinner. Ezra seems to read her mind, sliding a menu over to her.

    ¡°So where¡¯s Hazel tonight?¡± she asks, eyes reading through the list of bar snacks, wondering if they have fried pickles.

    ¡°We broke up,¡± he replies.

    Harvest looks up, startled. She isn¡¯t sure how to respond, but she feels the knowledge like a live wire, a shock against her sternum.

    ¡°We had a fight last night,¡± he adds, after finishing his whiskey in one smooth motion. His eyes are downcast, trained on the table, his glass, his hands. Anywhere but at her. ¡°She stormed out. I think that¡¯s a good sign that she¡¯s through with me.¡±

    ¡°You know Hazel,¡± she says. ¡°All drama until her emotions settle down. She¡¯ll come back. She loves you.¡±

    He takes a deep breath and seems to steady himself before looking up at her. ¡°I think she¡¯s cheating on me.¡±

    Most likely, Harvest thinks. Why else would Hazel lie about being with Ezra tonight? ¡°Hazel would never¡ª¡± she begins to say.

    ¡°Harv, I know you think the best of your sister, but she¡¯s human. She makes mistakes.¡± He pauses, his eyes glancing down to her lips. ¡°So do I,¡± he adds, half to himself.

    Her cheeks burn under his gaze, and she takes a sip of her drink. ¡°I know Hazel isn¡¯t perfect.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here,¡± he says suddenly, standing up but still leaning close, his lips almost touching her ear.

    She can feel the anxiety rolling off him. She doesn¡¯t need her second-sight to know that his aura is vibrating. A burned orange. A sunset in summer. She feels a little jittery herself, as if his aura is a living, sentient thing that has latched onto her, reverberating through her body. There are two tangled notes in the same chord.

    ¡°There¡¯s a Chinese restaurant next door,¡± she says. ¡°We could grab some food.¡±

    He shakes his head, a hand on the small of her back, leading her out of the bar. ¡°I¡¯ve got something better.¡±

    She glances up at him and sees something quite like trouble glistening in his eyes.

    <hr>

    The beach is technically closed to the public at this hour, but there is no one around to tell them to leave. They sit in the sand, shoulders just shy of touching, and watch the dark green waves roll up onto the shore. The sky is a pale grayish-purple with smudges of clouds, a slim line of teal where the ocean meets the sky.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    The air is crisp, salt-infused, and biting against their cheeks. She licks her lips and tastes the ocean, mixed with the fresh apricot and pear notes of the wine they picked up along the way and are sharing now, taking turns drinking straight out of the bottle like teenagers at a bonfire.

    Ezra is attempting to explain how to wield fire. He has adopted what she has dubbed his teaching voice. Instead of the quick-paced frankness of his normal tone, his teaching voice is slow and steady. Entirely sure of itself.

    It¡¯s almost like he¡¯s singing to her. Of course, she highly doubts his voice is this low and husky while he¡¯s teaching his students. It¡¯s a voice reserved entirely for her and this moment. The thought makes her stomach flip.

    ¡°It starts in my chest, usually. I can feel the heat just under my skin.¡±

    She frowns and looks down at her hands, searching for the feeling he¡¯s describing.

    He watches her frustration deepen for a moment and then lets out a short chuckle. ¡°Let¡¯s try something else.¡± He shifts so that he is sitting behind her, stretching his legs out on either side of her

    She moves too, scooting backward as he reaches around her, one hand on her belly, fingers splayed wide, and the other hand grasping her own.

    ¡°Relax,¡± he mumbles against her hair. ¡°Breathe with me.¡±

    She can feel his chest, rising and falling, and she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. After a few seconds of breathing, he says, ¡°Now, focus on your core¡ª¡± She feels a slight pressure on her belly, and she tries not to squirm, ¡°¡ªand think of fire. Heat. Sunlight. Lightning. Crackling wood. The smell of smoke.¡±

    With his body pressed against hers and his thumb rubbing tiny circles against her stomach, slipping a little lower with each breath, it doesn¡¯t take much to think of heat. She feels like she is already on fire, like there are flames in her blood.

    She opens her eyes, steadies her breath, and snaps her fingers.

    The tiny spark is just a flash in the night, the wisp of smoke just visible in the starlight.

    ¡°Well that¡¯s useless,¡± she says.

    She can feel the amusement in his body before he even speaks, a soft exhale of breath that is warm against her neck. ¡°Keep practicing. Sometimes a quick spark is all you need to start a fire.¡±

    She turns to look up at him, not quite sure what to say or do in reply, but not yet willing to leave his embrace. His hand shifts even further down her stomach.

    Ezra looks at her with eyes half-lidded, lips parted. The heat from his skin sinks into her own like sunshine.

    His mouth is on hers before she can catch her breath. Before she can remember who she is and who he is and why they¡¯re there together, at night, with the soft lull of the waves and the cool soft sand. His mouth is warm, the kiss bruising, needy, hungry. She is shaking, and she isn¡¯t sure why. She needs to take a breath. She needs to back away from him and his embrace, but she wants to lean forward, wants to run her hands through his already messy hair, wants to bite his lower lip, wants to press her body against his until the sun rises.

    Ezra pulls back slightly, his breath still on her lips.

    ¡°I¡­¡± She pauses, licking her lips, tasting peach and salt and a hint of whiskey. ¡°It¡¯s really over between you and Hazel?¡± she asks softly.

    He nods, his lips brushing delicately against her own, a small spark zapping against her skin. ¡°I¡¯ve wanted this for so long,¡± he murmurs.

    She¡¯s not sure if it¡¯s his gift or simply his words that make her feel like her own body is on fire. He ducks his head to capture her lips again and the second kiss is gentler, soft, but not fleeting.

    She has thought about Ezra constantly since they met, her thoughts becoming increasingly more romantic as their friendship grew. Still, there was a wall between them, a barrier keeping them apart. She is all too willing to let it fall tonight, but now that it has, she feels lost. Although she can¡¯t deny that she is attracted to Ezra Evans, the fact remains that he was, up until very recently, going to be her brother-in-law.

    The thought seems to wake her up. She pulls back with a sharp intake of breath. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°If this is because of Hazel, I told you. We broke up.¡±

    ¡°I know. But it¡¯s too soon. I think¡­¡± She takes a shaky breath, stepping over the crumbling remains of that wall and joining him on the other side. ¡°I think I love you. And I want this to happen, but not right now, for the sake of Hazel¡¯s feelings. We should wait a bit¡­before we¡­¡± She lets her words fall between them.

    Ezra¡¯s gaze flickers down to her lips as he considers her for a moment. His lips are cherry-red from their kiss, his eyes darkened with want. He reaches out and runs his thumb against her lower lip as if he misses the way it fits against his own.

    He nods, reluctant, yet resigned.

    <hr>

    Hazel lets herself into the apartment, cheeks red from the coolness of the night. The front hallway is dark, and she hangs her keys beside the door as silently as possible. She slips off her heels and walks softly to the kitchen, taking care to avoid the middle of the hardwood floor, which has been known to creak forlornly at the most inopportune times.

    Her care is unwarranted, however.

    ¡°Oh, didn¡¯t think you¡¯d still be up,¡± she says, blinking against the harsh kitchen lights.

    Ezra looks up from the tumbler of whiskey he¡¯s nursing. ¡°Couldn¡¯t sleep,¡± he mumbles. ¡°Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d come back tonight.¡±

    She sighs. ¡°I know. I¡¯m sorry about last night. I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± He stands, the kitchen stool sliding against the tile with a screech. ¡°I¡¯m heading to bed.¡±

    He moves to walk past her, but she reaches for his arm. ¡°Don¡¯t walk away. Don¡¯t ignore this.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t ignore¡ª¡± He scoffs. ¡°You mean don¡¯t ignore you like you¡¯ve been ignoring me? Don¡¯t walk away like you¡¯ve been walking away? I¡¯m just doing what you¡¯re doing.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not f¡ª¡±

    ¡°Fair?¡± he says, taking a step closer to her. His voice should be loud¡ªshe knows him as that: loud and brash, indulgent and uncaring. But when he speaks now, his voice is low and steady, the emotions having smoldered too long in between them. ¡°I don¡¯t give a fuck about fair anymore, Hazel.¡±

    ¡°What happened to us?¡± she asks quietly, more to the space between them than to the stranger standing in front of her. For the first time in their relationship, his anger feels insurmountable.

    But then her sadness gives way to indignation.

    ¡°It¡¯s not my fault,¡± she says firmly. ¡°I took over a business for my family. We talked about it beforehand, and we agreed that it was the right choice. That Tabitha¡¯s Diner matters. That my mother¡¯s memory matters.¡±

    That was the crux of the decision, after all: not that Hazel had any inclination toward running a diner, but that the diner was started by her parents and that it was named after her mother. Harvest wasn¡¯t going to take over and Hazel wasn¡¯t particularly beholden to any professional obligations at the time.

    Initially, the main concern was the substantial cut in income, but Ezra said he could support both of them for a while until she got settled in at her new job. The goal was to bring the restaurant back up to the level of profitability it had been when her mother was still alive.

    Neither of them had considered how time-consuming it would be to run a small business.

    But it¡¯s not just the diner that¡¯s taking up her free time, she reminds herself. It¡¯s her work for Locke, too, that adds to her exhaustion at the end of the day. It¡¯s her work for Locke that has led to ¡°late nights at the diner¡± and headaches that lead her straight to bed when she does finally make it home.

    She takes a deep breath, pushing the indignation aside with some force. ¡°But I can do better. I can delegate more often. I want to spend more time here. With you.¡±

    His gaze softens, and he runs a hand through his already messy hair. Up close, she can smell the alcohol, see the redness of his eyes. She moves closer to him, reaching up to brush his hair behind his ear.

    She lets her hand rest on his cheek, and he leans into her touch, just briefly, before he reaches up to remove her hand.

    ¡°I need to tell you something,¡± he says, in that low, steady voice again.

    She frowns and takes a step back, a cold shock of anxiety washing over her shoulders.

    ¡°I thought we were¡­¡± He runs his hand through his hair, considering his words. Then he starts again. ¡°Something happened between me and Harvest.¡±

    She takes another step back, reaching up to nervously tangle the H charm on her necklace and wishing it was the pendant she made for Locke. She wants to run away from this conversation. She wants to be forgotten and disappear into the night.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asks, proud that her voice is strong and clear despite the pounding of her heartbeat.

    ¡°I love her,¡± he says.

    She takes another step away from him, as he continues to ramble off excuses. She backs away from him even as he lunges forward, reaching for her, even as the words I¡¯m sorry tumble from his lips over and over again until it¡¯s all she hears.

    I¡¯m so sorry. This isn¡¯t working. I love Harvest.

    With a sharp intake of breath, she says, ¡°Get out.¡±

    ¡°Hazel¡ª¡±

    Leave. She doesn¡¯t say the word out loud, but she pushes it toward him. He can feel the tingle of mischief against his cheeks. He shakes his head and spits out a curse word. She¡¯s not even really sure what he says, because the roaring in her head is too loud.

    He slams the door shut, and she is left in silence, in a pristine kitchen, countertops shiny and clear except for the half-empty bottle of whiskey and a fruit bowl. She lowers herself onto the kitchen stool and, absentmindedly, reaches for a cherry. As she chews, she looks at the pit in the palm of her hand and wonders if she should be crying.

    Her phone pings, interrupting her numb musings, and she looks down at Locke¡¯s name. Be right there, she replies, before slipping the cherry pit into her pocket.

 A Quick Spark: Chapter 3

    To: Hazel Rosenbloom (281-XXX-XX90)

    From: Ezra Evans (352-XXX-XX16)

    September 26, 2021, 9:43 pm

    Where are you? Get home now. Everyone is worried.

    September 26, 2021, 11:43 pm

    Answer the fucking phone

    September 27, 2021, 1:04 pm

    I¡¯m sorry. Just let us know you¡¯re ok. Please.

    <hr>

    Agent Julian Quinn lets the transcript of text messages fall idly down to the table as he absentmindedly twists the gold ring on his pinky finger. He watches the screen with a frown.

    He¡¯s fairly certain Ezra Evans is innocent in this, but Ezra¡¯s nervousness isn¡¯t doing him any favors. While Quinn watches on video link, down the hall, in a cramped gray room, Agent Herman, head of the Missing Persons Unit at the Bureau, is asking Ezra thinly veiled leading questions about the circumstances leading up to Hazel Rosenbloom¡¯s disappearance.

    The Bureau is an organization that investigates crimes involving supernatural phenomena and people. Not to be confused with the Federal Bureau of Investigation (though if the magically disinclined made a few assumptions, no one at the Bureau would particularly mind; some things are best kept in the shadows after all), the organization has headquarters around the world. Their jurisdiction extends to all magical races and every agent is sworn to protect those who are mischief-born or mischief-bred.

    So, with Hazel Rosenbloom nowhere to be found, the Bureau has decided to make a few inquiries.

    Or rather, the Bureau scrambled to throw together a task force when Quinn brought up the fact that Hazel Rosenbloom is the niece of a prominent member of the Council, the governing body that oversees the Bureau, and it would do them all well to take this seriously.

    The truth of the matter is that Hazel Rosenbloom has been missing for less than twenty-four hours and under any other circumstances, wouldn¡¯t be considered worthy of an investigation just yet. Agent Quinn escalated Hazel¡¯s disappearance to a full investigation when his friend, Ezra, called him¡ªmuch to the consternation of Agent Herman. Quinn has no affiliations with the Missing Persons Unit, a fact that Herman keeps harping on about.

    Technically, they don¡¯t even work for the same division. MPU is its own department, while Quinn is with the Serious Crimes Division. Regardless, he would rather insult a colleague than find Hazel Rosenbloom¡¯s case on his desk as head of the Suspicious Deaths Squad.

    Quinn once again frowns at the fact that Ezra is only making himself look guilty.

    It makes sense to bring in the fianc¨¦, of course. As a centuries-old vampire and a Bureau agent with two hundred years of service so far, Quinn has seen enough to know that when a beautiful young woman goes missing, it¡¯s best to start with the significant other.

    And, yet this case isn¡¯t like most.

    For one, Ezra was with Quinn when Hazel went missing. As far as alibis go, a Bureau agent is quite a good one. Although he can¡¯t recall exactly how he and Ezra met (at a party, maybe, through a friend-of-a-friend), Quinn knows Ezra well enough to know that meeting up for drinks, albeit at Ezra¡¯s insistence, was not some ploy to fabricate an alibi for himself.

    And yet, Agent Herman doesn¡¯t seem particularly interested in the fact that Ezra has an alibi.

    Then again, getting Herman to take the investigation seriously so early on took an inordinate amount of charm on Quinn¡¯s part. He doesn¡¯t rightly feel he can criticize the witch for finally doing what he requested.

    Herman hunches over the table, leveling Ezra with a look that is undoubtedly supposed to be intimidating. Quinn almost scoffs at the display.

    ¡°When was the last time you saw Hazel?¡± Herman is asking Ezra.

    ¡°Two nights ago.¡±

    ¡°Can you tell us about that interaction?¡±

    ¡°It was fine. A little tense, but fine. Nothing we haven¡¯t faced before.¡±

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    ¡°Tense? Did you argue?¡±

    ¡°You could call it that.¡±

    ¡°And what did you argue about?¡±

    ¡°About¡­¡± He runs his hands through his hair again. ¡°About our relationship.¡±

    ¡°Did she break up with you?¡±

    ¡°No. Yes. I mean, our relationship was ending, but it was mutual.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s a pretty girl. That must have hurt. Her, leaving you.¡±

    Ezra shakes his head. ¡°It wasn¡¯t like that. Our relationship had ended. I was ready to move on.¡±

    Herman latches onto this. He straightens up in his chair. ¡°Move on? Bit quick to start another relationship. Was there someone else? An affair, perhaps?¡±

    Ezra shakes his head. ¡°It wasn¡¯t an affair.¡±

    Quinn feels a sinking feeling in his chest as he listens to his friend¡¯s words. An affair would complicate things. An affair means motive.

    A knock on the door takes Quinn¡¯s attention from the interview, and he looks over at one of Herman¡¯s agents, a young witch Quinn met only a few hours ago, though it feels like days. He can¡¯t remember their name and he can feel his attention wavering. His teeth feel sharp and he knows he needs to eat soon.

    ¡°Magi-Tech¡¯s found some security footage relating to the Rosenbloom case,¡± says the agent. ¡°Should I interrupt¡ª?¡±

    He shakes his head. ¡°No, I¡¯ll take a look. Herman should be done with this interview soon anyway.¡±

    The agent nods and leads Quinn back to the MPU office. ¡°Do you think it was the fiance?¡± they ask casually.

    ¡°No,¡± he says.

    ¡°But isn¡¯t it usually the¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not Ezra,¡± he says firmly, sitting down at the desk he co-opted a few hours ago.

    ¡°Then who do you think did it?¡±

    ¡°I think we don¡¯t have enough information yet,¡± Quinn says evenly.

    The agent nods and seems to take the hint. They stand back while Quinn clicks the play button and a grainy, black-and-white image blinks onto the screen. The footage was secured from a traffic light at the intersection of Hemlock and Applewood. The view just captures the sidewalk on the south side of the road, where an attractive feminine figure walks into view.

    ¡°Magi-Tech followed any security cameras they could find from the diner and down a couple of streets before they caught this view,¡± says the agent. ¡°Based on the timestamp and location, Hazel had only left the diner a few minutes before¡­¡±

    The feminine figure¡ªquite obviously Hazel now, as her face is in full view, slightly upturned as if she knows she will be caught on the traffic camera and has no qualms with it¡ªsuddenly disappears.

    One second she is there, and the next, she is simply gone.

    ¡°They thought it was a glitch and maybe she got into that car that¡¯s just there,¡± says the agent, pointing to the white car that is pulling up behind Hazel. ¡°But the footage doesn¡¯t seem to have been tampered with.¡±

    Quinn makes an indifferent hum in the back of his throat. ¡°Have Magi-Tech processed the scene yet?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, they found some portal residue, but haven¡¯t given us the full breakdown yet. I¡¯ve started looking into Hazel¡¯s background to see if she has any connections with demons.¡±

    ¡°No need,¡± says Herman, walking into the office. ¡°We¡¯ve got a confession.¡± He tosses the file down on the desk with a satisfied smile. ¡°Done and dusted.¡±

    Quinn arches an eyebrow.

    ¡°Evans admits to having an affair with the sister. Harriet or whatever her name is.¡± Herman replies, settling into his chair. It creaks beneath his weight. ¡°He tells Hazel and she kicks him out. She¡¯s cut and run, Quinn.¡±

    Harvest, Quinn thinks. He met her a few months ago, at Hazel and Ezra¡¯s engagement party. He can¡¯t imagine the slim, prim and proper, quiet sister indulging in a tawdry affair with her future brother-in-law.

    Then again, mortals do tend to make the messiest mistakes.

    ¡°What about the footage?¡± asks Quinn, motioning toward the screen, where a fuzzy Hazel walks and disappears on a loop.

    Herman leans over Quinn¡¯s shoulder to watch the screen. ¡°She got a demon to help her skip town. There¡¯s some funny business with the car right there,¡± he says with a smug smile. ¡°Case closed.¡±

    <hr>

    November 2022

    The wind picks up around Harvest, scattering leaves from the nearby oak tree. It¡¯s a wild wind but benevolent still. Gusts that strong usually bring some wayward spirit with them, an unexpected houseguest or a stray cat. Last week¡¯s missing wallet even. But Ezra Evans?

    No, this is not a benevolent wind, Harvest thinks with a grimace.

    She had been so focused on a recently received message from an attractive colleague (it¡¯s been a while since she¡¯s dated anyone and she¡¯s fairly certain he¡¯s flirting), that she hadn¡¯t seen Ezra at first, as he stood next to her door, hands in pockets as he leans against the door frame.

    She thinks briefly of snapping a quick unsee spell around her and imagines the energy settling on her shoulders, tangling in her hair even though it is so short it doesn¡¯t even get tangled on its own. But the sound of her car door closing has already brought his attention to her and she lets the spell fall onto a nearby leaf.

    Probably for the best. It¡¯s been a while since she¡¯s used magic like that and it would probably give her spell-burn. An ex-boyfriend isn¡¯t worth the pain.

    His smile is gentle, but his gaze is just as piercing as she remembers. It¡¯s been a year since she¡¯s last seen him though, and she feels as if she¡¯s lived a lifetime since then. She makes a mental note of the differences, cataloging the time in various sums and quantities.

    How many inches she¡¯s cut off her hair since they parted ways (seven) and how many hours of Bureau agent training she has sat through since she told him they weren¡¯t going to work out as a couple (one hundred and sixty).

    How many bottles of wine she¡¯s consumed trying to convince herself that Hazel¡¯s disappearance isn¡¯t her fault (the number doesn¡¯t bear thinking).

    How many messages she¡¯s sent into the ether, hoping her words find their way to Hazel despite the radio silence (how many days are in a year again?).

    Ezra still looks the same, though.

    Same messy hair, same rakish smile that makes her stomach flip, same worn leather jacket with a Tabitha¡¯s Diner pin affixed to the lapel. He feels the same too, she thinks as she stands next to him, bent over her bag as she searches for her keys. Not physically, of course. She¡¯s not touching him, and, for the moment, has no plans on doing so, but the air between them feels the same. The angles they create standing next to each other form a familiar shape. It¡¯s a place she had forgotten¡ªthe space next to him¡ªbut it still feels like something she wants. The weight of guilt settles against her ribs, coupled with an overwhelming sense of loneliness.

    Keys located, she finally looks up at him.

    ¡°I miss you,¡± he says. ¡°Can we talk?¡±

    The loneliness wins out.

    She nods and lets him inside the apartment.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 1

    October 2023

    The postcard had been living its life happily in the rack outside the store. It hadn¡¯t wanted to be snatched up, hastily scribbled upon, and then thrust into the dark on its way to an unknown destination. Then again, it didn¡¯t really have a say in the matter.

    The mischief spreads through the imprint of a kiss, a light pink impression of lips that burns and crackles, a whispered Please find your way. The fiber of the postcard is altered, entwined with magic.

    The postcard is passed through several hands, none of which are the hands it seeks, until, finally, it flutters along with a few leaves from the tree outside of an apartment and settles in on the front doorstep.

    Time passes and the postcard waits. The sun begins its descent downward toward the earth, a cool evening air settling into the concrete. Then, finally, there is a shadow of a person, a slip of a boot, a hand reaching downward with a muttered curse. The hand is quite nice, young, slim fingers adorned with an engagement ring.

    The fingers of the hand brush lightly over the kiss and for a moment, the mischief in the paper can feel the sadness, the confusion, the weight of guilt¡ªbut neither of these emotions is as strong as the hope the person feels as she reads the message under her breath.

    Help.

    ¡ª H.

    <hr>

    When Hazel Rosenbloom went missing, everyone assumed it was because her fianc¨¦ cheated on her with her sister. And for quite some time, Hazel¡¯s sister, Harvest Rosenbloom, assumed the same thing.

    She lived guiltily with this knowledge for two years, feeling it root in her heart and grow around her chest, squeezing her so tightly that she sometimes felt like she couldn¡¯t breathe. She woke up every morning, feeling it twist beneath her rib cage. She made her coffee and went to work every day, feeling it right behind her sternum. She was forever out of breath with its weight, as she smiled at Ezra, the controversial ex-fianc¨¦. She felt it rise in the back of her throat when she told him, ¡°I love you,¡± even though the words were sure and true.

    Because they were sure and true.

    Yet, as she pushes open the door to Tabitha¡¯s Diner, she can feel the weight lifting, her breath returning to her lungs. She has found a goal¡ªsomething to accomplish that will wipe her heart clean of her egregious actions.

    The early morning light fills the diner with a fug of yellow, which has more to do with the thirty years it¡¯s been in business than any particular energy or aura of the place. It shares its home with a dentist¡¯s office and a used bookstore. The building itself used to be a bank¡ªone of the first in the area designed by an architect and constructed with limestone and marble.

    Perhaps, one day, its hallways will again find themselves with such a singular role, but for now, it is divided into sections and dedicated to the three businesses, which are alike only in the type of clientele they serve. In each entryway, there is a symbol carved into the doorframe that marks each one as a safe place for those who are born or bred with mischief in their blood¡ªancient magic passed down by birth, bite, or curse.

    No human illusions are necessary, which is why on any given day you may see an elf drinking coffee at Tabitha¡¯s. You might see a ghoul rushing to their appointment with Dr. Berkovich. You may even see a troll browsing the language section of Between Bookends, intent on finding a French/Trollish dictionary. Its high-arched windows and pillars are adorned with gargoyles, who have been known to respond favorably to the occasional knock-knock joke. The walls sag with ghosts, and pixies live in the rafters.

    Tabitha¡¯s Diner is owned by the Rosenbloom family and named after Harvest¡¯s mother, who died when Harvest was still young.

    She doesn¡¯t have as many memories of the diner as she would have liked, though. When Tabitha passed away, Harvest¡¯s father, Theodore, handed the day-to-day operations of the diner to an employee. He packed up his daughters and moved to the Rosenbloom Estate on an island just off the coast.

    Harvest grew up in a house that precariously jutted out into the sea on a cliff that never seemed to crumble. The hallways overflowed with lush plant life and seemed impossibly long. There always seemed to be an extra shelf in the library, just as in the pantry.

    She learned magic from her aunts, Trixie and Bea, dutifully repeating phrases in foreign languages she wasn¡¯t even sure were real but that she now knows were variations of Latin, French, and Arabic, twisted together by mischief-born witches long ago.

    Still, the diner is familiar, and she takes comfort in the smell of food cooking, coffee being brewed, and the light lemon scent of cleaner. The sound of the bell hanging over the door washes over her, and she can just about hear her mother singing a made-up song, stretching the definition of rhyming to its limit.

    It¡¯s as if her mother¡¯s mischief lives on in the metal of the bell. It probably does, Harvest thinks. Her mother was a strong witch, only taken from this world because of a senseless accident.

    The hostess stand is a chipped wood podium that Harvest carved her initials into when she was thirteen, the day before they moved away. That was twenty years ago.

    Kipp, a young fae with slightly pointed ears and greenish skin, is leaning on the podium, reading a magazine. She looks up and waves in the general direction of the only occupied booth in the diner. ¡°He¡¯s over there,¡± she mumbles before turning her attention back to the magazine.

    Harvest¡¯s boots click against the tile floor as she makes her way to the far corner of the diner. She slides into the booth opposite Agent Julian Quinn.

    The diner is in the front of the building and has a large window that overlooks the park across the street. The building faces northeast, and so, despite the early hour, Quinn is sitting in a chunky block of shadow, making this meeting feel much more clandestine than it really is.

    Quinn¡¯s golden brown hair is tousled but in the purposeful way of a man who has spent centuries on this earth and knows what looks best with his features. He¡¯s wearing a dark purple shirt with a charcoal waistcoat and tie. The shirt is pressed, and his sleeves are buttoned. A charcoal suit jacket rests on the back of the booth. The smooth leather wallet holding his badge is just visible where it sits in the inside pocket.

    While Harvest is a trainee in the Missing Persons Unit, Quinn is an Agent for the Serious Crimes Division, heading up a team that focuses solely on suspicious deaths. Their work occasionally overlaps, though they would prefer it didn¡¯t. It¡¯s always a dark day when a missing persons case becomes a murder investigation.

    ¡°Thanks for meeting me,¡± she says, fingering the corner of a menu. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for calling so late last night.¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s fine. Though I was surprised to see your name come up.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you answered,¡± she says, which isn¡¯t quite true. ¡°I was expecting voicemail.¡±

    ¡°Well, I must admit that I assumed the content of the phone call wouldn¡¯t be so work-related.¡± He smirks, revealing a canine tooth that is just a little too long to be human, reminding her that the mug sitting in front of him is not filled with coffee¡ªbut blood.

    ¡°Let¡¯s see it,¡± he says, taking a sip.

    She extracts a plastic bag from her purse and places it on the chipped Formica table. Inside the bag is a postcard with a faded picture of Valkaria Bay Boardwalk, a tourist destination not too far from the diner. The image should be sunny and happy, but there is an ominous stain in the center that looks like storm clouds rolling in. In the right-hand corner, the cardboard is singed in the form of a kiss, as if a fire sprite had pressed their lips to the postcard in lieu of postage. Text in big looping lines proclaims Wish You Were Here!

    ¡°And this was sent to you yesterday?¡± asks Quinn. He flips it over and reads the message on the back. ¡°Help, signed H. And you think this is from Hazel?¡±

    ¡°Yes. It was on the doorstep when I got home last night.¡± It¡¯s not the full story, but she doesn¡¯t elaborate.

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    Her history is no secret to the Bureau, who rushed to investigate Hazel¡¯s disappearance two years ago until a plausible explanation revealed itself in the form of Ezra¡¯s infidelity. More so, Quinn and Ezra are friends. She¡¯s sure he already knows about how, one breezy October evening a year ago, Ezra, drenched with loneliness and liquor, decided to stumble up the steps to Harvest¡¯s front door and present her with a ring.

    She¡¯s sure Quinn knows that their relationship has been slowly descending into the twisted, rotting thing it was always destined to be since that fateful night.

    But what Quinn doesn¡¯t know¡ªand probably doesn¡¯t need to know¡ªis how she slid on the postcard and almost tossed it in the trash can.

    He doesn¡¯t need to know that she¡¯s still not sure what made her turn it over. But she did, and the rotting thing in her chest roared its ugly, misshapen head. It turned her tongue sour and sharp, and she lashed out at Ezra, who had only been trying to ask her about her day.

    And Quinn definitely doesn¡¯t need to know that, although the argument that followed was not a new topic for them, with Hazel¡¯s name forever hanging in the air between them, the way it ended was new, with Harvest¡¯s engagement ring hitting Ezra¡¯s forehead.

    She admits that this was a childish thing to do, though she doesn¡¯t yet regret it.

    ¡°Anyone could have written this, though,¡± he says, letting the postcard fall back onto the tabletop.

    Harvest¡¯s fingers are tangled in her necklace, the H charm dangling between her thumb and forefinger. It¡¯s a nervous habit that developed in the days after Hazel disappeared, perhaps because, as a Rosenbloom family tradition, Hazel had a matching one and Harvest always had the vague hope that her sister could feel her regret through the gold.

    With a steadying breath, she untangles her fingers and closes her eyes. When they flutter open a second later, her eyes are far from her normal shade of light brown but completely white and glowing slightly.

    It takes her some seconds to sort through the bright blooms of colors that fog her vision. They are the energies that people unknowingly give off¡ªthe remnants of those who have come through the diner recently. Seeing auras is a specialty of hers; she¡¯s the only one in her family gifted with such a second-sight.

    Harvest sees Kipp, a serene cornflower blue. She sees the left-over aura of a diner regular who sits in the same corner booth, a warm gray hovering by the window. He probably just left. She sees a trail of darker blue that reminds her of night skies, purple flowers in the moonlight, and dew-covered grass lined with stardust. That¡¯ll be Ronan, the werewolf who recently took over as manager. She realizes with a slight shock that he has worked at Tabitha¡¯s for almost twenty years now. He¡¯s only a few years older than her.

    The color is light and airy, fading to a mere wisp of what it should be. He must not be working this shift. There is a competing lime weaving its way around the blue¡ªa third employee that Harvest isn¡¯t familiar with.

    Conspicuously absent is Quinn¡¯s aura, though this doesn¡¯t surprise her. She has never met a vampire with an aura.

    She looks down at the table. The postcard is shrouded in viridian green, so deep that it reminds Harvest of the ocean just before sunrise. Hazel¡¯s aura was always so true and solid, as if she was born knowing herself entirely, the truest of greenish pigments.

    Harvest¡¯s own aura is occasionally this shade of green, though she tends to lean more towards an olive and has always envied what she considers to be Hazel¡¯s colorfastness.

    This remnant of Hazel could have started to fade by now, but slipping it into the bag has kept the auratic energy close to the fibers of the paper. The aura could be visible for days, maybe even months. She reaches for it, feeling the sharp corner of the cardstock through the plastic bag. With an exhale of breath, her fluttering eyelids chase away the fog. ¡°She held this. Recently.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no postage,¡± Quinn observes. ¡°How was it delivered?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a spell,¡± says Harvest. ¡°The kiss where the stamp should be. She would have whispered the spell, pressed them to the card, then slipped it into a mailbox.¡±

    He angles the card so that the fluorescent lights overhead catch the finer details of the scorched impression of a kiss. Magic¡ªthe true magic that is wielded by witches like Harvest¡ªis a foreign entity to him, denied by the mischief-laced bite that altered his body so many centuries ago.

    Vampires like him are always made, never born, and it is nature¡¯s rebuke to deny them its secrets. He will have to trust Harvest¡¯s word that this mark is a spell.

    ¡°What does she need help with?¡± he asks.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But I¡¯m worried. Isn¡¯t that enough?¡± she says, biting her lower lip. It¡¯s not enough, she knows, and if the excuse seems paltry to her, it will seem even more so to Quinn.

    He doesn¡¯t seem to take in her answer at first, though. ¡°What do you want me to do?¡±

    ¡°I want to find her. I¡¯m worried about her welfare. I need a senior agent who is willing to take this seriously.¡±

    He arches an eyebrow at her. ¡°You¡¯d be willing to go over Herman¡¯s head for this one?¡±

    She grimaces briefly at the image of Herman that pops into her head. Herman is a classic Bureau agent, a balding witch nearing retirement age who still talks about the good ol¡¯ days before forensics and that Magi-Tech lot who get uppity about things like the ¡°chain of evidence.¡± He always says the phrase ¡°chain of evidence¡± in a falsetto voice, as if his disdain wasn¡¯t obvious.

    Herman is far from subtle.

    ¡°I know I¡¯m just a trainee,¡± she says honestly. ¡°Herman barely listens to me on a good day. He thinks I haven¡¯t earned my place at the Bureau. He thinks I¡¯m only here because my aunt¡¯s on the Council. He doesn¡¯t take me seriously, and he definitely wouldn¡¯t take this postcard seriously.¡±

    ¡°Why are you at the Bureau?¡± he asks.

    She blinks. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Same as anyone who works there. Same as you.¡±

    ¡°I highly doubt that,¡± he mumbles, twisting a gold signet ring on his pinky finger. He looks wistful for a brief moment, but the look is dropped in favor of giving Kipp a wink as she refills his mug of blood.

    ¡°I want to help people,¡± Harvest answers when Kipp walks away. She¡¯s painfully aware of how naive she sounds. ¡°I want to do something worthwhile.¡± She leans closer, her elbows propped up on the table, and pauses, choosing her words carefully. ¡°You were there when Hazel went missing, when everyone thought something bad had happened to her, and before we knew what really happened. I know you¡¯re the one who opened the investigation. And you¡¯re Ezra¡¯s friend. You had drinks with him last night, right? That¡¯s where you were when I called?¡± She pauses again, her fingers returning to her necklace. ¡°And you¡¯re my friend, too.¡±

    ¡°Work acquaintances,¡± he corrects.

    ¡°Who text each other at three in the morning asking if they want to come over for a drink?¡±

    ¡°That was one time, and I apologized.¡±

    ¡°When?¡±

    ¡°I bought you a pint at that work thing.¡±

    She remembers that work thing. It was a get-together to celebrate the capture of a serial killer vampire with a taste for fae blood. It had begun as an MPU case, though Herman had been adamant that the victim was an adult, and there was nothing fishy about their disappearance.

    When it became obvious that the case was connected to a death that SDS was investigating at the time, MPU passed it off, yet assisted when needed.

    As a trainee, Harvest was often tasked with administrative work, like highlighting phone records or making photocopies. Despite her minimal involvement, it was a relief when the murderer was captured, and Harvest accepted an invitation to the informal celebration. Quinn had bought her a drink that night, and she remembers his hand on her lower back, the suggestive glint in his eye, and the way he leaned a little closer than necessary to hear her drink order. But it was a week after Ezra came back into her life, and, as much as Quinn¡¯s touch and his gaze intrigued her, she thanked him and stepped backward, remembering the writhing black thing around her heart and trying to tame it into something good and whole¡ªsomething worthy of love.

    ¡°That¡¯s not how apologies work,¡± she says. ¡°And anyway, that¡¯s not the point. The point is that you were involved from the start and this postcard is a new development.¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°What sort of trouble do you think Hazel is in?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But this all feels wrong. Her phone number is still active last time I checked, but she hasn¡¯t answered in two years. She¡¯s had zero contact with me or any other family members. Ezra swears he hasn¡¯t heard from her.¡± She taps the postcard. ¡°This is the first contact from her in two years, and it¡¯s a cryptic, hastily scribbled message on a postcard from a boardwalk we used to go to as kids. Something is wrong.¡±

    He reaches for the postcard again, his ring brushing against the back of her hand. There is a spark of mischief in the metal, some sort of spell embedded in the etching of a gold lion crowned by three rubies. She rubs her hand against her thigh, hoping to dispel the tingling feeling.

    He raises the card to look closer at it. ¡°You¡¯re an aura reader, right? That¡¯s what the¡­¡± He waves his free hand around in a vague whirling motion. ¡°The fog thing.¡±

    She nods. ¡°I can help you track her movements. I just need a senior agent to reopen the investigation. And soon, before her aura starts fading.¡±

    She had thought about this last night as she resisted the urge to rush over to the location on the postcard. She is well aware of her limitations as a trainee agent. She called Quinn not just for his personal connection and his role as one of the main investigators on the original disappearance case, but also for his two hundred years of service to the Bureau. He has a good reputation as an agent, closing cases at a rate slightly higher than most. There¡¯s a rumor that he¡¯s sleeping with the medical examiner, which could perhaps have something to do with his high close rate. His cases do always seem to get moved up to the front of the queue.

    Then again, two hundred years of experience in the same job title does lend itself to a certain level of competency.

    Of course, if she were to truly pause and consider why she called him last night, her voice still hoarse from crying about Ezra, she would admit to herself that it is his obvious romantic interest in her that helped her make the decision. Quinn likes her, at least superficially, and perhaps he will take this seriously because of that interest. It¡¯s an underhanded move, but she doubts she¡¯ll get far without the backup of a seasoned agent.

    Perhaps the black, rotting thing in her chest isn¡¯t completely gone.

    ¡°It¡¯s not an investigation,¡± he points out. ¡°Hazel isn¡¯t missing. She just skipped town.¡±

    ¡°Inquiry, then. A welfare check.¡±

    He considers her for a second. She knows what he sees: her hand gripping her tangled necklace, her flushed cheeks, the way she cocks her head to the side with watery eyes. She feels every inch a trainee agent, so green it¡¯s embarrassing.

    He lets the postcard fall back onto the table. ¡°You tell me where to go. I ask the questions, and you take notes. You don¡¯t talk.¡±

    She nods.

    ¡°I want something in return, a favor,¡± he adds. ¡°To be used at a later date. No questions asked.¡±

    She nods again. ¡°Deal.¡±

    He looks mildly surprised by her readiness to agree, and with a smirk that shows a slightly pointed canine tooth, he says, ¡°By the way, Ezra saw your name on my phone screen last night. He thinks we¡¯re sleeping together.¡±

    It¡¯s a comment designed to needle her, but she refuses to bristle with indignation. She settles for a particularly scathing scowl aimed at his back as he leaves the diner.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 2

    About five minutes away from the diner, the highway ends, and Quinn merges his car onto a residential street with rows of hotels sandwiched between gated estates. He follows the signs for Valkaria Bay Boardwalk, a few miles away.

    The hotels are fading pink, chipped blue, or yellowing white, with names like Sunset Vistas and Crystal Palms. Fake metal sculptures of palm trees sit in the shade of their likeness, bright green fronds tall and swaying in the breeze. In between the buildings are glimpses of the ocean, now a mazarine blue in the late-morning sun. Harvest rolls the window down and smiles at the warmth. October has been unseasonably warm, but there is still a vague hint of winter in the breeze.

    Quinn grimaces and leans back into his seat, shifting out of the sunlight that is slanting through the window. The sun won¡¯t hurt him, but that doesn¡¯t mean he has to enjoy it.

    The talk show on the radio has ended, and the sound of tepid jazz filters through the speakers. He makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and switches off the radio.

    ¡°So how does this work? The aura thing?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Everyone has some sort of energy. An aura, a vibe. Whatever you want to call it, I can see it, and if they¡¯ve been somewhere recently, I can tell.¡±

    He switches lanes again, but when she looks over at him, he is looking at her and not at the road ahead. ¡°So you¡¯re like a sniffer dog?¡± he asks.

    ¡°I would hope I¡¯m more sophisticated than a dog.¡±

    ¡°Can you tell if the aura belongs to someone with magic?¡±

    ¡°Yes, but it¡¯s not an exact science. Sometimes, I¡¯m only guessing based on people I¡¯ve met before,¡± she answers truthfully. ¡°Except for vampires, they never have auras.¡± She glances over at him, but his attention is back on the road.

    ¡°When we get there,¡± he says, ¡°I need you to do your sniffer dog thing¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s called a second-sight.¡±

    ¡°You do the thing, and we¡¯ll see if we can find her. Maybe she¡¯s staying nearby. I¡¯m sure she just misses her sister and wants to chat.¡±

    ¡°Maybe, but I doubt it,¡± she says, more to herself than anything else.

    Quinn leans forward to switch on the radio again, turning the dial while he talks. ¡°So the engagement is off?¡±

    He lands on another talk show, but the host is talking about rising crime rates in Valkaria Bay, and he turns it off with an annoyed grunt.

    She looks down at her hand to remind herself of the absence of her ring. She looks mildly surprised as if she has already forgotten the weight of it. ¡°You were with him last night. I¡¯m sure you already know the story.¡± She pauses, looking out of the window at the blurry trees as they pass. ¡°Was Ezra okay?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he says frankly, thinking about the rambling, heartbroken Ezra, who oscillated between maudlin musings on love and indignant outcry. ¡°It¡¯s nothing a few shots of whiskey didn¡¯t numb, though.¡±

    Quinn had been surprised to get a phone call from Ezra, as they hadn¡¯t talked in a few months. They met up at a bar downtown, and Ezra ranted about a postcard and Hazel screwing things up. What Quinn doesn¡¯t tell Harvest is that, at some point, Ezra¡¯s anger turned, with focus and precision, on both Rosenbloom sisters, who, as he tells it, are narcissistic, conniving, and manipulative.

    There were a few other choice words that Quinn refuses to repeat in Harvest¡¯s presence. Or in the presence of any woman, for that matter.

    The turn signal clicks as he follows the sign for the parking lot at Valkaria Bay Boardwalk. The lot isn¡¯t full, but Quinn still parks in a loading zone, slapping an ¡°Agent on Duty¡± sticker on the windshield to avoid a parking ticket. The boardwalk is flanked on one side by rows of mismatched storefronts, shoved together and towering over the wooden plank thoroughfare as if the buildings tumbled down from the sky and took root wherever they landed. The storefronts look out onto the wide expanse of the ocean, stretching into a faded gold.

    In the distance, breaking up the monotony of the horizon, are the twin silhouettes of Astra and Ilton. Both islands are home to thriving magic communities, though Astra, being far less receptive to outsiders and tourists, is the only one that shimmers with a protective shield.

    Quinn scowls at the view, blocking his eyes from the sun. Harvest trails behind him, pointing out the blue post office box a few storefronts down from the entrance. Although it is sunny, it is also a Monday, and the boardwalk is quiet, save for a group of locals huddled together at the very end of a pier that juts out into the ocean, where fishing is best.

    Unlike Tabitha¡¯s Diner and its housemates, Valkaria Bay Boardwalk exists in a wedge between two the north and the south sides of Valkaria. Despite the seemingly large divide between two segmented populations of Valkaria, the boardwalk is a rare mix of the two. If Valkaria Bay were a Venn diagram, the boardwalk would be the sliver in the middle.

    But only just a sliver.

    This overlapping is seen most visually in the small, inconspicuous plaques of welcoming marks affixed to roughly half of the doors on the boardwalk, such as the shimmering circle bisected horizontally with a line in front of Tina¡¯s Treasures. To anyone who doesn¡¯t recognize the symbol, the storefront will appear to be closed for the off-season.

    Others, like the pirate-themed bar Crab Shack Joe¡¯s, noticeable due to the fact that it is made out of a reclaimed ship¡¯s bow, have no such mark¡ªa stark reminder to keep one¡¯s mischief to oneself.

    Harvest doesn¡¯t look around, the mailbox remaining her singular focus. It sits outside of an ice cream shop, which, despite the welcoming symbol painted in the corner of the window, is actually closed for the off-season. Quinn motions toward the mailbox, giving Harvest a cue to get to work. It¡¯s an unnecessary request as she has already taken a deep breath and let her eyelids flutter closed. When they open again, her eyes are milky white.

    <hr>

    Harvest can feel Quinn¡¯s gaze on the back of her neck, but she doesn¡¯t turn to tell him that she can¡¯t see Hazel¡¯s viridian. She ignores his scrutiny and looks around, trying to imagine why Hazel was here and what she was doing. Was Hazel just visiting the boardwalk? Passing through town? Stopping for an ice cream cone?

    Not likely, she thinks. Hazel is allergic to dairy.

    And besides, the ice cream shop is closed until summer, according to the sign hanging around the neck of the cow sculpture sitting in the window. The souvenir shop to the left is open though, and Harvest moves to look at the spinner rack sitting next to the propped-open door.

    Quinn follows impatiently. ¡°You can see her aura?¡±

    ¡°No, I see the postcard on that spinner rack. She must have bought it from this store.¡±

    Sandy Shores Souvenirs smells of coconuts and sun, and, in tribute to its name, the floor feels gritty as if the sand tracked in from customers has been permanently pressed into the tile over the years. The sales clerk looks up from her book, twisting her long blonde hair around her finger, and smiles at Harvest.

    She smiles wider at Quinn, though.

    Luckily, the store is otherwise empty, and Harvest turns away from the sales clerk and Quinn, who is already leaning an elbow on the counter and flashing his badge. Harvest blinks and begins sorting through the colors. They are organized here, with separate tendrils weaving their way through the aisles.

    She hears Quinn introduce himself, mentioning that he works for the Bureau, which sounds official enough but does little to suggest its purpose. Harvest can see the employee¡¯s powdery pink aura, which is mundane and single-colored.

    Not a spark of mischief in sight.

    She probably doesn¡¯t even know that magic is real, which is reason enough not to explain just what the Bureau does. And of course, Quinn¡¯s badge is intimidating enough on its own¡ªalthough Harvest has the distinct feeling that Quinn is the type of man who could get by on just his smile if he really wanted to.

    But he doesn¡¯t just use his smile or flash his badge. He is also a vampire, with the unique ability to influence the minds of others, and apparently has no qualms using it on innocent sales clerks.

    Harvest feels it as a change in air pressure as if she is ascending too quickly up a mountain. She is so startled that she turns around to stare at them, shocked to see that the soft pink aura is now floating around him as if he has stolen a part of her.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with your friend¡¯s eyes?¡± asks the clerk.

    ¡°Nothing to worry about, Amy. Just a trick of the light,¡± Quinn murmurs, his voice a little deeper and smoother than normal. There is a slight hint of an accent, something old and forgotten, his tongue twisting around the vowels as if his voice is smoke, his lips sun-warmed stone. He caresses the inside of Amy¡¯s wrist, and she seems to shiver slightly. ¡°What were you saying about the woman who came in here yesterday?¡±

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    Amy¡¯s eyelids flutter, but eventually, she tears her attention away from Harvest and refocuses on Quinn with a lazy smile, as if they are the only two in the store. The only two in the world, even. ¡°She just came in to buy a postcard.¡±

    ¡°Did she pay with a credit card?¡±

    Amy shakes her head. ¡°Cash. I remember because she didn¡¯t stay for the change. Just tossed it on the counter and left. The funny thing is, she didn¡¯t even write anything on it. She dropped it in the mailbox, no postage or nothing.¡±

    Quinn leans closer to her. ¡°Would it be okay if we took a look at the footage from the camera?¡± His eyes dart to the corner of the ceiling, where a blinking red light indicates that they are being recorded.

    She laughs. ¡°It¡¯s not real. Boss just wanted to stop theft but didn¡¯t want to shell out the money for a real camera.¡±

    Quinn frowns and lets go of Amy. She sways, like she¡¯s drunk, like Quinn¡¯s touch is one too many shots of tequila. ¡°You get anything?¡± he asks Harvest.

    She nods, startled, and looks around. ¡°Yeah, she was here. I can follow the thread to where she went next.¡±

    He turns back to Amy and holds out his hand. She hesitantly reaches out, her movements stiff and confused. Quinn angles his gaze into hers. His words are slow and deliberate as he says, ¡°The next time you see your boss, insist that he invest in a legitimate security system, or you¡¯ll go to the cops about the illegal poker game he hosts in the back room. Don¡¯t mention me or my colleague.¡±

    It isn¡¯t until they leave the store and begin walking in the direction of the Ferris wheel that Harvest says, ¡°That was unnecessary. She didn¡¯t give you permission, and it wasn¡¯t in a formal interview.¡±

    Quinn stops her by placing a hand on her upper arm, ignoring her flinch. ¡°All I was going to get out of her was some flirting. I just sped up the process to get to the truth quicker.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t have¡ª¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s get this right, little witch,¡± he interrupts, leaning closer to her. She feels a small flare of annoyance at the nickname. In the right tongue, it can be a term of endearment.

    In Quinn¡¯s inflection, it¡¯s anything but. For a second, his fingers tighten around her arm, and she thinks she can feel his aura through his touch, an annoyed coldness like the underside of a stone. He wrenches his hand away from her a second later.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t an investigation,¡± he says evenly, ¡°and I don¡¯t have to follow the rules. You asked me to help. If you don¡¯t approve of my methods, I will gladly walk away.¡±

    Her lips form a straight line as she weighs his words and ultimately decides to bite back her retort. ¡°How did you know about the poker game?¡±

    ¡°It was a guess,¡± he says easily. ¡°Where did Hazel go next?¡±

    ¡°Here.¡±

    They look up at the Ferris wheel. At this time of the day, it stands still, like a sleeping giant. Its coated steel is vibrantly white against the blue sky and its bright red carriages sway in the breeze, a ghost of their purpose. Harvest blinks, searching for Hazel¡¯s aura. ¡°She took a ride on the Ferris wheel.¡±

    Quinn calls to an employee who is kneeling over a panel in the base. His badge is already out and glinting in the late-morning sun. She blinks away her second-sight, but not before she glimpses the employee¡¯s aura. It¡¯s a swirling, multi-dimensional purple with soft edges that shimmer as the man looks up.

    Shifter, she thinks, though she¡¯s not sure what his second-form would be. There¡¯s something about the hue of purple that reminds her of Ronan, of night skies tinted with moonlight. Maybe a wolf.

    ¡°Yeah, she was here yesterday,¡± this shifter is saying. He tosses down his wrench and straightens up, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe the grease from his fingers. ¡°She seemed to want to get away from the man she was with, so I gave her a free ride on the Wheel.¡±

    ¡°What made you think that?¡±

    He leans his head to the side, thinking. ¡°He seemed a bit rough with her, the way he was gripping her arm. It didn¡¯t seem like she wanted to be here with him.¡±

    ¡°Did he hurt her?¡± asks Harvest sharply.

    Quinn shoots her a warning look.

    The shifter considers her question, oblivious to her impertinence. ¡°Not that I saw.¡±

    Quinn widens his stance, taking up more space as if to remind Harvest that he¡¯s in charge. She almost rolls her eyes. ¡°Can you remember anything about the person she was with?¡± he asks gruffly.

    The shifter nods, running a greasy hand through his hair. ¡°Yeah, he was like you. I could smell him a mile away.¡±

    Quinn is unimpressed with this assessment. ¡°Anything else you can remember about him? Did he say anything?¡±

    ¡°They had a conversation over by the Lighthouse.¡± He points his scruffy chin in the direction of the tower on the opposite side of the boardwalk, on a rocky stretch of land by the pier. ¡°They might have gone in, but I wasn¡¯t paying attention.¡±

    Quinn hands him a business card. ¡°Can you call me if they come around again?¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± he says, slipping the card into his back pocket. ¡°Is she in trouble?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± replies Harvest. ¡°We¡¯re just concerned about her welfare.

    Besides the Ferris wheel, the Lighthouse is the tallest structure on Valkaria Bay, a cylindrical white tower with a black-railed balcony and a defunct light on top. In front of the tower is a bungalow that houses a bar, with a neon sign in the window proclaiming that customers are welcome to Come On In. The circle with three lines radiating from the bottom looks like part of a logo mark, but, in actuality, it acts as a welcome sign for those with any measure of mischief.

    While the boardwalk had been quite sparse, the bar, in contrast, is surprisingly full. The fishers they had seen earlier have retired to a booth in the corner, their poles propped up against the wall, next to the dart boards. A few regulars sit at the bar, watching a soccer game on the television mounted above the pool table. Two gray-haired witches sit by the window, their wrists dripping with heavy bangles and their necks adorned with crystals. Although they are sharing a seafood platter, their attention is on the game of gin rummy, which takes up most of their table.

    Quinn is pleased to see Dominic, the owner of the Lighthouse, behind the bar. Quinn has known Dominic since before they both suffered a mischief-laced bite while separated from their unit, wandering in the middle of nowhere with sand in their mouths and blisters on their faces.

    The woman they found promised them water and a place to sleep for the night, and while she kept her promises, they both woke in blood-soaked garments only to find themselves in a state of interminable damnation craving something much thicker than water.

    They¡¯ve been brothers ever since.

    Dominic nods hello to Quinn, but the movement is accompanied by a tilt of an eyebrow and silent curiosity at seeing Quinn in the bar on a Monday afternoon with a witch he doesn¡¯t recognize. When Quinn smirks, however, the look turns dark and wary. ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure, brother?¡± he asks, hands braced against the bar.

    Harvest perks up at Dominic¡¯s use of the word ¡°brother,¡± and Quinn can feel her gaze bouncing between the two of them. They look nothing alike, of course.

    Quinn is tall and slim, with olive skin and amber eyes. His hair looks like bronze in the shadows and gold in the sun, and while cut short and neat, it still occasionally falls across his forehead. The curse that keeps vampires permanently unchanged despite their years of existence also prevents hair growth, and it was somewhat of a risk to get it cut so short. But the style suits his high cheekbones and long nose. Besides, the heat in Valkaria Bay is oppressive at times, and it¡¯s worth it to keep it off of his neck.

    Dominic, in contrast, has kept his hair long, and it curls around his ears in dark, silky waves, swept back away from his aquiline nose and full lips. His narrow jaw is forever peppered with the beginnings of a beard. He is shorter than Quinn, with broad shoulders and bright blue eyes that look like ice against his dark skin. He tends to dress far more casually than Quinn as well, with jeans and a basic white t-shirt making up the bulk of his wardrobe since the ¡®50s.

    Quinn props his elbow up on the bar. ¡°Just here to ask some questions.¡±

    Dominic ignores this. ¡°Can I get you a drink?¡±

    ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll have a Midori and Coke.¡±

    Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Harvest wrinkle her nose, but when Dominic places a blue glass in front of Quinn, it is filled with something dark and rich, slightly thicker than what you¡¯d expect from a cocktail.

    The smell of blood, rich and coppery, hits his nose. His gums feel tight and uncomfortable as his canine teeth sharpen. Harvest has the decency to purse her lips together and avert her gaze politely, just now remembering who¡ªand what¡ªshe is sitting next to. When Dominic turns his attention to her, she orders sparkling water and a basket of fries.

    Dominic shoots Quinn one more questioning look before leaving to get Harvest¡¯s order. Quinn knows he will have to explain Harvest later, but what would he say? She¡¯s pretty and he wanted to help her? She¡¯s pretty and he wanted to help her, but also Hazel¡¯s disappearance never really made sense and it¡¯s been bugging him for two years?

    It¡¯s true, he thinks, even if Dominic would be skeptical of any explanation. Harvest is pretty, he thinks. Her rose gold hair is shorter than when he first met her at Ezra and Hazel¡¯s engagement party more than two years ago, but the bob suits her heart-shaped face and her caramel eyes that do little to hide her true feelings.

    Earlier at the diner, she looked even more attractive with her face half in shadow, half in watery morning light, the stark difference highlighting her delicately blushed cheeks and pursed lips. He felt his gums tighten when she looked up at him with pleading eyes, her fingers tangled in her necklace. He could just about catch a whiff of something floral and sweet when she leaned forward to talk about Hazel.

    He agreed to help so quickly if only to prevent the tears that were threatening to burst forth. At least, that¡¯s what he tells himself. To be honest, he¡¯s surprised she brought up the text message, too. It was over a year ago at this point, and she never responded. When he bought her a drink a few days later, her body language reinforced her silence, and instead, he comforted himself with the attention of Dr. Vivienne Burrows, the medical examiner, who seemed to be searching for the same kind of casual fling that Quinn had wanted at the time.

    Harvest and Quinn have had very little interaction since, with their work groups keeping them separate as of late. Now that he thinks about it, the only times Quinn has seen Harvest since is with Ezra¡¯s arm wrapped around her. His eyes dart down to her finger and the conspicuously absent ring.

    She doesn¡¯t notice his gaze, and he hides the movement by continuing his sweep of the bar, noting casually that at least one of the vampires engrossed in the soccer game is carrying a gun, a barely hidden holster resting against the small of his back.

    When Dominic places Harvest¡¯s order down, Quinn uses the opportunity to repeat his earlier statement. ¡°I have some questions, Dom,¡± he says, slightly louder.

    Dominic pauses, his eyes flitting over to the group of vampires sitting at the other end of the bar. So quick, only another vampire would have caught it. ¡°You¡¯ll have to wait. I¡¯ve got customers to serve.¡±

    Quinn makes an unimpressed hum at the back of his throat. ¡°I guess we will,¡± he says reluctantly. He motions toward his empty glass and Harvest¡¯s food. ¡°You can put this on my tab, right?¡±

    Dominic shakes his head. ¡°One of these days, I¡¯m going to make you pay for something.¡±

    ¡°One of these days,¡± says Quinn, with a grin. ¡°But not today.¡±

    Dominic shakes his head, feigned disapproval that Quinn knows well, and moves away to serve his other customers.

    ¡°Why are we just leaving?¡± Harvest asks, dropping a half-eaten fry into the basket.

    Quinn left his jacket in the car earlier, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and when she reaches out to stop him, her skin is soft and cold. He looks down at her hand and then back up at her face. She retracts her hand with a hint of blush on her cheeks.

    ¡°Not now,¡± he says quietly.

    She follows him out of the Lighthouse like a sullen teenager, her arms folded across her chest. He makes his way to the edge of the pier and leans on the chipped wood railing. Harvest does the same; only the wood snags on her sweater, and she uses her palms to brace herself against the railing instead. The wind has picked up, bringing with it white-capped waves, the spray from which lines their lips as they look out at the sea.

    ¡°Dominic knows something,¡± he says after a minute of silence. ¡°I¡¯ve known him for a long time. He didn¡¯t want to talk in front of the group of vampires at the end of the bar.¡±

    ¡°Then we go back later?¡±

    He nods. ¡°Sure. But, first, there¡¯s a deli around the corner from here. You should get some actual food. I¡¯d be able to hear your stomach growling from a mile away.¡±

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 3

    Harvest quickly overcomes the embarrassment of her apparent hunger noises. Her body is grateful for the nourishment, and she eats her sandwich quickly, not wanting to delay their questions any further.

    It is a pointless act of haste, however, as it takes three hours for the vampires to leave, four hours for Dominic to feel comfortable leaving the bar to make his way to his living quarters in the lighthouse tower, and another thirty minutes for Quinn to feel sure that the vampires in question had well and truly left the area before he knocks on the door.

    Dominic¡¯s living space is overrun with remnants of past lives. The room is broken only by the cylindrical column in the middle that rises from the floor and through the ceiling. Mismatched furniture and contrasting patterned rugs fill up the space, while antique trinkets clog the walnut bookshelves against the exposed brick walls.

    There is a four-poster bed, unmade with disheveled pillows and partly shielded by an ornate paper screen. She¡¯s slightly surprised by the bed. Vampires don¡¯t need to sleep, but, then again, she supposes vampires must still recline at times, even if sleep eludes them. A pair of stained glass doors open onto a balcony, partially covering a large chunk of stone wall with the chipped remains of an ancient mosaic. Two Roman soldiers are awash in shades of blue.

    There are a few reluctant touches of modern life. A phone charger is plugged into the wall. A small television sits on a cedar dresser. A blender and a coffee maker are on the kitchen counter.

    Dominic pours Quinn a glass of blood before filling his own glass. He has already given Harvest water, and she sips it while looking out at the ocean, visible from her spot on the couch next to the open balcony doors.

    ¡°This is about Locke, isn¡¯t it?¡± says Dominic, sitting down next to Harvest.

    Quinn grips his glass a little too tightly. ¡°It wasn¡¯t, but it is now.¡±

    Dominic grimaces. ¡°I assumed you knew.¡±

    Quinn looks down at Dominic¡¯s arm, where a long white scar mars his otherwise smooth skin. ¡°Has he contacted you?¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s Locke?¡± asks Harvest.

    Quinn is too distracted to shoot her a look for interrupting or to notice that Dominic hasn¡¯t answered his question. ¡°Grayson Locke gives vampires a bad name,¡± he says wryly, though that does little to convey the brutality and reach of Locke¡¯s criminal empire.

    Although Locke is still quite young for a vampire¡ªonly around four hundred years or so¡ªhe has made a reputation for himself by cornering the market on stolen antiquities and priceless art, with the occasional foray into weapons smuggling. There were rumors of gambling and drugs, but no confirmation of such activities. This, of course, only proves that Locke is decent at hiding the evidence, not that the activities don¡¯t exist.

    On the whole, Quinn doesn¡¯t care about the theft or the smuggling. He has lived through enough centuries to see the impermanence of material possessions. Death is the only certainty in life, and when that¡¯s taken away, it¡¯s easy to be a bit cynical about the value of historically significant objects.

    After all, everything is forgotten at some point.

    But the bodies that Locke seems to leave in his wake are what sours his opinion of the vampire. Locke isn¡¯t afraid to get his own hands dirty¡ªQuinn is sure of that much¡ªbut he also has a reputation for using others to his benefit and their detriment. Dominic was one of Locke¡¯s first business partners until a particularly delicate deal fell through and ended in bloodshed.

    Quinn was already a Bureau agent and managed to help Dominic extract himself from his contract, the result of which is the scar on Dominic¡¯s arm. Quinn looks at the mark again, wondering if the scar is still just that.

    The flicker of Quinn¡¯s eyes does not go unnoticed by Dominic, who gives his friend a short shake of his head before he continues. ¡°A group of them have been hanging out around the bar,¡± he says, switching his blood for whiskey. He fills Quinn¡¯s glass without asking and, at the last second, offers some to Harvest. She accepts it absentmindedly. ¡°The one downstairs earlier, Roderick, has been in almost daily. Orders a vodka on the rocks and tries to con tourists out of their money. I¡¯ve had to kick him out a few times.¡±

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    ¡°Anything more serious than that?¡±

    ¡°Not that I¡¯ve seen,¡± he begins, but pauses, considering something with a frown. ¡°Well, yesterday, there was a group of them in here with a woman. A witch, I think.¡±

    Harvest, who was about to sink back against the couch, lulled by the sharp tingle of liquor and the sounds of the ocean, sits up straight. ¡°What did she look like?¡±

    Dominic cocks his head to the side. ¡°Kinda like you, if I¡¯m honest.¡±

    ¡°What exactly happened?¡± asks Quinn.

    ¡°It was a small group. Roderick, this vampire named Ozias. The other two were demons. I don¡¯t know their names. But the witch was with Ozias. He had his arm around her shoulders, but she said something he didn¡¯t like, and he shoved her. Hard enough that she bumped into a table and knocked over someone¡¯s beer. She was holding her hip, but she said she was fine. She ordered the customer a replacement beer and stormed out.¡± He takes a sip of whiskey. ¡°She told me to put it on her tab, but I put it on Ozias¡¯s tab instead,¡± he adds with a smirk.

    ¡°Credit card?¡±

    ¡°Cash. Always.¡±

    ¡°Did Ozias follow her?¡±

    He nods. ¡°But not right away. He had another drink and played a round of pool. Then sauntered out. I saw them walking down the boardwalk later, as I was closing up.¡±

    ¡°And you didn¡¯t recognize her at all? Had she been in before?¡±

    ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t know. I haven¡¯t been working the later shifts lately,¡± he admits. ¡°I was only filling in for one of my employees who was sick yesterday. She could be coming in when I¡¯m not here.¡± He looks between Quinn¡¯s creased brow and Harvest¡¯s wide eyes. ¡°Who is she exactly?¡±

    ¡°Hazel Rosenbloom,¡± says Harvest. ¡°My sister.¡±

    ¡°Is she okay?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s what we¡¯re trying to find out.¡±

    ¡°If they come back,¡± says Quinn, sitting his empty glass on the table next to a perfectly available coaster. ¡°Can you let me know?¡±

    Dominic nods and stands to show them out, patting Quinn on the shoulder in goodbye. Quinn is already making his way down the steps when he hears Dominic saying, low enough that he¡¯s sure he meant it for Harvest¡¯s ears only, ¡°I don¡¯t know what your sister has gotten herself into, but if the answers you¡¯re looking for lead you to Locke, maybe you shouldn¡¯t be asking those questions.¡±

    <hr>

    The car ride is silent, and Harvest seems grateful. She is lost in her thoughts, staring out at the darkening sky. Quinn can see her reflection in the window, her eyes narrowed at something yet nothing at the same time.

    ¡°You¡¯re worried,¡± he says.

    His voice startles her, and she turns too quickly to look at him. ¡°Sorry. I was just thinking.¡±

    ¡°Feel like sharing?¡±

    ¡°I was just wondering if Ezra knows this guy that Hazel was with. Ozias. Maybe he was a friend of Hazel¡¯s? Maybe¡­¡± She shakes her head. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll ask him. I can run the name through the database too.¡±

    ¡°Do you think something is likely to come up?¡±

    ¡°No. But we have to start somewhere.¡±

    She nods and looks out the window again.

    When they turn down her street, Harvest directs Quinn on where to park. Her neighborhood is one of the few with brick roads in the area and is lined with crape myrtle trees, though at this time of year, they are bare skeletons casting spindly shadows against the broken sidewalk. The car bounces as Quinn maneuvers into a space in front of her apartment, a two-story Art Deco building that was divided into two rental spaces in the 1960s. He has the vaguest memory that the bottom floor used to be a pawn shop.

    Harvest waves hello to the red, glowing eyes peeking through the curtain of the downstairs apartment. Mrs. Halloran, Harvest tells him, is a bit of a busybody.

    ¡°At least I don¡¯t have to worry about anyone stealing packages from the doorstep,¡± she adds.

    Quinn decides to walk her to her door, and he follows her into the building. The stairs creak beneath their weight, the threadbare puce carpet doing little to silence their movements. The walls seem to slant toward them as they ascend, making their way to the second floor. At the top of the landing, Harvest freezes, and he hears her heartbeat increase, pounding against her rib cage.

    It takes him only a second to register that the door is open. He walks around her and, with the back of his hand, pushes the door open just wide enough for him to step inside. ¡°Stay here,¡± he says over his shoulder.

    He knows she hasn¡¯t listened to him when he hears the crunch of her boot against some fallen object that he had the wherewithal to step over. ¡°Go outside,¡± he says calmly, without looking back at her.

    Still, she doesn¡¯t listen, and he hears the click of her boot heel, too loud against the tile, then muffled as she comes to stand on the rug in the living room.

    ¡°Don¡¯t touch anything,¡± he says. He can hear one other heartbeat in the apartment, and there is a faint whiff of something in the air, a hint of smoke, and something else¡ªsomething earthy and coppery that makes his gums hurt. Blood.

    He looks over at Harvest to see that she has already made it across the room and to the door on the opposite wall. She¡¯s standing just inside the doorway when her posture straightens, her breath freezing in her chest. Her hand is clutching her neck as if she¡¯s trying to hold in a scream. Her heartbeat is frantic.

    Quinn looks over her shoulder. The first thing he sees is Ezra, standing in the middle of the room with a blank, shocked look. Ezra looks from Harvest to Quinn and then to the bed.

    Quinn follows his gaze and sees the shape of someone lying on the queen-size mattress, flung across at an angle as if they had been too exhausted and flopped down haphazardly, feet hanging off the edge. From where Quinn is standing, he can¡¯t see the person¡¯s face, but the shade of auburn hair is unmistakable.

    What¡¯s even more clear, however, is the stiff, slightly curled hand dangling over the side of the bed, blood dripping from the fingernails.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 4

    Harvest doesn¡¯t know how long she stands there, staring at the body. At some point, she feels Quinn¡¯s grip on her shoulder, and she turns to look at him, her eyes white and unfocused. She doesn¡¯t even remember switching to her second-sight, as if it activated on instinct.

    Though, if it¡¯s to hide or reveal what she¡¯s looking at, she isn¡¯t sure.

    Ezra is nowhere to be seen, and Harvest realizes dumbly that Quinn must have already escorted him out. With his hand gently cupping her cheek, Quinn turns her around and pulls her closer as he leads her toward the front door. She lets him, her body pressed tightly against his to prevent her from looking back. Outside, there is already a patrol car, and she sees Ezra sitting in the back, his head hanging down. His shoulders are shaking.

    Her legs feel heavy and light at the same time. She wonders where her year of Bureau training has gone. Her mind is annoyingly blank.

    Quinn leads her to his car and lowers her into the seat. She sits and waits, watching Quinn as he makes a phone call. She clutches her necklace, twisting the H around her thumb and forefinger, untwisting it, and then twisting it again. She avoids looking at the back of Ezra¡¯s head and watches Quinn as he motions toward the driver of a white van that has just pulled up to the curb. The witch who jumps out is middle-aged, with long gray hair braided away from her face. She shakes hands with Quinn and then moves with swift efficiency to retrieve her kit from the back.

    Harvest wants to curl up and hug herself so tightly that she will stop existing. She can¡¯t decide how to do that without getting her shoes on the expensive leather seats, so she turns, resting her feet on the rim of the car door. She leans forward, her head between her knees.

    <hr>

    Quinn is talking to the crime scene manager, but he can¡¯t help glancing over at Harvest. She looks pale, and as much as he feels sorry for her, he hopes she doesn¡¯t vomit in his car. She shifts¡ªthank the gods¡ªand leans out of the car with her head between her knees.

    Two uniformed officers have already cordoned off the house, while two more have set up a roadblock. Magi-Tech begins processing the scene, hands covered in white gloves as they bag certain items and take pictures from this or that angle. Quinn looks over at Ezra, whose head is now held in his hands, his body trembling. He isn¡¯t sure what to think. He can¡¯t imagine Ezra hurting Hazel, but, then again, Ezra had been angry last night. The slurred threats are fresh in his memory.

    He makes his way to Harvest, whose posture is a reflection of Ezra¡¯s. ¡°I know you¡¯re not okay,¡± he says softly, leaning down to catch her eye, ¡°but is there anyone I can call for you?¡±

    She makes eye contact briefly, shaking her head. He places his hand on her back, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against the base of her neck. ¡°Let me know if that changes.¡±

    She nods.

    Quinn looks up to see his team slipping under the caution tape, though one of them has a harder time of it. Agent Wild Neverbee curses under his breath as the tape snags on the top of his wings. Agent Angel Fernandez attempts to hide their smile behind their hand for a second, but can¡¯t contain the short bark of laughter even as they unhook the tape from his wing.

    Wild takes a deep breath, smoothing his tie against his chest. He mumbles thanks to Angel, and they both move forward, spotting Quinn standing by his car with his hand still on Harvest¡¯s neck.

    ¡°Hey, boss. What¡¯ve we got?¡± says Angel when they catch up to him. Angel is a witch, shorter than both Quinn and Wild. Their freshly dyed blue hair is cropped close to their head and their hazel eyes scan the front of the building in interest, mentally noting details that may or may not be relevant. Angel has worked for the Bureau for five years, with two of those years being in SCD. Previously, they worked in the Bureau Archives but decided to trade their desk job for more work in the field. It¡¯s painfully obvious that they are excited about a new case, though a strong sense of professionalism keeps them from bouncing on the balls of their feet.

    Quinn motions to the left, taking a few steps away from Harvest. ¡°We have one body, female. CMS is Stella. We should get in there soon.¡±

    Wild hides his excitement a little better than Angel, though his wings, a cross between moth wings and fallen leaves, do flutter slightly. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he leans back on his heels. Wild is fairly new to the team, having passed his exams last year.

    He wears a standard-issue necklace with a serialized dog tag¡ªan illusion charm that he can activate when needed. Not that it helps much. Even without his wings and pointed ears, he looks entirely fae: tall and slim with curling dark hair and peridot green, slightly slanted eyes. High cheekbones and smooth, dark skin. Long nimble fingers and graceful movements.

    Except when he¡¯s trying to slip underneath caution tape.

    ¡°Is Dr. Burrows here yet?¡± asks Wild, looking around for the medical examiner.

    Quinn realizes that he hasn¡¯t seen the dark-haired demon yet, and he glances around briefly, spotting her car down the street. ¡°Looks like. We should be able to get in there soon.¡±

    As if on cue, the crime scene manager, Stella, pokes her head out of the door and waves them in. Quinn glances at Harvest one last time before making his way up the front steps.

    ¡°That was quick,¡± he says, approaching the doorway. ¡°Thanks for getting us in here as soon as possible.¡±

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    Stella briskly runs them through her assessment of the crime scene as Quinn and his team follow her up the stairs. ¡°The victim is in the bedroom, though there is one thing of note in the entryway.¡± She points to the door. ¡°Opened with a key, or unlocked already. There was no forced entry, but the protective charm hanging above it was burned to a crisp regardless.¡±

    ¡°What can cause that?¡± asks Wild.

    Angel frowns, kneeling to look at the burned peach pit and the remains of some herbs. ¡°An intruder. Even if they had a key, if the wards were constructed to keep certain people out, it would fight hard to fulfill its purpose.¡± Their hands are covered in white cotton gloves, spelled to prevent contamination from the wearer as well as protect the wearer from magical residue that may still be harmful. They use a finger to push the burned peach pit to the side, then they write something down in their notebook. ¡°But it should have done more than just burn if it was working properly.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡±

    ¡°Prevent the intruder from entering, most likely. Or give the intruder spell-burn, if they managed to get past it. But really, it depends on what it was meant to do, I suppose. We should ask the owner of the apartment.¡± Angel looks up at Quinn.

    ¡°Harvest Rosenbloom,¡± he supplies. ¡°She¡¯s outside. We found the body together.¡±

    Angel raises an eyebrow. ¡°The body that¡¯s in her bedroom?¡±

    ¡°I noticed the door was open as we walked up the stairs, and when I entered, I smelled blood,¡± says Quinn. ¡°Ezra Evans was here already. He was standing in the bedroom.¡±

    ¡°And how is Ezra involved?¡±

    ¡°Ex-fianc¨¦,¡± says Quinn. The fact that he doesn¡¯t specify whose ex-fianc¨¦ is not lost on Angel, who raises a delicate eyebrow in response.

    ¡°Let¡¯s move on,¡± Quinn says to Stella, who nods and continues toward the bedroom.

    ¡°There were no other clear disturbances in the apartment. The victim is female, late thirties,¡± she says. ¡°There is no formal identification on the body.¡±

    They follow Stella into the room, where Dr. Burrows is kneeling next to the bed, examining the body. Her curtain of black hair obscures the two, short horns protruding from her forehead and her black eyes. She has turned the body just slightly, and the victim lies in the middle of the bed, a navy blouse wrinkled and pushed up to reveal a pale torso. The victim¡¯s left arm is not visible from where Quinn is standing, but the right arm is, with the hand hanging over the edge of the bed. The victim¡¯s jeans are skin-tight, highlighting the awkward way the hips are turned, the way the legs are twisted.

    Quinn knows there must be lacerations to both of the wrists, though there is so much blood, clotted and turning the sheets brown, that he can¡¯t see the actual injury.

    Burrows is looking at the victim¡¯s right hand and frowning. ¡°It looks like a suicide,¡± she says quietly as Quinn kneels next to her. ¡°But it¡¯s such a clean cut. One movement, no hesitation. Almost too perfect.¡±

    ¡°Do we know who she is yet?¡± asks Angel, looking up from their notebook, pen poised in their white-gloved hand.

    ¡°It looks like Hazel Rosenbloom, but I would like to get a formal identification.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no need,¡± says Harvest from the doorway. ¡°It¡¯s not her.¡±

    ¡°How do you know?¡± asks Angel.

    Harvest blinks, her eyes turning white. ¡°The death is recent, and Hazel¡¯s aura should still be visible. This¡ª¡± Harvest waves her hand toward the victim, ¡°¡ªis not Hazel¡¯s aura. I think something is covering the body. An illusion, maybe.¡± She blinks again and looks at Quinn. ¡°The aura looks like¡­well, it looks almost like static. Interference.¡±

    Angel frowns and leans closer to the body, patting their pockets until they locate a small brass magnifier, similar to a jeweler¡¯s loupe. Unlike a jeweler¡¯s loupe, however, the end is capped by a thin layer of labradorite. They spin a focusing ring until they find what they¡¯re looking for: the fine, intricate weaving of spellwork. Normally, Angel would be able to cast a spell to reveal magic such as this, but doing so at a crime scene risks contaminating potential evidence, adding spell residue or magical signatures that could interfere with the samples taken by Magi-Tech.

    ¡°She¡¯s right,¡± they say. ¡°There is an illusion. It¡¯s sitting so close to the skin, I might have missed it if I wasn¡¯t looking.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean exactly?¡± asks Quinn.

    ¡°It means,¡± answers Harvest, ¡°that we¡¯ll have to break the illusion before we can properly identify the victim.¡±

    <hr>

    Quinn tasks Angel with dismantling the illusion. Their connections in the Archives will be helpful with research on this type of spell.

    He tells Wild to take a uniformed officer to interview the neighbors. He knows Harvest¡¯s downstairs neighbor is fae, and he¡¯s hoping that Wild¡¯s presence will display a certain measure of good faith. Fae can be notoriously close-lipped around authority on a good day and even less forthcoming to someone outside of their species. For a brief moment, Harvest looks eagerly at him, awaiting her own task. Her expression falls almost imperceptibly when he instead asks her to wait in his car. She goes willingly, at least, as he leads her out of the crime scene and down the stairs.

    He instructs a second uniformed officer to take Ezra to the Bureau headquarters, where he will have Angel and Wild interview him. Ezra still seems to be in shock. As Quinn read him an official caution, Ezra merely nodded in response and hung his head low.

    Burrows finishes her preliminary examination, though she tells Quinn that it might not even matter. ¡°If this is an illusion, I don¡¯t know what the real victim looks like, let alone what the injuries might be or even the time of death.¡± She looks up at him, her black-filled eyes softening. Pleading.

    He thinks about the last time he saw that look: two nights ago when she casually handed him a spare key to her condo. He pocketed it silently, hiding his reluctance with a kiss. The key is on his kitchen table. He hasn¡¯t used it.

    ¡°Will you come by later?¡± she asks.

    He nods, his eyes flicking briefly to Harvest, sitting in the passenger seat of his car, clutching her body as if she¡¯s trying to fold into herself. ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡±

    Her mouth hardens. ¡°I know. If you can¡­¡± Then the softness is gone, replaced with cool practicality. ¡°Come by the morgue in the morning. Even if we haven¡¯t broken the illusion, we can still test the blood.¡±

    Quinn thinks about stopping her from walking away, considers putting his hand around her waist, and dropping a kiss to her cheek despite their colleagues already surreptitiously ducking their eyes.

    Instead, he keeps his hands in his pockets and watches her as she makes her way down the sidewalk, slipping under the caution tape and sliding into her car without a backward glance.

    He makes his way over to his car, where Harvest has leaned back against the headrest, her arms folded across her chest as she frowns at her front door, Magi-Tech technicians still filing out with evidence bags.

    ¡°He didn¡¯t do it,¡± she says when Quinn gets in the car. She looks over at him. ¡°Ezra wouldn¡¯t hurt anyone, let alone Hazel. He¡¯d be more likely to throw a fireball through the wall if he were truly angry.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind, but I still have to interview him.¡±

    She nods. ¡°I know. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    He gives her a sidelong glance, wondering if it would be worth it to remind her that he is still the senior agent. Probably not, so he starts the car.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 5

    Ezra looks pale in the fluorescent lighting, his cheeks gaunt and his green eyes rimmed with redness. He sits straight up in the chair, his hands palm-down on the table.

    When he looks up, his gaze is unfocused, and he sways slightly. ¡°Where¡¯s Julian?¡± he asks when Angel and Wild walk into the room.

    ¡°Agent Quinn is observing this interview but has declined to partake, considering your connection,¡± says Wild. He straightens his tie against his stomach as he sits, the metal chair scratching against the linoleum floor.

    Angel settles in next to him and places their notebook on the table, turning to a blank page with a pen poised to take notes. Angel runs through the basic questions, from establishing personal relationships (¡°How did you know the deceased?¡±) to alibi (¡°Talk me through your day¡±).

    Ezra is clearly nervous, though he is forthright and honest in his answers. He speaks quietly and adjusts his seat every few minutes.

    At one point, he runs a hand through his hair and rests his elbow on the table as he cradles his head, trying to remember where he was earlier. ¡°I went to work and then headed to my brother¡¯s. He lives off of Chestnut.¡±

    ¡°Do you live with your brother?¡±

    ¡°No, um, I live with Harvey. Harvest.¡± He swallows. ¡°We had a fight last night, and I crashed at my brother¡¯s place.¡±

    ¡°Why did you return to Ms. Rosenbloom¡¯s apartment?¡±

    ¡°I needed to grab some things I forgot last night. Harvey wasn¡¯t answering her phone, so I figured I¡¯d just stop by and grab them. I didn¡¯t expect to find her there. I didn¡¯t expect anyone to be there.¡± He pauses, looking down again.

    ¡°How did you enter the apartment?¡±

    He looks up sharply. ¡°I used my key.¡±

    ¡°Tell us what happened when you walked inside.¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t,¡± he says. ¡°The wards¡­ they wouldn¡¯t let me through, so I dismantled them. I was angry.¡± He scoffs. ¡°I thought Harvey had tried to lock me out.¡±

    ¡°How did you dismantle it?¡±

    ¡°Fire. It runs in my family.¡±

    Angel nods. ¡°Was there anything else amiss in the apartment?¡±

    ¡°No, I just walked into the bedroom and found Hazel.¡± He says it as if he¡¯s just now remembering, as if it was a dream he had weeks ago. ¡°There was blood.¡±

    ¡°Did you attempt to administer any first aid?¡± asks Wild.

    He shakes his head. ¡°I touched her arm. Her skin wasn¡¯t¡ªit didn¡¯t feel right. And then Harvey and Julian were there.¡±

    ¡°How long would you say you were in the apartment before they showed up?¡±

    ¡°A couple of minutes. Not long.¡±

    ¡°Did anyone see you enter the apartment?¡±

    ¡°Mrs. Halloran, probably. The neighbor downstairs. She¡¯s always looking out of the window.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll be sure to speak with her,¡± says Wild, although he has already done so. She confirmed when Ezra entered the apartment, noting that Quinn and Harvest followed four minutes later.

    When he asked how she could be so exact with her times, Mrs. Halloran sniffed, clearly offended. ¡°I pay attention,¡± she said, a fact that she seemed to take great pride in. Although her pride was slightly hampered by her inability to pinpoint when the victim entered. ¡°I must have been in the garden out back,¡± she supplied, so readily that Wild was disinclined to believe her.

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    ¡°How did you get the cut on your eyebrow?¡± asks Angel.

    Ezra gives a short laugh, taken aback by the question. ¡°Harvey.¡±

    ¡°Harvey attacked you?¡±

    ¡°Harvey threw a ring at me.¡±

    ¡°Why did she do that?¡±

    ¡°We were fighting.¡±

    ¡°Sounds like it was pretty heated. What was it about?¡±

    He looks like he is going to laugh again, but he just shakes his head. ¡°Hazel. We were fighting about Hazel.¡±

    ¡°Did you have any negative feelings toward Hazel? Did you have any arguments with her?¡±

    The question seems to hit Ezra physically, and he jerks back, eying them warily. ¡°What do you mean? I haven¡¯t seen Hazel in two years.¡±

    ¡°But you were angry with her for leaving you, is that right?¡±

    ¡°What does this have to do with anything?¡±

    ¡°We have a witness statement that you were quite angry with Hazel last night. There were a few¡­derogatory words spoken about her and her sister.¡±

    Ezra¡¯s gaze darkens as he recalls the night spent drinking with Quinn, and how easily he let his anger flow in the presence of what he assumed was a friend. ¡°Julian told you that,¡± he says, his voice steady yet roiling with an anger that he seems unable to keep hidden any longer. He looks up at the camera in the corner, knowing that Quinn is watching from afar. He lowers his gaze back to Angel.

    ¡°Can you tell us what you said?¡± Angel asks him, pen poised above the blank page as if they don¡¯t already know the answer.

    ¡°Sure. I said Hazel was a manipulative bitch and that I could kill her for coming between me and Harvey.¡±

    <hr>

    Quinn frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. Harvest sits next to him, watching Ezra¡¯s interview on a television screen in a small meeting room down the hall.

    The room is barely larger than a broom closet, and her shoulder brushes against his as she leans forward, elbows resting on her knees.

    ¡°He was exaggerating. He would never kill her,¡± she tells him.

    Quinn nods, his attention still on the screen. ¡°I know.¡± He tears his eyes away and looks at Harvest. ¡°But we have to rule him out. He was loud at the bar last night. Other people heard him. If I didn¡¯t bring it up, someone else would have, and it would look even more suspicious.¡±

    Harvest sighs and sinks back into her chair, rubbing her eyes with little regard for her mascara. ¡°Are you going to tell him it¡¯s not Hazel?¡±

    He hums in thought but doesn¡¯t answer.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s not her,¡± she says, interpreting his hesitance as a lack of faith in her abilities. She looks at him sharply. ¡°I¡¯m certain,¡± she says again.

    He nods, the movement slight but noticeable considering their proximity. ¡°Then we¡¯ll tell him.¡±

    ¡°The times don¡¯t work either,¡± she points out, looking back at the screen. A fuzzy Ezra is shaking his head, looking away from Wild and Angel. ¡°We know when Ezra walked into the apartment. If the victim was still alive, there wouldn¡¯t be enough time for him to do anything besides be surprised. I think the wards were trying to tell him something.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°Although we still don¡¯t know how the victim got into my apartment. And anyway, illusions aren¡¯t really Ezra¡¯s style. He¡¯s not very good at them.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    ¡°I think whoever it is already had the illusion applied when they entered. And if the theory is that the victim and Ezra argued because he thought it was Hazel, and it turned violent, why would he make it look like a suicide anyway? It would have been a crime of passion, something spontaneous. I think the victim was already in the room, and I think they were already dead when Ezra got there. Someone is trying to fake Hazel¡¯s death.¡±

    She finally looks back at Quinn, whose mouth is curled to the side in amusement. ¡°You know you don¡¯t work for SDS, right?¡± he says.

    She lifts a shoulder. ¡°Then transfer me. I want to work on this. You have the authority to requisition additional employees, if their qualifications will aid in your investigation.¡± There is a pause, and then she says, ¡°I need to a¡ª¡±

    She doesn¡¯t have a chance to finish her sentence. There¡¯s a knock on the door, and Wild pokes his head inside. ¡°Hey, boss. Ezra wants to speak with Harvest. He says he won¡¯t say anything else until he sees her.¡±

    <hr>

    The interrogation room is just a few doors down, and when Harvest enters, she¡¯s met with the dull thrum of gray concrete.

    The room is cold and impersonal, and Ezra, who is normally a vibrant vermilion orange as warm as the summer sun, seems just as gray as the walls.

    He jumps out of his seat when he sees her. Quinn hovers in the doorway for a second before leaning casually against the doorframe. Ezra ignores Quinn and reaches out to grab Harvest in a hug. She reciprocates but pulls back a second too early, aware of the camera in the corner still recording their every movement.

    Ezra looks drawn, his exhaustion and grief making him look older. ¡°I didn¡¯t do this. I wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± she says. ¡°Agent Quinn is just doing his job. But we should be able to get you out of here soon.¡±

    At the mention of his name, Quinn pushes himself off of the doorframe and moves further into the room. ¡°I¡¯ll have to ask you not to leave town, of course. We may still need to ask you some questions.¡±

    Ezra¡¯s expression hardens, and he looks like he is going to say something, but he closes his mouth when Harvest squeezes his hand. ¡°There¡¯s something else,¡± she says. ¡°The body we found wasn¡¯t Hazel.¡±

    Ezra takes a deep breath and, for a moment, seems unsure if he should be happy or annoyed. He settles for something in the middle, a vague sort of acceptance clouding his eyes.

    But what Harvest sees, in the depths of his pupils and the minute shift in his body, is a kindling of relief and she can¡¯t help but think that he¡¯s still in love with Hazel, despite his past declarations to the contrary.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 6

    By the time Harvest pushes open the door to Tabitha¡¯s, it is nearing the end of the dinner rush, and Kipp walks by frantically, carrying a pitcher of water. ¡°Just sit anywhere,¡± she calls over her shoulder.

    Tabitha¡¯s is bustling with activity and loud conversations, though Harvest is still able to pick out some familiar faces in the crowd. She greets a baobhan sith with a hooded raven on her shoulder who is sitting at the bar. She waves to Stuart, a ghoul with a sickly pallor and sharp, pointy teeth. He is chewing his meatloaf, which is slightly raw in the center. He slurps his diet soda and smiles widely at her, his black eyes sparking red as he waves back.

    Harvest looks at Quinn through the window as he frowns at his phone. He tosses it down on the passenger seat and then reverses out of the parking space, speeding off toward the highway. He offered to give her a ride, claiming that he was headed in the same direction, but the highway would take him back to the Bureau office.

    The thought of the Bureau office reminds her of the look on Ezra¡¯s face when she told him about the victim. The relief washed through him, brushing away the gray oppressiveness of his grief and fear, and Harvest could see Ezra¡¯s feelings for Hazel as clearly as if she were viewing him through her second-sight. He¡¯s still in love with her, she thinks again. It¡¯s a fear that has circled in her head for two years, though she has rarely let herself think it.

    The black, rotting thing in her chest hurts even more¡ªperhaps because she was suddenly relieved to see the end of their relationship.

    Rotten to the core, she thinks mildly.

    And yet, Hazel isn¡¯t dead.

    She repeats it to herself. Hazel isn¡¯t dead. It is all that matters at the moment.

    She spots Ronan at the end of the bar and slides onto the stool next to him, propping her head in her hand as she eyes the menu. It hasn¡¯t changed much over the years, but Ronan has been working on updating it¡ªwhile maintaining the favorites for the regulars, of course. She can¡¯t see Stuart tucking into a vegan burger with truffle fries.

    Ronan doesn¡¯t look up from the stack of receipts in front of him. ¡°You know,¡± he says, ¡°when your dad said I could become manager of this place, I didn¡¯t realize there would be so much paper involved.¡± He holds up a yellow receipt with a grimace and then lets it fall back to the counter.

    When he does look up at her, he grins, showing off his slightly pointed teeth, similar to Quinn¡¯s though not as sharp. Werewolves may experience a complete transformation during a full moon, but those like Ronan¡ªwith werewolf lineage on both sides of his family¡ªsometimes have physical attributes that hint at their second-form regardless of the state of the moon. His upper and lower canine teeth are tapered, and his eyes, in the right light, shine iridescent green. She has also, on at least one occasion, seen him shift his hands into claws when a stranger attempted to grope her at a dance club.

    She opens her mouth to say something, but instead, she bursts into tears.

    She is encircled in his arms quickly and she takes a deep shuddering breath, taking comfort in the spicy notes of his cologne before he leads her to the back of the diner. She¡¯s not sure how long she sits on the creaky, slightly broken couch in the corner of the office, but when her hiccups subside, a glass of whiskey is shoved in her direction and she holds onto it with both hands as she tells Ronan about her day.

    Ronan sits on the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest as he listens. His frown increases with every new sentence, until, when she is done, there is a line between his eyebrows. ¡°Harv, can I tell you something?¡±

    She nods warily, taking a sip of her drink.

    ¡°Ezra is an asshole. You¡¯re better off without him.¡±

    She almost laughs. ¡°I know you never liked him¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that. It¡¯s not that I didn¡¯t get along with him. He wasn¡¯t good for you. Or Hazel.¡±

    ¡°You sound like my dad.¡±

    ¡°Your dad is right.¡± He grins softly at her. ¡°We both want the best for you.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± She stares down into her drink. ¡°Anyway, I can¡¯t focus on Ezra right now. My bedroom is a crime scene.¡±

    ¡°At least it wasn¡¯t her.¡± He doesn¡¯t need to clarify who he is talking about. He¡¯s barely uttered Hazel¡¯s name since she left, as if he is in mourning. ¡°Are you investigating?¡±

    She nods and takes another sip of whiskey, not bothering to hide the small wince at the sharpness. If Quinn holds true to his word, Form 1122B (Temporary Reallocation of Employee) will be on Herman¡¯s desk in the morning, allowing her to work with Quinn and his team. She didn¡¯t bother to hide her acceptance of his offer, though she did say that she wouldn¡¯t do any work on the case until the form was approved. Despite the fact that the procedure exists and that Quinn holds the authority to implement it, Form 1122B is rarely utilized. She¡¯s sure it will be approved though. She¡¯s equally sure it will have her aunt¡¯s signature on the Sponsoring Council member line.

    Still, she gave up on denying any type of impropriety or suggestion of favoritism when she found a murder victim in her bed.

    Wild seemed amiable enough when Quinn suggested Harvest would work with them on this investigation. Angel had made a thinly veiled comment about conflict of interest that Quinn brushed off easily and with a level of skill that could only come from centuries of navigating workplace relationships. Harvest has already noted that he does this often when he is confronted with a question or situation he doesn¡¯t want to acknowledge. He just avoids the offending comment with an annoyingly effective grin and then moves deftly onward.

    ¡°You¡¯re staying with me,¡± says Ronan, in a tone of voice that brokers no argument.

    ¡°Thanks. It should only be a few nights while they finish processing the crime scene.¡±

    ¡°Stay as long as you need.¡±

    <hr>

    After dropping Harvest off at the diner¡ªhe was appalled to learn that she doesn¡¯t own a car and would be taking the bus after dark¡ªQuinn ignores a text from Burrows and instead heads back to the Bureau.

    It is so quiet in the office that Quinn and his team can hear the custodian whistling from a few doors down as he sweeps up the interrogation room. The custodian takes great pride in his work, particularly his dusting skills. He is a bwbach, after all.

    ¡°If she isn¡¯t a victim, is she a suspect?¡± asks Wild, nodding toward the picture of Hazel posted in the center of their notes and evidence attached to a whiteboard.

    ¡°Not yet,¡± he says. ¡°But I do want to make it a priority to find her. At the very least, she¡¯s a person of interest.¡±

    Wild writes ¡°POI¡± under Hazel¡¯s picture. Earlier, Quinn tasked Wild with reading up on Hazel¡¯s disappearance, and with Quinn and Angel gathered around the whiteboard, he goes through the case file with them.

    ¡°Right, so two years ago, Hazel Rosenbloom left work for the day and headed home. Between her place of employment and her residence at the time, she disappears. Literally.¡±

    He points to a sequence of photos from a security camera showing Hazel walking down a sidewalk, her long rose gold hair tied up in a messy bun so that her face is unmistakable. The next photo is a second later, but she is gone.

    ¡°Magi-Techs found spell residue on the wall at the entrance of the alley she had been passing by at the time and reported a faint smell of sulfur. They were unable to identify the source of the magic, though they theorized it was demon in origin. Portals and all that. An hour after she was supposed to be home, her fianc¨¦ at the time¡ªEzra¡ªstarted making some calls. He contacted Hazel¡¯s sister, Harvest, who then called Hazel¡¯s phone, Hazel¡¯s work, her parents, and a friend named Ronan Kelly, who is the current manager at the diner owned by the Rosenbloom family. Call logs show all of the conversations were fairly quick. Only a minute or two. Then, we have a longer outgoing call from Ezra to Agent Quinn.¡±

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°I¡¯ve known Ezra for a few years now,¡± interjects Quinn. ¡°He knew that I worked for the Bureau, and he wasn¡¯t sure who else to call. I decided to escalate Hazel¡¯s disappearance to a full investigation and called Agent Herman in MPU.¡±

    ¡°The fact that the Rosenblooms own half of this town probably didn¡¯t hurt either,¡± says Angel. ¡°Isn¡¯t there a Rosenbloom on the Council?¡±

    Quinn nods. ¡°Trixie Rosenbloom. She¡¯s Hazel¡¯s aunt. Between me bringing the Bureau into it right away and the Rosenblooms¡¯ status, we moved quickly to get a proper investigation going.¡±

    ¡°I gave Herman a call,¡± says Wild, looking down at his notes.

    ¡°Bet he loved that,¡± says Quinn.

    Wild gives him a wry smile. ¡°He wasn¡¯t thrilled. In fact, he was very defensive. Seemed to think I was calling to say he¡¯d done a poor job.¡±

    ¡°And did he?¡± asks Angel.

    ¡°Oh, a terrible job. He dragged his feet, but it didn¡¯t matter because eventually, Ezra admitted telling Hazel he had cheated on her with Harvest. He said that Hazel was upset. Things got a little heated, and she walked out. She disappeared a day later.¡± Wild flips through a file folder on his desk. ¡°He was questioned further about the argument. Herman seemed sure that Hazel¡¯s disappearance was Ezra¡¯s doing, and I don¡¯t blame him, really. Ezra was vague in his interviews. It makes sense that Herman would focus so much on him. But Ezra had an alibi and with no body or indication that Hazel was in trouble, they dropped the case. Magi-Tech suggested that the portal residue wasn¡¯t related to Hazel at all, but just a coincidence.¡±

    ¡°The alibi was me,¡± says Quinn. ¡°We had gone out for a few drinks. I was with him when Hazel texted to say she was on her way home.¡± He motions to the security camera footage of Hazel. ¡°The images are time-stamped right when we said goodbye. It was assumed that Hazel left because she felt betrayed by her fianc¨¦¡¯s affair with her younger sister. She¡¯s had zero contact with her family since. Except now.¡± He stands up and points to the postcard. ¡°This was posted yesterday from Valkaria Bay Boardwalk and was sent using a spell.¡±

    Angel nods. ¡°It¡¯s more of a gimmick. Sealed with a kiss. But it¡¯s effective. Guaranteed to always deliver a letter to the person you love. I can see the imprint of the spell, but the edges are a bit blurred. I think she was in a hurry.¡±

    Wild folds his arms across his chest, his wings fluttering in thought. ¡°The word ¡®help¡¯ is a little vague.¡±

    Quinn agrees. ¡°But it was enough to make Harvest worry, and she asked me to ask a few questions. Earlier today, I spoke with a witness who can place Hazel with a vampire named Ozias, a known associate of Grayson Locke.¡±

    Wild lets out a low whistle. ¡°If I found myself involved with Locke, however distant, I¡¯d ask for help too.¡±

    ¡°The witness also indicated that Ozias is possibly abusive.¡±

    ¡°So, we think she wants help getting out of an abusive relationship?¡± asks Angel, their brow creased.

    ¡°We don¡¯t think anything,¡± says Quinn. ¡°The postcard isn¡¯t a priority right now. I don¡¯t know what Hazel is dealing with and it¡¯s most likely related, but there¡¯s an unidentified body now. Identifying our victim takes priority.¡±

    Angel stands up and moves closer to the board. ¡°Are we not going to mention the fact that Ezra and the sister are in a relationship? Is there anything there?¡±

    Quinn shakes his head. ¡°I know how it looks, but they ended things last night after Harvest found the postcard. I don¡¯t think either of them was involved in Hazel¡¯s disappearance. Or this murder.¡±

    ¡°Could she have been protecting her sister? How do we know that Harvest wasn¡¯t aware of Hazel¡¯s whereabouts the entire time? The postcard was sent to her, but we only have Harvest¡¯s word that she hasn¡¯t had any contact with her sister.¡± Angel points toward the picture of their victim. ¡°If this isn¡¯t Hazel, maybe it was meant to provide a way for Hazel to escape from her abusive partner. And from Locke, for that matter.¡±

    ¡°Harvest isn¡¯t involved,¡± says Quinn.

    Angel glances sideways at Quinn. ¡°So, she¡¯ll definitely be working with us on this, then? The transfer was approved?¡±

    Quinn gives them a sharp look, even though he knows it doesn¡¯t work on them. Not for lack of trying, of course. Instead, Angel matches his gaze, arms folded across their chest. ¡°Not yet,¡± he concedes. ¡°But it should go through first thing in the morning.¡± He waits for Angel to repeat their earlier sentiment about conflict of interest, but they just shrug and turn their attention back to the whiteboard.

    ¡°Was the postcard sent to Harvest, though?¡± Wild asks suddenly. ¡°It¡¯s not addressed. Maybe it was meant for Ezra?¡±

    ¡°Ezra didn¡¯t do it, either,¡± says Quinn.

    Wild nods distractedly, eyes still on the board.

    ¡°Did we get anything from the neighbors?¡± asks Quinn.

    Wild pulls out his notebook and flips through it. ¡°The next-door neighbor confirms what Mrs. Halloran said. She only saw Ezra enter, followed by you and Harvest a few minutes later. The neighbor on the other side had just gotten home from work and didn¡¯t really have anything useful to add.¡±

    ¡°So if the neighbors are right, when did the victim get into the apartment?¡±

    ¡°Exactly.¡±

    ¡°Maybe Magi-Tech will be able to get us some answers,¡± says Quinn. ¡°Where are we with the illusion?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve examined the spell work,¡± begins Angel, ¡°and my biggest concern is breaking the illusion while maintaining the integrity of any evidence that¡¯s hiding underneath. I¡¯ve requested some documentation on illusions from the Archives. Ideally, I would like to preserve the original spellwork as well.¡±

    ¡°Is it possible to tell who cast it?¡± asks Quinn.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± Angel admits. ¡°Spells sometimes have a signature, like a fingerprint, something to identify the maker. But this illusion is so close to the body. Whoever cast it knew what they were doing. I doubt they left any trace of their identity.¡±

    Quinn nods. ¡°I think that¡¯s all we can do tonight. Why don¡¯t you two head out?¡±

    While they begin packing up their belongings and shutting down computers, Quinn stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the desk, arms folded, brow furrowed in thought. Angel and Wild leave at the same time, making plans to grab a late-night meal before heading home.

    He hears Wild say, ¡°Are you sure you want a cheeseburger?¡± followed by Angel¡¯s confused ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you salty enough already?¡± Wild adds, with a snort of amusement at his own joke. Quinn doesn¡¯t catch Angel¡¯s reply, but he knows what Wild is hinting at: Angel has been unusually snippy, shooting both Quinn and Wild annoyed looks.

    Quinn isn¡¯t worried about Angel¡¯s grouchiness, though. For all of their moodiness, Angel always puts their victim first. It¡¯s one thing he admires about his colleague, not that he would ever tell Angel that. Quinn¡¯s management style is decidedly hands-off.

    The elevator doors ding shut, and then Quinn is alone, save for the custodian¡¯s soft humming drifting from the office at the end of the hallway. He is still sitting on the edge of the desk, twisting his gold ring around his finger, and looking at the picture of Hazel pinned on the whiteboard when a voice behind him says, ¡°They should have been twins.¡±

    He arches an eyebrow at the witch who has sidled up to him almost silently. She looks young, but her movements are too practiced to be those of a gangly twenty-something, and he knows she is far older than she looks. She¡¯s wearing a silk blue shirt that matches her eyes, tucked into high<mark>-</mark>waisted, wide-leg pants. Her hair is exactly the same shade as Harvest¡¯s, a pale reddish-blonde. It¡¯s a surprisingly chic business casual look for a woman whose appearance is otherwise quite ethereal, her long graceful limbs, high cheekbones, and tapered ears hinting at a heritage that is not of this world.

    He¡¯s not surprised by her fae-like, youthful appearance, even though he knows she is a witch. Commissioner Rosenbloom¡¯s story is no secret; he has heard her tell it often at Bureau fundraising dinners and award ceremonies. ¡°I grew up in the Fae-Lands and am a bit fae now, myself,¡± she said once, tucking a strand of hair behind her tapered ears as if she had choreographed the movement. Her upbringing has slowed her aging, a fortuitous fact considering that she is married to her own changeling, Bea, who grew up in Commissioner Rosenbloom¡¯s stead until her fae heritage began to show. With any luck, they¡¯ll both live long, nearly immortal lives with each other.

    Commissioner Rosenbloom echoes his stance, leaning against the desk, arms folded. ¡°Harvest and Hazel. They were born two years apart but looked exactly the same,¡± she says. ¡°They grew into their differences, of course, but were still so close. There were times when it seemed like they were speaking a foreign language that only they knew.¡±

    ¡°And what about when Hazel left? Were they still close, Commissioner Rosenbloom?¡±

    ¡°I think they had been drifting apart, both dealing with their own issues. They had forgotten that they are both stronger when they are together.¡±

    ¡°I want to assure you that we are doing everything¡ª¡±

    She waves him off. ¡°Oh, I know you and your team will do the best you can within the limitations of the Bureau¡¯s Code of Ethics. I¡¯m not here to threaten or make demands of you, Agent Quinn.¡± The word ¡°yet¡± seems to hover on her lips; it will be unsaid until it needs to be heard. Her eyes flicker briefly to his ring before she stands with arms still crossed, to look closer at the photo of Hazel, before turning to look at Quinn, her eyes sparkling with something he can¡¯t quite read. ¡°Did you know that reading auras is not just about seeing energy, as Harvey likes to call it? It¡¯s about seeing and interpreting the truth of someone. She could tell immediately that your victim was under an illusion because illusions are lies. And when we spot the lie, we unravel the truth.¡± She pauses. ¡°Is Hazel a suspect?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°She should be, though, yes?¡±

    He nods.

    ¡°My niece has gotten herself into a bit of trouble, it seems.¡±

    ¡°So it would seem.¡±

    ¡°I wanted to let you know that the Council has agreed that this is a high-priority case, and we will approve any overtime or expenditures required to solve it. With the understanding, naturally, that if Hazel is found to be complicit in any crimes, that she be prosecuted to the fullest extent of Bureau law,¡± she says. She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll find my niece, won¡¯t you, Agent Quinn?¡±

    He¡¯s not sure if she¡¯s asking for reassurances or if she¡¯s more afraid that he¡¯ll actually do it.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 7

    ¡°What about that one?¡± Harvest leans across the bar and angles her head as surreptitiously as possible.

    Dominic doesn¡¯t even look at the two vampires in the corner. He leans forward, replicating her whisper. ¡°Nope.¡± This close, she can smell his scent, something fresh and breezy like a Sunday morning at the beach.

    Maybe vampires don¡¯t have visible auras, she thinks. Maybe their auras are divined through other senses.

    She knows she shouldn¡¯t be here at the Lighthouse. And yet, once she unpacked her small bag into the spare bedroom at Ronan¡¯s place, her limbs felt restless, her mind racing over the events of the day. She had already made two very dreaded phone calls.

    The first was to Herman, who picked up with a brusk ¡°What?¡±

    She could hear the sounds of a sports game in the background and a cheer from the crowd. The conversation did not fare much better, as she detailed her day with Quinn, ending with the murder victim in her bed. Herman was silent for a beat. Then he cursed under his breath. ¡°Rosenbloom, if you start sticking your nose into other departments¡ª¡±

    ¡°I know, sir. I¡¯m sorry, sir.¡± She decided against mentioning that a temporary reallocation form might find its way to his inbox soon, and he hung up with another curse.

    The second was to her father and her Aunt Bea, who spoke to her on speakerphone so that their questions overlapped with each other. ¡°Hazel is alive? Why hasn¡¯t she called?¡± Aunt Bea kept repeating. ¡°Tell me more about this boy,¡± her father had insisted.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about him yet,¡± she said, ¡°just that he¡¯s a vampire and that he¡¯s bad news.¡±

    ¡°And what about the poor woman they hurt?¡± asked Aunt Bea. Her aunt was putting it lightly, she thought at the time, remembering the stiff pale body covered in thick red blood.

    ¡°The Bureau is working on identifying her, but it may take some time. Didn¡¯t Aunt Trixie tell you all this?¡±

    But her Aunt Trixie hadn¡¯t made it home from the mainland yet and wasn¡¯t fond of cell phones¡ªnot an unusual proclivity considering the first twenty years of her life were spent in the Fae-Lands, away from the burgeoning technology of the early 1990s.

    She and Aunt Bea moved back to Ilton in 2001 and by then, cell phones were well on their way to becoming an economic necessity. One that neither aunt could quite get used to after the relative isolation of the Fae-Lands.

    ¡°Hazel wouldn¡¯t have anything to do with something like this, I¡¯m sure,¡± her father had said. ¡°But why hasn¡¯t she tried to call us?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Dad,¡± Harvest replied, blinking back tears at the wobble in her father¡¯s voice. ¡°But Quinn will help her. We¡¯ll both help her, whatever trouble she¡¯s in.¡±

    She hung up feeling exhausted, her throat raw from trying to find new ways of explaining that someone had potentially murdered an innocent woman to fake Hazel¡¯s death, and no, Dad, I don¡¯t know why someone would do this. Yes, Aunt Bea, I¡¯ll visit soon. Yes, Dad, I know that you¡¯re happy I broke up with Ezra, you never liked him anyway.

    The bar is relatively crowded considering it¡¯s a Monday night. When she scans the room, she stops at any glimpse of light-colored hair, then moves on quickly before making awkward eye contact with a stranger. As a result, her eyes keep landing on Dominic, whose face is the only one she recognizes. She watches him place a pint glass down with a crooked smile that encourages the female demon to lean across the bar a little more than necessary to hand him her credit card.

    The next time the door swings open and a vampire and a demon walk into the bar, Harvest flags Dominic down under the guise of ordering another drink but instead asks if the new arrivals work for Locke or Ozias.

    And again, he doesn¡¯t look over at them. He smiles slowly and leans his forearms on the polished wood bar, his attention fully on her. The female demon from earlier shoots Harvest a scathing look. ¡°You¡¯re playing a dangerous game, you know that,¡± Dominic says softly.

    ¡°I just want to ask them some questions.¡± She sips her club soda, moving the straw around the slice of lime.

    He shakes his head. ¡°Does Jules know you¡¯re here?¡±

    It takes her a second to figure out who Jules is. ¡°No, Agent Quinn is not in charge of me.¡± She hasn¡¯t had any alcohol, but she feels a little buzzed just the same.

    ¡°Questions can be just as dangerous as a knife,¡± he warns, leaning even closer. His proximity seems to block out their surroundings, lights and sounds dulled until it is just them¡ªDominic with his heady scent and parted lips, and her with her heartbeat in her ears. She would think he was using compulsion if only he was touching her.

    She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Stop teasing me,¡± she says, leaning back, annoyed that her cheeks are flushed. She takes a sip of her drink, only to find the glass empty.

    He laughs lightly. ¡°At least let me get you a proper drink. This is a bar, after all.¡±

    The drink is a cocktail that Dominic makes with ease, without thought, and with little notice of what his hands are doing. His eyes dart around the bar as he works, but seem to land on her far more often than they need to. Dominic places the drink in front of her with a mock bow. ¡°A daiquiri, made just the way Hemingway preferred, or so Jules told me once.¡±

    She almost spills the cocktail as she carries it toward her mouth. ¡°Quinn knew Hemingway?¡±

    He nods. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you something else about him too.¡± He leans forward again, arms resting on the bar. ¡°He¡¯s a shameless flirt. Don¡¯t trust any compliments from him.¡±

    She smirks. ¡°So are you. Does that mean I can¡¯t trust you?¡±

    ¡°You can trust me,¡± he says, an undertone of earnestness in his voice. ¡°You can trust him too. He¡¯ll always do the right thing, though he might take a roundabout way to get there.¡±

    ¡°I do trust him,¡± she says, taking another sip of her drink. ¡°More than some Bureau agents, anyway. That¡¯s why I asked him to help me with this in the first place.¡±

    A twinge in her chest, a niggle of guilt. Rotten to the core.

    He frowns, a small line forming between his eyebrows, as she reminds him why she¡¯s there. ¡°Be careful,¡± he says. He leans even closer, though it¡¯s only to keep his words between them. ¡°Locke is dangerous. You should let Jules handle this.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be careful. But I can¡¯t sit by and let Hazel deal with this on her own.¡± Not again, she adds to herself.

    Dominic opens his mouth to reply, but the crowd seems to swell around them suddenly, and his attention is pulled away by a customer. Harvest decides to move away from the bar and toward a high-top table in the middle of the space, her eyes scanning the crowd as she attempts to catch snippets of the conversations around her.

    She wanders every few minutes, sipping her drink until it¡¯s empty, ordering another, then continuing her slow turn around the room. She hopes no one looks over at her as she switches her vantage point every few minutes. Or if they do, she hopes her route looks random and innocuous to any who might glance her way.

    She learns a lot about her fellow bar-goers but makes little headway otherwise. She continues her wandering.

    Some hours later, Harvest is on her third daiquiri when a voice floats its way to her.

    ¡°¡­that witch got what was coming to her.¡±

    She turns slightly, pretending to look toward the door, then lets her eyes wander to her right, where the words came from.

    She wishes she could blink into her second-sight without giving herself away. Her eyes may be easily explained as a trick of the light in south Valkaria, but not so much here, with so many mischief-bound people milling about. She thinks the man is a vampire, but can¡¯t confirm until he opens his mouth again. For now, he¡¯s listening to something his companion is saying, nodding along with a close-lipped smile¡ªand then, he laughs, mouth open wide.

    She can see his fangs, teeth yellow even in the ambient light of the room. ¡°I¡¯m surprised Ozias kept her around as long as he did,¡± he says. He pauses to look down at his phone. He mumbles something to his friend, places his empty drink on the bar, and then makes his way toward the exit.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    She waits two seconds after the door closes behind him, before finishing her drink and setting the glass on the bar, in front of Dominic. She doesn¡¯t see Dominic¡¯s frown, because she¡¯s already pushing open the door to follow the vampire, phone in her hand, ready to call Quinn.

    <hr>

    There is nothing quite like the taste of demon blood. Burrows¡¯s head is thrown back, and she gasps, her hands curling into his hair. ¡°Slow down,¡± she mumbles against his temple. He readjusts his grip on her waist to pull back a little.

    Neither of them is that worried though. She¡¯ll be fine. Demons have healing abilities that rival vampires. It¡¯s just been a while since he¡¯s had a fresh meal. Typically, his diet is constrained to livestock blood poured from a bottle spelled for freshness and temperature. It¡¯s just as nourishing, but it doesn¡¯t taste quite as good.

    And Burrows¡¯s blood is delicious¡ªa unique blend of copper and spice that burns the back of his throat like liquor. It tastes so good, he can almost convince himself he¡¯s stealing her magic, her heartbeat in his mouth telling him that if he truly wanted, he could open a portal to the depths of Hell and grant wishes in exchange for carefully worded promises.

    Not that Burrows is that kind of demon.

    Her heritage is seen in her ink-black eyes and two tiny horns protruding from her hairline, poking up on either side of her fringe, but her profession and lifestyle differ from those of her peers.

    She¡¯s shared little about her family life, but he does know that she is only half-demon. Her father was a witch who specialized in healing, and her mother was a low-level demon who fled as soon as Burrows was born. She was raised by her father and, in many respects, lives more like a witch than a demon.

    When Quinn pulls back, licking the honey-spice of her blood from his lips, he presses a kiss to her neck, just above the quickly healing bite mark.

    He knows he shouldn¡¯t be here. He has no intention of taking his relationship with Burrows any further than it is now, and he certainly has no intention of using the key to her condo that is still sitting on his kitchen counter. It¡¯s better this way, he thinks.

    Demons have a longer lifespan than most, but it does not rival the immortality of vampires. Quinn has long since abandoned the idea of a romantic relationship that requires any sort of solid commitment. Give the most committed of couples a few hundred years, and they will inevitably fail, succumbing to a degradation that is as natural as coastal erosion.

    It¡¯s not so much that everything perishes as that everything changes. Certainly, when things are lost, they are perhaps found again, but nothing¡ªeven love¡ªwill remain unmoved through the passage of time.

    It¡¯s a cynical outlook, as Dominic once told him, but that doesn¡¯t make it not true.

    He moves his mouth up her neck, feeling her pulse thrumming blissfully against his lips. She shifts to make sure that his next kiss lands on her mouth. His phone rings, and he removes it from his pocket to toss it onto the table next to the couch, refocusing on Burrows¡¯s mouth.

    It is only later, when Burrows is in the kitchen to refill her glass of wine, that he remembers the phone call. He reaches over to tap the screen, reading his notifications while buttoning his shirt.

    But he is only half dressed when he stops, picking up his phone to call Harvest back.

    It goes straight to voicemail. He swears under his breath and tries the next number in his missed call log. ¡°Dom. What happened?¡±

    When Burrows comes back, he is hunched over, his elbows on his knees. His phone is clutched to his ear as he listens intently. He swears again. ¡°I¡¯ll be right there.¡±

    When he hangs up, he looks over at Burrows, taking the proffered glass of wine with little thought. He takes a gulp. ¡°I know you¡¯re comfortable with dead bodies, but what about a stupid little witch who¡¯s gotten herself attacked by a vampire?¡±

    She sets her glass on the table with a sigh.

    <hr>

    ¡°Really, I¡¯m fine,¡± says Harvest breathily. She licks her lips, wondering why they are so dry. ¡°I just need some sleep.¡± Her eyelids are so heavy. They flutter as she attempts to focus on Dominic¡¯s face, which swims in and out of various states of emphasis. Smooth blobs of color one moment and then thrown into stark relief, grainy and sharp, the next.

    At one point, she thinks she can see his aura, but then the image refocuses, and it¡¯s just his eyes sparkling like gemstones in the moonlight.

    Dominic raises an eyebrow while pressing the cloth tighter against her neck. ¡°Forgive me if I don¡¯t believe you.¡±

    She smiles weakly and sways slightly, admitting to herself that, perhaps, she is more hurt than she realizes.

    It¡¯s not that she had willingly put herself in harm¡¯s way, but that she had been so focused on getting answers from the vampire who talked so loudly about their murder victim that she followed him outside and into the alleyway without much thought.

    She wasn¡¯t worried when the door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the comforting chaos of voices from the bar as it plunged her and the vampire into a cold, silent darkness. She wasn¡¯t worried when the vampire she thought was in front of her was suddenly behind her, a leer turning his lips into a grotesque facsimile of civility. She wasn¡¯t worried when she saw his teeth, sharp and gleaming in the glow of the sodium light above them.

    Really, it wasn¡¯t until he grabbed her throat, forcing her head back at an awkward angle to allow him access to her jugular, that she began to worry. His other hand grabbed her thigh, and she tried to push back, twisting her hips and pulling away from him. Her head hit the wall, and a shooting pain erupted behind her eyes even as his compulsion thrummed in her chest. It won¡¯t hurt. Don¡¯t scream. It won¡¯t hurt. Don¡¯t scream.

    Her false thoughts dimmed her reactions and her eyes began to droop. But then the pressure against her throat was suddenly gone. She nearly fell to her knees, but Dominic¡¯s arm around her waist held her up. As he led her up the stairs to his apartment in the lighthouse tower, she looked back to see the vampire crumpled on the ground, his neck bent at an angle that no mortal could survive.

    She had tried to call Quinn, of course, before she walked outside. When he didn¡¯t answer and the vampire left the bar, she felt desperate to follow him.

    Now, she¡¯s not so sure why it was so important.

    It won¡¯t hurt. Don¡¯t scream.

    Dominic lowers the cloth to see if she¡¯s still bleeding. A thick bead of blood wells up, and it tickles as it trails slowly down her neck. ¡°Are you hungry?¡± she slurs, looking at his teeth. She reaches out to touch them, but her finger doesn¡¯t quite connect.

    Don¡¯t scream. It won¡¯t hurt.

    Dominic frowns and cups her cheek in his hand. She feels like she could fall into his touch, warm like sand dunes in the afternoon. ¡°I think his compulsion is still holding you,¡± he says softly, his voice rumbling through her chest.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine, really,¡± she says again, but instead of brushing him away, she leans closer. She¡¯s not sure what he¡¯s on about anyway. Compulsion and vampires and blood. She closes her eyes and inhales his cologne, feeling the roughness of his skin on her cheek.

    Don¡¯t scream. You want this.

    She wonders what his aura would be if she could actually see it. A soft, earthy umber with flecks of blue like his eyes? A rich mahogany with burgundy edges and a core of midnight, the same shade as the ocean right now if she were to glance out of the window?

    The sound of the door slamming against the wall causes her to jump. She sees Quinn standing in front of her, his anger brimming behind his eyes.

    ¡°What the fuck were you thinking?¡± Quinn¡¯s voice is gravel against her ears.

    Suddenly, she feels awake, the fog from the vampire¡¯s touch fading from her mind. The pain in her neck comes rushing into her consciousness, along with a keen sense of embarrassment as her last few words to Dominic are still echoing in her head. She opens her mouth but is spared from conjuring up an answer by Dr. Burrows, who pushes Quinn to the side.

    ¡°Hello,¡± she says gently. ¡°I¡¯m Dr. Burrows. We didn¡¯t properly meet earlier, did we? Is it okay if I take a look at your neck?¡±

    Harvest nods, and Dominic removes the cloth, taking a step back as Burrows moves closer, probing the edges of the bite with cold, soothing fingers.

    ¡°It was Roderick,¡± she hears Dominic telling Quinn. ¡°By the time I figured out where she went, he had her pinned against the wall. I think she¡¯s still under his compulsion.¡±

    Burrows looks into Harvest¡¯s eyes, her inky black sclerae reflecting tiny Harvest-blurs. ¡°Your pupils are dilated. Can you tell me your full name?¡±

    ¡°Harvest Jane Rosenbloom,¡± she slurs.

    ¡°She¡­she also might be a little drunk,¡± Dominic adds, and when Quinn shoots him a glare, he mumbles, ¡°It¡¯s a bar¡­¡±

    Harvest looks blearily at Dominic and Quinn. Dominic¡¯s hands are shoved in the pockets of his jeans, and he looks at Harvest with concern, a line forming between his eyebrows. She feels another stab of embarrassment as she wonders if his hands are covered in her blood. They must be, because he had been holding the cloth to her neck, and there is still a lot of blood trickling down from the vampire bite. The collar of her sweater is soaked.

    Quinn looks oddly unkempt, his shirt untucked and only half-buttoned. His hands are on his hips, and his face is unreadable.

    ¡°He mentioned her,¡± she says, her voice too loud in her ears. ¡°He was talking about a witch and something bad happening to her. He mentioned Ozias. I tried to call you.¡±

    ¡°You should have waited.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to¡ª¡±

    ¡°I was going to call you back¡ª¡±

    ¡°You should have answered in the first place.¡± The forcefulness in her voice surprises her, and for a second, she thinks Quinn is going to reprimand her for speaking out of turn.

    Instead, he stares angrily at her for a second, a muscle in his jaw clenching, then unclenching. He tears his gaze away and turns to Dominic, who is eying them warily. When Quinn does say something, it is to Dominic. His voice is a low growl. ¡°Where is Roderick now?¡±

    Harvest doesn¡¯t hear the rest of their conversation. Burrows catches her eye, turning her attention back to the injury on her neck and the pain radiating down her throat. ¡°Are you hurt anywhere else?¡± Burrows asks.

    ¡°My head. I think I hit it against the wall.¡±

    Burrows frowns as she gently turns Harvest¡¯s head to the side so she can look for a wound. ¡°You have a bump, but it¡¯s not bleeding, so that¡¯s good. You were definitely compelled, but it was sloppy. You may have a concussion, too. How does your neck feel?¡±

    ¡°It hurts,¡± she says with a short laugh.

    Burrows digs around in her bag, looking for a small blue vial. ¡°I have a tincture that could help.¡±

    Harvest can see inside her bag, which is filled with various medical instruments and an assortment of vials and jars. ¡°You have a whole apothecary in there.¡±

    Burrows shrugs, applying a few drops of the tincture to a sterilized cotton pad. ¡°I¡¯m only a half-demon. My father was a witch. I learned herbalism from him. Before he passed away.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Burrows smiles softly as she presses the cotton pad against Harvest¡¯s neck. ¡°It was a long time ago.¡± A pause. ¡°I hear you know something about loss too, though.¡±

    Harvest frowns.

    ¡°Your sister?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I suppose so. But it turns out she wasn¡¯t lost. Just¡­misplaced.¡± She no longer feels the effects of Roderick¡¯s compulsion, but she is still a bit drunk.

    ¡°It happens,¡± says Burrows, pressing a piece of medical tape against the cotton pad, securing it to Harvest¡¯s neck. ¡°Jules will help her. He won¡¯t stop until he does.¡±

    With the pain in her neck numbed and Roderick¡¯s compulsion fading quickly, Harvest wonders at the informality of Dr. Burrows using Quinn¡¯s first name but doesn¡¯t feel comfortable enough to ask. Still, she notes the makeup lining Burrows¡¯s black eyes, the red lipstick slightly smudged¡ªby a long day at work or by another pair of lips. A date interrupted, she thinks. ¡°Speaking of, where did Quinn and Dominic go?¡±

 Wish You Were Here; Chapter 8

    He wants to do this right. He¡¯s called Angel, who will call Wild. His team will arrive soon with spelled silver handcuffs, and Quinn will greet them outside of the Lighthouse. Angel and Wild will interview Roderick the right way: in a musty interrogation room with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and chairs that creak every time you shift your weight. He will be offered stale cow¡¯s blood when he complains of a dry throat. He will be forced to sit in the interrogation room for an hour at least, long enough for his confidence to wither away into nervousness.

    Quinn wants all of that to happen¡ªand it will¡ªbut first, Roderick is restrained in the storage room at the back of the bar, a heavy iron chain wrapped around him three times and sealed with a handy little symbol a witch taught Dominic centuries ago. Dominic has already closed the bar, sending his employees home with a little extra pay. Wild and Angel are at least thirty minutes away.

    Quinn won¡¯t touch Roderick, of course, and, at the moment, he truly believes this. He is bound by his oath to the Council, who installed him in his role at the Bureau two hundred years ago. The thought of his oath ceremony brings a sour taste to the back of his throat¡ªan obligation that still stings, regardless of the fact that it was brought on by his own actions. However, his employment obligation doesn¡¯t annoy him as much as the promise to adhere to the Bureau Code of Ethics. He doesn¡¯t remember the Code verbatim, but there¡¯s probably something in there about not torturing suspects for information.

    Dominic, however, has sworn no such oath.

    The dagger Dominic holds is old, fae-forged but witch-cursed. It is the only blade Dominic owns (and most likely the only blade this side of the Fae-Lands) that can pierce vampire flesh so deeply that it takes days to heal, as opposed to the two or so minutes a knife wound would typically take to heal. Dominic weighs it in his hand, rubbing a thumb over the smooth white jade hilt. The pommel is carved into the likeness of a horse, bridled with gold and rubies.

    Its age is unknown, though Dominic has owned it for at least five centuries now. Even though it¡¯s been sitting in a steamer trunk at the foot of his bed for the past hundred years, the blade is still shrewdly sharp, the steel gleaming thirstily with alchemical symbols in the low light of the room.

    ¡°What¡¯s it to you,¡± Roderick is saying, ¡°if I wanna fuck some witch behind the dumpster, it¡¯s none of your business.¡±

    ¡°She wasn¡¯t asking for it,¡± says Dominic, pressing the dagger to Roderick¡¯s neck. A faint sizzle fills the air, along with the smell of burned flesh.

    Roderick swallows but doesn¡¯t seem to realize that the burn on his neck has turned red and raw. ¡°Then why¡¯d she follow me out there?¡± His tone is thick with condescension.

    Dominic presses the dagger tighter against Roderick¡¯s throat, pulling his head back by his hair and drawing a thin line across. Roderick begins to laugh, but the sound ends in a startled gurgle when he realizes that the cut not only hurts but is still bleeding.

    ¡°Roderick, right?¡± says Quinn. He grabs a chair from a stack in the corner and takes his time settling into it. He leans back and stretches his legs out, folding his hands across his stomach. ¡°Tell me about yourself.¡±

    Roderick is at a loss for words. This isn¡¯t quite how interrogations go, in his experience.

    ¡°You work for Locke?¡± Quinn motions toward the scar on Roderick¡¯s forearm, a gnarled pink mark caused by a witch¡¯s curse. It is the physical manifestation of an employment contract between Roderick and Locke. The shape of the mark is not what matters¡ªthey all vary based on the individual. Dominic¡¯s had been a horse, riderless but rearing back as if in battle, with a GL carved on its chest. Roderick¡¯s is a snake, sliding around his wrist and then downward, circling the GL on the back of his hand.

    ¡°It¡¯s not like I¡¯m the only one in this room who knows Locke,¡± he sneers, glancing down at Dominic¡¯s arm.

    ¡°Do you know Hazel Rosenbloom?¡±

    Roderick is silent.

    ¡°Do you know anything about the murdered woman found earlier today? The woman who looks suspiciously like Hazel Rosenbloom, and yet, isn¡¯t?¡±

    A sizzle, a draw of the knife. Roderick chokes. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    Quinn frowns and leans forward, pointing toward the knife in Dominic¡¯s hand. ¡°How long has that dagger been sheathed?¡±

    Dominic angles the blade, letting it catch the light, and considers the question. ¡°A hundred years or so?¡±

    ¡°So it¡¯s hungry.¡± Quinn raises his eyebrows and turns back to Roderick. ¡°Did you know that about fae-forged blades? They get hungry if they sit for too long. Restless. There¡¯s no telling what a hungry blade will do.¡±

    Roderick¡¯s gaze flickers between Quinn and Dominic, and then toward the blade, already tarnished with a thin coat of his blood. He swallows. ¡°Look, I know something went down today, but it wasn¡¯t Locke. It was Ozias.¡±

    ¡°Tell me about Ozias.¡±

    ¡°One of Locke¡¯s crew, though not anymore. He has his own business.¡± Dominic slides the dagger against the side of Roderick¡¯s neck. The wound oozes. ¡°I¡ªI¡ªI don¡¯t know what his game is. I don¡¯t get involved with that side of things. Maybe drugs or something. I don¡¯t know, okay?¡±

    ¡°And¡­?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it. That¡¯s all I know, I swear.¡±

    Dominic considers the dagger in his hand, then looks up at Quinn, a silent conversation flitting between their gazes. Then he turns and, in one smooth motion, sinks the dagger into Roderick¡¯s shoulder.

    Roderick screams, his arms straining against the iron chains holding him to the chair. Quinn moves swiftly, grabbing the back of Roderick¡¯s head. He leans close and says in his ear, ¡°The next time you want to fuck some witch in an alleyway, you better make damn sure she wants to do the same to you.¡± He pauses, spreading his lips to show his fangs. ¡°And if you ever touch Harvest Rosenbloom again, I will kill you.¡±

    Quinn tightens his grip on Roderick¡¯s head, bringing his other hand up to pat Roderick on the cheek, before twisting his wrists. The movement causes Roderick¡¯s neck to snap with a sickening crunch.

    When Quinn looks up, Dominic is shaking his head. ¡°Was that really necessary?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he admits, looking down at Roderick slumped over in the chair. Then he grins. ¡°But it felt good.¡±

    <hr>

    Agent Wild Neverbee curses under his breath and reaches for his phone, jabbing sleepily at the screen until his thumb finally taps the correct button, connecting the call. He listens for a few seconds, humming in response while glancing over at the figure sleeping peacefully next to him.

    There is an unspoken rule against Bureau agents engaging in romantic relationships, but Ivo is a technician in the Magi-Tech lab and isn¡¯t technically an agent. This is their third date, and Wild hadn¡¯t anticipated it ending up here. One too many martinis sealed their fate.

    It¡¯s rare for fae to get drunk. It¡¯s even rarer for them to get proper hangovers, too, and yet Wild can feel a small pinching pain right behind his left eye.

    Ivo stirs and turns over to smile at Wild, his green cat-slit eyes sparkling in the moonlight. It highlights the stripes on his skin as well, dark bands that curve around his torso and arms. The smile settles into a sleepy contentment as he reaches out to caress Wild¡¯s arm.

    Wild absentmindedly pats Ivo¡¯s hand and then shifts delicately away. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll be ready,¡± he says into the phone. When he hangs up, he looks down at Ivo with a sheepish smile. ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ve got to go. Work.¡±

    Ivo sits up and rubs his eyes with a yawn. ¡°What time is it?¡±

    ¡°Three,¡± says Wild, already out of bed and rummaging through his closet for his suit. Not that it¡¯s difficult: the majority of his wardrobe consists of suits, with only a small portion dedicated to more casual wear, including a pair of trainers and workout clothes. The only unusual thing in his closet is the full set of fae-forged armor and a broadsword¡ªhis inheritance that he begrudgingly brought with him when he left the Fae-Lands of his childhood. They gleam gold, despite the darkness of the room. The topaz and garnets spark like fire and remind him of the crisp smell of the forest as summer bows down to autumn.

    He keeps the closet door angled to hide the armor and focuses on buttoning his shirt. He takes a glance over his shoulder and sees Ivo searching under the bed for his discarded sock. ¡°You can stay. If you want,¡± he says, his voice more casual than he feels.

    Ivo shakes his head with another yawn, tucking his long red hair behind his pointed ears. ¡°No, it¡¯s okay. I¡¯ll get going.¡±

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Wild tries to hide his relief by focusing intently on tucking in his shirt. He gets along well enough with Ivo, but inviting him to stay at his apartment while he goes off to work is a level of domesticity that he isn¡¯t prepared for yet. Ivo dresses quickly, slowed only by a few minutes when he can¡¯t find his shoe. Wild finds it underneath the couch in the living room.

    Angel¡¯s car is already outside when he opens the door. Ivo stands on the stoop while Wild locks up and then turns to say goodbye.

    Ivo bites his lower lip and nods. ¡°I¡¯ll see you later,¡± he says with a smirk and then presses a kiss to Wild¡¯s cheek.

    Wild runs a hand through his hair nervously, but he can¡¯t help the smile that spreads across his face. ¡°I¡¯ll call you,¡± he says, squeezing Ivo¡¯s hand before they part ways.

    ¡°Cute,¡± says Angel when Wild folds himself into their car. ¡°So that¡¯s why you left dinner earlier, huh? What¡¯s his name?¡±

    ¡°Ivo,¡± he says, trying to pull the seat belt over his wings.

    ¡°Boyfriend?¡±

    ¡°Maybe.¡± He tugs at the seat belt, and it finally releases, allowing him to pull it across his chest and buckle it. ¡°I like the hair, by the way.¡±

    Angel had grown tired of the blue almost immediately and has since gone back to their natural black. ¡°I like change.¡±

    ¡°Then you¡¯re probably happy about this case. It seems to be changing faster than we can keep up. First, it was a missing person, then a murder, and what now? Assault, too?¡±

    Angel nods, checking the side-view mirror before turning. ¡°I didn¡¯t get the full details. I was half-asleep when Quinn called. Something about Harvest and a vampire.¡±

    ¡°What do you think about her, by the way? She works with Herman normally, right?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, though she¡¯s still a trainee.¡±

    ¡°Do you think Quinn fancies her?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Angel¡¯s answer is firm and quick. They roll their eyes in response to Wild¡¯s raised eyebrow. ¡°Oh, come on. It¡¯s obvious. Why else would she even be involved in this case? Why are we being called out to an assault? A vampire attacked her. Why not call some uniforms and a medic team?¡±

    ¡°He asked us to bring the cuffs. Presumably, he needs us to bring in a suspect. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s some relevance to the murder.¡±

    Angel makes a vague hum and focuses on driving for a few seconds. Then they say, ¡°I still think a few uniforms could have done this.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t approve?¡±

    ¡°Of using Bureau resources to help out a girl because you have a crush on her? Definitely not.¡±

    ¡°What about the medical examiner?¡± Wild looks at Angel¡¯s profile, lined in red by the stoplight they are waiting at. ¡°Isn¡¯t he sleeping with her?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but I don¡¯t mind that so much. At least she moves our cases to the top of her list.¡±

    Wild laughs and looks out of the window, letting silence fall between them. This time in the morning, there is little traffic, and soon Angel pulls into a parking space by the Lighthouse. The headlights frame Quinn as he stands on the sidewalk, hands on his hips. He raises a hand at them in greeting before turning back to Harvest and another man.

    Wild recognizes the other person as Ronan Kelly, the manager of Tabitha¡¯s Diner. Earlier, he read through the statement Ronan gave when Hazel first went missing. Ronan was never a suspect, but Wild was struck by the familiarity with which he spoke of Hazel, and he wondered idly if there was more than friendship between them.

    Harvest looks pale and tired, her neck covered with a large square of gauze. Ronan¡¯s arm is around her shoulders, and he¡¯s nodding quickly to something Quinn is saying, rubbing his scruffy chin with his free hand.

    ¡°Be sure she gets plenty of rest,¡± Wild hears Quinn say when he exits the car. ¡°She¡¯s probably dehydrated. Though that could be because of the rum.¡± He scowls in Dominic¡¯s direction.

    Dominic shrugs. ¡°Again, it¡¯s a bar.¡±

    Quinn narrows his eyes but turns back to Harvest. She looks dead on her feet, her shoulders hunched over as she leans against Ronan. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re up for coming in tomorrow?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± she says with a frown. ¡°I¡¯m really okay now. I could use some food, though.¡± She looks up at Ronan, who nods and tugs her closer to him as they walk away.

    Wild watches Ronan lead Harvest to his car. He places his hand on the back of her head as he guides her into the seat. She brushes his hand away and says something sharp to him that makes him grin. Whatever he says in response makes her laugh, and she sinks back into the passenger seat, eyes already half closed.

    ¡°Right,¡± says Wild, holding up the silver cuffs. ¡°So where¡¯s our bad guy?¡±

    <hr>

    The clock in Meeting Room Number Four is five minutes fast, and Wild frowns at his watch.

    Roderick looks a bit worse for wear, bleary-eyed with blood stains on his shirt and dirty fingernails. It took three hours for the blood from his shoulder to clot. Same for the cuts on his throat. It will be another few days before they start to fade into a scar. ¡°He was in a bar fight,¡± Quinn told him. Wild shared a look with Angel that said neither of them believed Quinn.

    Not that it matters. Odds are, Roderick deserved it.

    Angel and Wild left Roderick in the interrogation room, slowly awakening from his spinal cord being severed (¡°He fell down the stairs out back¡±), while they printed up a list of prior offenses linked to him. The list sits in front of him now, reminding him of the five or so other robberies and assault charges they could ask him about tonight.

    ¡°We¡¯ve got all night,¡± says Wild. His wings are hanging down, and it takes some concentration to keep them there rather than letting them flicker in annoyance. The pain behind his right eye is persistent, pulsing against his temple. He crosses his arms and leans back, though his wings prevent him from using the backrest. ¡°Someone was murdered.¡± He nods toward the picture of Hazel¡¯s face, pale and waxy, with a slackness to it that is more than mere sleep. He is careful not to make any assumptions about the identity of their victim or lead Roderick in any way. ¡°We already know you¡¯ve been employed by Locke. Tell us about Ozias. Have you ever worked for him?¡±

    Roderick looks down at the picture with a smirk. ¡°They¡¯re sisters, aren¡¯t they? The witch from earlier and this one?¡±

    ¡°Why do you think that?¡±

    Roderick is silent.

    ¡°Tell me about Ozias.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know anyone with that name.¡± Roderick looks up and smiles. His eyes look jaundiced in this light, and his hair is thin and greasy, covering his forehead. He brushes a few errant strands out of his eyes, his hands bound together by silver cuffs meant to dampen his strength.

    The ticking of the clock fills the space.

    Roderick is staring at the photo of Hazel with a lopsided smile, his canine teeth sharp. His eyes greedily drink her in. ¡°It¡¯s too bad she¡¯s dead. I¡¯d fuck her in a heartbeat.¡±

    <hr>

    Quinn watches from a room down the hall, frowning at the fuzzy black-and-white image of Roderick leering at Hazel¡¯s photo. He looks hungry, and Quinn wishes he could do more than snap his neck.

    Again, he regrets the gold ring on his pinky finger; he regrets the oath that scarred his throat as he spoke it out loud in front of the seven members of The Council.

    Not that he had much choice in the matter.

    He twists the ring around his finger, feeling the metal rub against the burn it had imprinted on his skin as soon as he decided to snap Roderick¡¯s neck¡ªan unfortunate side-effect of the magic inside the ring that holds him to his oath.

    Then again, what would he do if he wasn¡¯t shackled to his badge? Would he have killed Roderick earlier, in the cramped, dusty storeroom behind the bar? Would he have taken the dagger from Dominic¡¯s hand and wielded it himself?

    Maybe.

    Quite possibly.

    ¡°We could get him on assault, at least,¡± says Agent Fitzgerald.

    Although she is the most senior agent in SCD, she doesn¡¯t need to be here, in the viewing room with Quinn. She had been in the office pouring over security camera footage from a string of bank robberies, when she glanced up to see Roderick being led to the interrogation room, his shoulders hunched and his shirt covered in blood splatter.

    She knows Roderick from an assault case she worked on a year ago. Quinn remembers the case well because it hadn¡¯t gone to trial. The victim refused to press charges and eventually changed her statement, claiming it was an accidental fall that led to her fractured wrist and black eye.

    It¡¯s obvious that the case still bothers Fitzgerald.

    ¡°Would your witch press charges?¡± she asks, her expression bright with an enthusiasm Quinn knows well. Quinn may resent his oath to the Bureau, but he does appreciate the satisfaction of a closed case with the right person behind bars.

    ¡°She¡¯s not my witch,¡± he says under his breath, annoyed as much by Fitzgerald¡¯s assumption as he is by the small jolt of pleasure that Harvest could be his anything.

    He likes working with her, he realizes. He wonders why she¡¯s wasting her time in Herman¡¯s office. He knows Herman has her relegated to cross-referencing alibis and making photocopies. Her trainee probationary period must be nearly over, and she should have taken the agent¡¯s exam by now.

    He wonders if she would be interested in working for Serious Crimes. SDS, he corrects himself. He wants her for his team. Her talents are more suitable for Missing Persons (he stands by his sniffer dog analogy), but she could do just as well tracking murderers. She¡¯s already proven herself useful. He wonders how long it would have taken them to discover the illusion without her.

    Fitzgerald is still waiting for an answer. ¡°She might,¡± he says. ¡°She¡¯ll be here in¡­¡± He looks at his watch. ¡°Four hours.¡±

    ¡°I envy you. Have you gotten any sleep tonight? You look fresh as a daisy.¡±

    He smirks, his tapered canines just visible. ¡°I¡¯m happy to share my secret with you anytime, Fitz.¡±

    A clearing of a throat interrupts their conversation and they both turn around to look at the doorway, where Commissioner Rosenbloom stands. Quinn squares his shoulders and folds his arms across his chest, sure that he¡¯s the reason for the Commissioner¡¯s visit.

    ¡°A word,¡± she confirms, nodding toward Quinn.

    Fitz takes her cue. ¡°Let me know when your witch gets here and we can take her statement,¡± she says, before leaving with a nod of goodbye.

    Commissioner Rosenbloom makes her way into the room, hands casually shoved in her pockets. Quinn makes a conscious effort not to shift his feet away from her.

    ¡°Agent Quinn,¡± she says with a polite smile. She angles her head toward his ring.

    ¡°How¡¯s the burn?¡±

    He shrugs nonchalantly. ¡°Fine. It¡¯ll heal in no time.¡±

    Her responding smile is tight, incredulity written in her expression. ¡°How long has it been since the last breach of your contract?¡±

    He shrugs again and leans his head to the side, as if searching for the memory even though he will never forget it. ¡°Hundred years or so,¡± he says casually. And I hope Dominic appreciates it, he adds to himself.

    ¡°What was the excuse then? Helping a friend out of a bad business deal.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I phrased it quite like that.¡±

    ¡°No, I imagine you spun a more diplomatic story than the reality. Ever the politician.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never been a politician,¡± he says with a grin, ¡°but I was once, very briefly, an advisor to an emperor.¡±

    ¡°You were also a soldier once. And yet, you¡¯ve never been good at taking orders.¡±

    His jaw clenches and unclenches. ¡°Are you here to remind me of the terms of my agreement or take a trip down memory lane?¡± he asks, his annoyance slipping through, just enough for Commissioner Rosenbloom to give him a small shake of her head, a clear admonishment of his tone.

    ¡°I¡¯m here to ask why you engaged in violence while working with my niece.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not why you¡¯re here,¡± he says, throwing in his most polite smile to soften the insolence. ¡°You want to make sure that I don¡¯t do anything that will hurt Harvest.¡± He pauses, but when she remains silent, he continues. ¡°I¡¯ve been an agent for two hundred years and never once in that time, have I knowingly put another agent in danger. I¡¯m not about to start now.¡±

    ¡°I hope that remains true,¡± she says, as she turns to leave.

    ¡°Or what?¡± he chances.

    She stops but doesn¡¯t turn around to look at him. ¡°Or I¡¯ll tell Harvest a little story about who used to own that ring of yours,¡± she says quietly.

    Quinn doesn¡¯t have many secrets, nor does he feel fear much these days. But the askance look she gives him over her shoulder as she walks away unravels a feeling in his chest that feels a little too close to fear for comfort.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 9

    The first thing Harvest feels when she wakes up is mortification.

    Are you hungry? Goodness, how could she have said that to someone she barely knows? Intellectually, she understands that it was the compulsion speaking, and quite possibly the cocktails too, but it still doesn¡¯t erase the heavy feeling in her chest when she thinks of last night.

    And it is increasingly difficult to erase the memory of last night as she makes her way into the bathroom and removes the bandage on her neck. Roderick had been rougher than she realized, leaving her with twin punctures, swollen and bruised around the edges. Her head is still hurting as well, though, again, that¡¯s probably just a regular hangover, considering the strength of Dominic¡¯s cocktails. She pokes the soft skin around the wound experimentally and applies Burrows¡¯s tincture, the three small drops instantly cooling the wounds to something not exactly pleasant but at least not entirely bothersome.

    She finds Ronan in the kitchen when she makes her way out of the guest room, intent on making a pot of coffee. She almost forgets about the wound, but the soft hiss of a curse from Ronan is a reminder enough.

    ¡°That bad, uh?¡± she asks, glancing in the hallway mirror.

    ¡°It¡¯s not bad,¡± he says reluctantly. ¡°But it¡¯s not good either.¡±

    With a sigh, she decides it¡¯s probably more inconspicuous to cover it up than to leave it bare, so she makes her way back to the bathroom. She¡¯s just pressed a piece of medical tape to her neck when Ronan brings her a mug of coffee, and she sips it gratefully.

    Ronan hovers in the doorway, watching her as she applies mascara. She looks at his reflection in the mirror. ¡°What?¡±

    Her voice is a little more impatient than she means to be. She softens her gaze, hoping Ronan will take her harsh tone for what it is: pain mixed with sleep deprivation.

    ¡°Can you do me a favor?¡±

    She turns from his reflection to look him in the eye.

    ¡°Be careful,¡± he says.

    <hr>

    Harvest arrives at the Bureau earlier than Quinn and decides to wait at her desk until their meeting time. She logs into her computer to answer the emails that have been steadily stacking up in her inbox, feeling the bandage on her neck pull at her skin with every tiny movement.

    The morning sun fills the MPU office as her colleagues filter in through the elevators. She sees Herman, the top of his head shiny with sweat. She ducks down as he passes, burying her attention in the stack of papers on her desk. He makes his way into his office and closes the door.

    With a small grunt of pain, she stands up and decides to begin her descent to the fourth floor. The elevator takes longer than normal, and she jabs at the down button while she checks the time on her phone. Her attention is still on her screen when the doors eventually slide open, and she almost collides with Wild. He smiles and steadies her with a hand on her shoulder.

    ¡°Quinn sent me to find you,¡± he says amiably.

    She apologizes, even though she still has five minutes before their meeting time. ¡°I¡¯m sorry you had to go out of your way.¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s no problem.¡±

    His gaze strays everywhere but to the bandage on her neck. She knows the bruises are just peeking out around the edges. To fill the silence, she inquires about Wild¡¯s night.

    He tells her that the interview with Roderick went well into the morning with very few answers to show for their work. Harvest can feel Wild¡¯s annoyance just as much as she can see it when she blinks quickly to see his aura¡ªa particular shade of golden light that is reminiscent of the sunlight filtered through orange leaves, but, at the moment, it is darkened as if a cloud has passed over.

    The frustration is understandable: they are almost twenty-four hours into a murder investigation, and they don¡¯t even know who their victim is. This may be Harvest¡¯s first murder investigation, but she knows that identity is crucial if they are to save this case from the ¡°Open-Unsolved¡± section of the Archives.

    The elevator doors slide open onto the fourth floor, and Harvest follows Wild to the far corner, where three desks have been shoved together awkwardly but effectively. Angel is there, hunched over a leather-bound book. Angel doesn¡¯t look up when Harvest and Wild approach.

    Quinn is perched on the edge of his desk, but he straightens when he sees Harvest. He nods hello as he motions for her to follow him down the hall to a meeting room. It¡¯s a more informal space than the interrogation rooms or the conference spaces, with a couch and two chairs. A dusty potted plant sits in the corner. Harvest takes a seat on the couch, glancing out of the window as she crosses her ankles, her hands folded in her lap.

    It¡¯s another dreary day, a cold autumn wind scuffling dead leaves across the sidewalk below. She¡¯s dressed to match the weather, too, with black jeans and a gray shirt with a herringbone blazer. Her Aunt Bea always tells her that gray makes her look too pale, sickly, but somehow it doesn¡¯t feel appropriate to wear any other color.

    She¡¯s not sure what he wants to chat about and why they can¡¯t talk at his desk, but when he speaks, she¡¯s somehow not surprised. Somewhere, in the back of her head, she remembers the low burning of his anger from last night. That was a mere simmer of something slipping through.

    ¡°Last night should not have happened,¡± he says. A muscle in his jaw clenches.

    ¡°I know it was stupid, but it¡¯s not my fault he attacked me.¡± She avoids his gaze by looking out of the window again. A storm cloud is rolling in from the coast, and she blinks a few times as she watches the slate gray cloud move swiftly toward them.

    ¡°True, but if you¡¯re going to be following criminals into dark alleyways, you need proper self-defense training,¡± he says, not unkindly, anger burned away quickly. ¡°Roderick should be behind bars for what he did.¡± Quinn shakes his head and looks away, trying to find the right words to continue.

    Harvest already knows what he¡¯s thinking. ¡°But he won¡¯t be, will he? Even if I press charges, cases like this are rarely taken seriously.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a Bureau employee, which holds weight.¡± Quinn¡¯s voice is gentle, and he moves a little closer to her. ¡°He bit you without your consent. That¡¯s against the law.¡±

    ¡°But things like this happen all the time, don¡¯t they?¡± she says with a scowl.

    He scoffs, but not at her. ¡°Yeah, some nonsense about the evolutionary imperative. Asking for consent goes against a vampire¡¯s basic instincts. It¡¯s rubbish.¡±

    ¡°Is compulsion always like that? So¡­¡± She searches for the word. ¡°Invasive?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°And yet you have no qualms invading a young woman¡¯s mind if it means you get answers quicker?¡±

    The muscle in his jaw clenches again with an unvoiced retort. ¡°Sometimes compulsion is necessary,¡± he says, evenly, annoyingly enigmatic, and final.

    She raises her eyebrows to show that she clearly isn¡¯t convinced, but allows him to steer the conversation back toward last night, as he asks her how she¡¯s feeling.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    ¡°I¡¯m utterly mortified about what I said to Dominic,¡± she admits.

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to be embarrassed about,¡± Quinn says plainly. ¡°Dominic understands.¡±

    She nods. ¡°Where did you two go last night, by the way?¡±

    Perhaps her second-sight is evolving because, although she can¡¯t see the shift in his energy, she feels it, despite the fact that his expression hasn¡¯t faltered. When he speaks, she¡¯s certain he¡¯s lying, though to what extent, she¡¯s not sure. ¡°We were keeping an eye on the suspect until backup could arrive.¡±

    She wonders if he¡¯s protecting her or himself. ¡°If I press charges, will he serve time?¡±

    ¡°Probably not as much as he should.¡± He leans so that his arm is resting against the back of the couch, a lock of his bronze hair falling casually across his forehead. He ignores it, his brow creased. ¡°But it would be a start. He has several charges and complaints in his file and no witnesses who are willing to speak on the record. If he begins to escalate, your statement could help us convict him later on.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± she says. ¡°What do you need me to do?¡±

    ¡°Detective Fitz will take your statement. She¡¯s familiar with Roderick¡¯s criminal history. In the meantime¡­¡± He pulls a lanyard out of his pocket. ¡°I have this for you.¡±

    ¡°The transfer went through?¡± She slips the badge over her head.

    ¡°It¡¯s temporary, though. When this case is closed, you¡¯re back under Herman.¡±

    She grimaces at the unfortunate wording, but when she looks down at her lanyard, which is black instead of the neon yellow that characterizes her status as a trainee, she smiles.

    The picture isn¡¯t flattering (it was taken from her personnel file and her hair suffers from a most unfortunate pixie cut that happened just after she broke up with Ezra the first time), but even that doesn¡¯t dampen the sense of accomplishment. While there may still be some grumblings of favoritism from her colleagues, she did pass her agent exam last month and she¡¯s qualified to be a full agent.

    With a knock, Wild pokes his head into the room. ¡°Sorry to interrupt. We got some results from Magi-Tech.¡±

    Harvest and Quinn make their way back to the triangle of desks, where Wild has posted a copy of the results on the whiteboard. Quinn offers his seat to Harvest and leans against the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest. Angel swivels their chair around to listen to Wild.

    ¡°Magi-Techs tested some samples from the rugs in the bedroom and living room. They found a very distinctive portal residue on both,¡± he reads. ¡°However, there were some anomalies that made the technician reluctant to classify it as demon, but the report does suggest that someone entered the living room via a portal and then walked straight into the bedroom.¡±

    ¡°How did they get past the wards, though?¡± asks Harvest, pen poised over a small notebook she keeps in the inside pocket of her suit jacket. ¡°They should have extended beyond the door and far into the living room. The portal shouldn¡¯t have opened.¡±

    ¡°They think the portal was cast by a demon stronger than your wards, or maybe two demons working in tandem,¡± he says.

    Harvest frowns but doesn¡¯t comment.

    ¡°Two intruders would be more likely,¡± Quinn points out. ¡°Demons that powerful are rare.¡±

    ¡°So we¡¯re operating under the assumption that the goal was to fake Hazel¡¯s death, correct?¡± asks Wild.

    ¡°I think that¡¯s what it was meant to look like,¡± says Angel. ¡°Harvest and Quinn were asking questions about Hazel. Ozias doesn¡¯t need the Bureau sniffing around. If Hazel¡¯s dead, we¡¯ll stop looking. Case closed.¡±

    ¡°Either way,¡± continues Wild, ¡°there was no evidence that Ezra had touched the body, besides one fingerprint, which matches up with his statement of what happened. And we can rule out Hazel, as well as Locke and Ozias, as they¡¯re not demons.¡±

    ¡°I guess that¡¯s something,¡± mumbles Angel.

    ¡°What about the victim?¡± asks Quinn. ¡°I know the illusion complicates things, but were they able to do any testing on their blood? If we can isolate the magic they carry, it might help us narrow down our search.¡±

    ¡°Burrows was supposed to do that this morning. I¡¯ll follow up,¡± says Angel.

    Harvest taps her pen against her notebook in thought. ¡°Can illusions affect the blood though?¡±

    ¡°They can,¡± says Angel, pulling a book from the stack on their desk and flipping through to find a particular section. ¡°According to Hyde, a medieval scholar who wrote a lot about illusion spells. Their Treatise on the Making Of and Applying Illusions is still considered the best resource on illusory spell work.¡± They angle the book toward Harvest so she can read the paragraph.

    ¡°Fallacia maleficia,¡± mumbles Harvest.

    Quinn grimaces at her pronunciation but doesn¡¯t correct her.

    ¡°If illusions are cast correctly,¡± continues Angel, ¡°and last long enough, they might seep in through the skin, tainting the blood. But it would take weeks of exposure to get that far. Most illusions are pretty short-term these days, and there¡¯s certainly no need to apply one to your whole body. Illusions work better and look more realistic if they only change a few key features.¡±

    ¡°Are you any closer to breaking it?¡± asks Quinn.

    Angel shakes their head. ¡°I have some ideas I want to try out. I¡¯ll head over to the morgue in a bit, though.¡±

    Quinn nods. ¡°Good. We¡¯ll meet you over there. Wild, can you follow up on the portal? You said there were some anomalies. If there¡¯s someone else out there who can cast portals that look like demon portals, I want to know.¡±

    ¡°Sure thing, boss,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ll head over to Magi-Tech right now.¡±

    ¡°Say hello to a certain redhead from me,¡± mumbles Angel.

    Wild¡¯s cheeks turn pink as he shoots Angel a scowl before sauntering away, wings fluttering.

    ¡°What was that about?¡± asks Quinn, distractedly, eyes still trained on the whiteboard.

    ¡°The fae in Magi-Tech? Ivo, right?¡± guesses Harvest.

    Angel confirms with a nod, a smirk playing on their lips.

    Harvest nods approvingly and shifts to turn toward Angel. ¡°He¡¯s cute. I think he knows my Aunt.¡±

    Angel closes their book and arches an eyebrow in surprise. ¡°The Commissioner?¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, the other one. Aunt Trixie¡¯s wife, Aunt Bea. She¡¯s fae.¡±

    ¡°That sounds fascinating. You must know a lot about fae magic¡ª¡± begins Angel. The two are now turned toward each other, joined together through a mutual interest in the mischief that irrevocably binds them together despite their differences. The conversation dissolves into musings on the differences between fae and witch magic, with a few forays into fae culture.

    Or what little of it Harvest knows. She has never visited her fae relatives. Though, from Aunt Trixie¡¯s stories, she¡¯s not sure she wants to.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you have an illusion to break?¡± interjects Quinn, back still turned to Angel and Harvest. She hadn¡¯t been aware that he was paying attention to their conversation.

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± says Angel mildly.

    ¡°I would like to go to the morgue with Angel,¡± says Harvest. ¡°I would love to see their process for picking apart the illusion.¡±

    Quinn finally glances back at her, ¡°Soon. I want you to talk to Fitz first.¡±

    For a moment, Harvest forgot the bandage on her neck and piercing headache, but the pain rushes back into her consciousness, along with the overwhelming sense of embarrassment and the ever-present weight of guilt. To Angel¡¯s credit, they don¡¯t even glance down at Harvest¡¯s neck. Instead, Angel gathers their research and says goodbye.

    ¡°I know what you¡¯re doing, by the way,¡± says Quinn with a smirk.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    He nods toward the elevator, where the doors have just closed. ¡°Angel respects knowledge. And rules. You¡¯ll get far with them if you emphasize that.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to manipulate them into liking me.¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°No, but you want them to like you. And you figured out a way to do that pretty quickly, it seems.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t¡­I¡¯m not¡­¡± Harvest scowls. Rotten to the core. ¡°Fitz is waiting for us.¡±

    <hr>

    The flash of the camera is startling and Harvest blinks against the bright blooms of light. The bite mark on her neck is still bruised and raw, thrown into stark relief on the computer screen as the image loads.

    The technician documenting her injury is blissfully indifferent. Fitz is just as professional as she takes Harvest¡¯s statement, but there is a glint in her eye. Harvest recognizes the look; she saw it in Quinn¡¯s eye yesterday at her home (crime scene, she reminds herself), and she saw it earlier, in Angel¡¯s eyes as they talked about illusions.

    Harvest idly wonders if she will earn that look¡ªthe disinterested but keen observation of a highly-trained Bureau agent. It¡¯s a particular sort of frankness tempered by efficiency and Harvest hasn¡¯t yet been able to hone it. She knows she has the habit of showing her thoughts as soon as they come, her eyes forever readable.

    Not that she¡¯s particularly interested in losing that quality altogether. She recognizes that her ability to show empathy at the drop of a hat will be useful when dealing with grieving families or even anxious suspects.

    But Quinn¡¯s words from earlier fill her with a chill. She doesn¡¯t want to think about the fact that her empathy can so quickly turn into manipulation.

    She hates that word, to be honest. It¡¯s a word Ezra loved to use against her, when they argued or when she asked him for something he didn¡¯t want to give. ¡°You¡¯re being manipulative.¡± It was always well-aimed, activated at just the right moment to inflict the most amount of guilt.

    She doesn¡¯t want to think that Ezra is right about her.

    She glances at Quinn and worries that he might be, though

    When her statement against Roderick is complete, Harvest reads it through before signing her name at the bottom. Fitz seems confident that Harvest will only have to recount her statement in a private testimony and is so grateful that Harvest is willing to go on the record that she hands her a business card. ¡°I know you¡¯re still a trainee. Feel free to reach out when you¡¯re ready to go full-time. I¡¯m sure I can make room for you on the team.¡±

    Harvest accepts the business card with a smile and slides it into the back of her notebook.

    The smile doesn¡¯t last long.

    She hoped that Quinn would break the news about her temporary transfer to Herman, but, instead, she has to do it herself. Herman takes one look at the form and gives her a scowl that turns his cheeks red. ¡°Sure, go off and play agent for a bit. You¡¯re a trainee, and you¡¯ll still be a trainee when this little jaunt in Serious Crimes ends.¡±

    Quinn is standing behind her, and he makes sure to give Herman his widest and most amiable smile as they leave his office.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 10

    The morgue is in the basement of a medical facility across the street from the Bureau building. The name of the parent organization, Periapt Medical, is affixed to the front of the building in large black letters. The building itself is sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a mixed-use office building that houses mainly lawyers, psychiatrists, and the occasional designer.

    The large concrete structure is beige and unassuming, with an equally bland perspex sign next to the revolving doors listing tenant names. There is no welcoming symbol: it is right in the middle of north Valkaria. The medical examiner¡¯s office is on the second floor, but the morgue and laboratory are in the basement.

    Harvest and Quinn ride the elevator down in silence. Harvest looks drained and vulnerable after giving her statement to Fitzgerald. It doesn¡¯t help that the circles under her eyes and the slump of her shoulders make her look like she hasn¡¯t slept in weeks.

    She leans against the wall of the elevator, arms wrapped around herself. Quinn can hear her breathing, shallow with exhaustion and a hint of anxiety.

    The elevator doors open, and the chill of the morgue seeps into their limbs. Harvest pulls her jacket tighter around herself as she follows Quinn into the anteroom and through the door at the end of the hallway. Harvest stops near the entrance of the room and seems to steel herself against seeing her sister dead, however false the reality. Their victim is on a metal tabletop, a white cloth draped over the more sensitive areas of the body, leaving the rest bare and white. Their rose gold hair is combed neatly and brushed back underneath their shoulders.

    Dr. Burrows is there, chatting quietly with Angel, who has their illusion loupe out and is peering through it at the victim, making the occasional note out loud.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been mapping the illusion,¡± says Angel, when Harvest and Quinn approach. ¡°I think it started here, near the belly button. It¡¯s just a guess, but it seems weaker here.¡±

    Normally, Dr. Burrows would have started her postmortem by now, but there didn¡¯t seem to be a point, considering that any samples would match Hazel Rosenbloom¡¯s DNA and any conclusions about the cause of death could be skewed by the illusion.

    Besides, it would be impossible to cut through the spell with a physical tool. The illusion is so thick and secure that any cut to the body would still be hidden by the spell. Dr. Burrows has already tried, making a small incision to one of the fingers only to see the thin line disappear as the illusion hastily reformed.

    ¡°I did test a sample of blood from the body¡ªone taken from this spot here, where the illusion is thinnest,¡± says Dr. Burrows. ¡°The blood was mundane. Human. No magic.¡±

    ¡°None at all?¡± asks Harvest.

    ¡°It could be the illusion messing with things,¡± Angel points out.

    Quinn frowns, his arms crossed. ¡°Can the body tell us anything else right now?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve tested some DNA I found under the victim¡¯s nails,¡± says Dr. Burrows stiffly. She ignores Quinn and looks at Harvest as if she had asked the question. ¡°She scratched her attacker while already under the illusion. There wasn¡¯t a match to a particular person in the database, but the DNA profile points to a vampire.¡±

    Dr.Burrows¡¯s manner is so brusque and aloof toward Quinn that even Angel raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, What did you do wrong?

    Quinn scowls and lifts a shoulder. I don¡¯t know.

    But of course, he does know. Burrows expected him to head back to her condo when he finished up at the Lighthouse. He called Angel and Wild to handle the suspect so that he would be free to take the night off. But, of course, he wanted to view Roderick¡¯s interrogation himself. More so than his absence, it is the lack of communication that has Burrows miffed. He hadn¡¯t even remembered to text her about his change of plans.

    This is nothing new, of course. Although Quinn appreciates and occasionally embraces modern-day technology, he often forgets to use it himself. Perhaps if the metal and glass boxes didn¡¯t need to be babysat at all hours and charged every night.

    ¡°Boss?¡±

    Angel¡¯s voice draws him from his thoughts, and he realizes that they had asked him a question. Maybe Fitz was being sarcastic earlier. He doesn¡¯t feel as fresh as anything. The blood from last night is wearing off, and he is suddenly painfully aware of the sweet, floral scent of Harvest, of Angel¡¯s heartbeat, and of Burrows¡¯s clenched teeth grating against each other. ¡°Yes,¡± he says, his face impassive, though he¡¯s not sure what he¡¯s agreeing to.

    Harvest takes a deep breath, still fiddling with her lanyard. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what to do,¡± she admits.

    Angel suggests that she use her second-sight to simply make some observations first. She blinks, her eyes turning white, glowing like the blue-tinged fluorescent lights overhead. She kneels until she¡¯s at eye level with the body and purses her lips in concentration.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she says, glancing up at Angel. ¡°There¡¯s a discrepancy here.¡± She points toward the belly button. ¡°Not necessarily a weak spot, though. It¡¯s like a starting knot.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean?¡± asks Quinn.

    Angel answers. ¡°Illusions are woven. It¡¯s like knitting a sweater over something.¡±

    ¡°I can unravel it,¡± says Harvest. ¡°But I know you wanted to preserve the whole thing.¡±

    Angel considers the situation for a beat. ¡°I think it would be worth it to unravel it now, and confirm the identity of the victim, even if we can¡¯t save the original spell.¡± They look for Quinn¡¯s approval.

    Quinn steps back with a nod and an open palm invitation. Burrows joins him in stepping back, letting the two witches unravel the spell only they can see.

    ¡°She still looks too pale,¡± she says softly, clipboard clutched to her chest.

    ¡°Her heartbeat is okay, though,¡± he mumbles back. He tears his gaze away from Angel and Harvest. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about last night. I should have¡ª¡±

    She shakes her head, holding her hand up to stop him from saying anything more. ¡°You had important things to do. I get it.¡±

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Don¡¯t make this about her. This has nothing to do with Harvest.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say it was,¡± she shoots back. ¡°Funny you thought I meant her.¡±

    ¡°Then what are you saying exactly?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m saying that there always seems to be something more important to do.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not my fault people keep getting murdered.¡±

    She glares at him. ¡°You know that¡¯s not the point.¡±

    He thinks briefly about reaching out to touch her, but her shoulders are so stiff, that he¡¯s fairly certain she would brush his hand away. So, he stuffs his hands in his pockets instead. ¡°Dinner, tomorrow. We¡¯ll talk.¡±

    She gives him a sideways look. ¡°Fine,¡± she says, turning her back to him as she observes Harvest and Angel.

    Suddenly, there is a loud crack of energy that reverberates through the room, and the lights flicker. There¡¯s a soft fizzle and a shift in air pressure as the temperature in the room plummets even further. Harvest is standing over the body, hand out, fingers splayed wide as if she is reaching into something. Angel is looking through their loupe, murmuring directions. There is another crack, and Harvest¡¯s knees buckle slightly. Quinn takes a step forward, but she shakes her head and grips the side of the table with her free hand.

    The lights flicker and then die, plunging them into darkness. Not that it matters. The body is now covered in a finely woven net of glowing threads, the light from which casts golden shadows across their faces. There is another crack as one of the glowing threads snaps and disintegrates into nothingness with an electric fizzle.

    Quinn has never truly seen magic, though he has felt its presence and seen its aftermath. Yet now, as he stands next to Harvest, he sees a black aura, raised slightly above the body, held together by shimmering threads. Harvest grasps onto it, her hand red as if she¡¯s plunged it into boiling water.

    And then she lets it go.

    The threads fade, taking the tar-black cloud with it, until there is nothing left. The lights flicker back on slowly.

    Harvest takes a shuddering breath and begins to lower her arm. With a wince, she cradles her wrist instead. ¡°It¡¯s not broken,¡± she says in response to the scrutiny on Quinn¡¯s face. ¡°I think I just sprained it.¡±

    ¡°And gave yourself spell-burn, too,¡± Burrows says with a frown, looking at the rash already spreading.

    Angel is still looking down at the victim. ¡°Yeah, but the illusion is gone.¡±

    Their voice is grim, and when Quinn looks past them to see the true face of the body, he understands why.

    This murder victim wasn¡¯t killed with two precise cuts to her wrists. She was beaten first, her face swollen and bruised. The torso is mottled, disintegrating, and swollen with blisters. Her lips are chapped and covered in dried blood¡ªspell-burn, where she must have spoken some kind of spell that was too powerful for her. There is a heavy silence in the air as they take in their true victim.

    It¡¯s Harvest who breaks the silence first. ¡°Don¡¯t you recognize her?¡± She looks up at Quinn, her eyes still glowing, and adds, ¡°It¡¯s Amy, from the souvenir shop.¡±

    <hr>

    The breakthrough should have at least been fuel enough for some hard-edged motivation, but, instead, it seems to have only weighed everyone down a bit further. Harvest¡¯s provisional identification is not sufficient to move an investigation along. Angel is already working on contacting the owner of the souvenir shop for Amy¡¯s full name and contact information. Angel won¡¯t tell the owner why they¡¯re asking about Amy though. Not yet. Not until they know for sure.

    Harvest stands by her initial assessment that Amy does not possess any magic of her own, despite the evidence of spell-burn. It¡¯s an anomaly, another question to add to the list. It¡¯s possible that the victim still has some connections to the magical side of Valkaria, though. Dr. Burrows begins the process of collecting samples for a DNA match and a full blood work up to look for history of magical signatures.

    Quinn puts in a call to the Bureau¡¯s liaison with the Valkaria Police Department, to make sure they cover all bases. SDS can¡¯t do anything until they know more about Amy¡ªuntil they know whether it falls under the Bureau¡¯s jurisdiction or under VPD.

    Harvest relents and lets Quinn drive her to Ronan¡¯s apartment, though she can barely keep her eyes open even on the ten-minute drive. She manages to rouse herself long enough to say goodbye to Quinn and confirm that she¡¯ll see him in the morning and that no, she won¡¯t go out again like last night. Yes, her arm is fine. No, she doesn¡¯t need to see a doctor.

    ¡°Not even your girlfriend,¡± she mumbles to herself as she shuts the car door.

    Ronan¡¯s apartment smells like fresh-baked bread, and she takes a deep breath before tossing her keys on the table next to the door. She can hear Ronan moving around in the kitchen and she calls out to let him know that she¡¯s home. He shouts something vague back.

    Collapsing on the couch, she closes her eyes and listens to the sounds of Ronan cooking. The soft sizzle of food frying. A bottle of wine is uncorked. The clink of metal against ceramic. The click of the stove as it is turned off.

    She feels Ronan move into the living room and she opens her eyes to find a plate of food and a glass of wine being held out in front of her, like an offering. She smiles and shakes her head. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder you¡¯re single. I could get used to this.¡±

    ¡°No offense, Harv, but you¡¯re not really my type.¡±

    She chuckles to herself as she takes a bite of the grilled cheese. She¡¯s exactly his type (or, one of his types anyway), but they¡¯ve known each other for far too long to be anything other than friends. He¡¯s seen her grow up, bore witness to the awkward teenage years, saw her grow out of her childhood crush on him, knows all of her embarrassing stories. She chews and glances at him, suddenly feeling the warmth of his gaze on her wrist.

    ¡°How was your day?¡± he asks, nonchalantly. She can tell he¡¯s itching to know why she left with a perfectly uninjured wrist only to come home with a nasty case of spell-burn. Ronan may be a wolf, but he was raised by witches. He knows the side effect well.

    ¡°Go on,¡± she says, setting the plate down but holding onto the wine. ¡°Ask your questions. Tell me off for putting myself in danger.¡±

    He shakes his head. ¡°I just don¡¯t like to see you hurt, Harv.¡±

    She sighs and lets her head fall back against the couch cushion, eyes half-closed. ¡°I know. I don¡¯t like it either. It¡¯s a side effect of work though.¡±

    Ronan seems to accept this answer, though she knows he is far from mollified. Perhaps, the only downside (if one can call it that), to having a lifelong friend is that they will always feel inordinately responsible for the other person.

    ¡°Can I ask you something?¡± she asks.

    ¡°Anything.¡±

    ¡°Do you remember Hazel ever knowing someone named Grayson Locke? Or Amy?¡±

    Ronan shakes his head. ¡°The names aren¡¯t familiar, but¡­¡± He leans back too, his shoulder brushing against hers. ¡°I know she was seeing someone,¡± he says, after a few moments of silence. ¡°I don¡¯t think it was romantic, if it helps any.¡±

    ¡°How do you know that?¡±

    ¡°She told me. Not in so many words. But she would use a lot of vague excuses when she couldn¡¯t hang out. Occasionally she would mention meeting a friend, but never anything more than that.¡±

    ¡°You never told me any of this.¡±

    He runs a hand over his face. ¡°It wasn¡¯t anything specific. For all I know it could have been Ezra she was meeting up with. She knew I didn¡¯t like him and I always wondered if she arranged for us to never interact.¡± He shifts to look at her. ¡°I am sorry I didn¡¯t tell you. But, to be fair, you didn¡¯t tell me that you and Ezra were¡­well, that close at the time.¡±

    She takes a sip of her wine to hide her regret. ¡°I hid it well.¡± She pauses, and then adds, ¡°So did Hazel.¡±

    ¡°For what it¡¯s worth, I don¡¯t think Hazel has stayed away as long as she has because of you and Ezra. I think there was something else going on.¡± Harvest opens her mouth to reply, but Ronan cuts her off. ¡°You can¡¯t hold all of the weight. You gotta give other people some responsibility too. It¡¯s never one-sided. You hold your guilt in your chest. My aunt would say you need to cough up some of that guilt. Spit it into the earth for the worms to eat.¡±

    She grimaces at the image but laughs just the same. Ronan Kelly¡¯s aunt is a powerful witch. Harvest has only met her a handful of times, and each time, she left with the feeling that she was closer to the earth and to her own magic. ¡°But I suppose you¡¯re right. Or rather, Aunt Moira is right.¡±

    ¡°Aunt Moira is always right,¡± he says with a delicate southern twang, his voice higher pitched in a fair imitation of the matron witch. ¡°Now, eat your grilled cheese and help me make a very important decision.¡± He points toward the television, his expression arranged into the most solemn look he can muster. ¡°What are we going to watch tonight?¡±

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 11

    Angel puts Amy¡¯s picture up on the whiteboard, next to Hazel¡¯s. ¡°Amethyst Whitmore, aged twenty-four,¡± they say, turning back to look at the rest of the team. ¡°She lived on Ilton with her parents but worked at a souvenir shop at Valkaria Bay Boardwalk. She would take the ferry to work every day.¡±

    Amy and Hazel¡¯s smiles are nearly identical, wide and genuine. Yet, Hazel is all warmth and gold, with cinnamon eyes and a light dusting of freckles across a button nose and round cheeks. Her strawberry blond hair looks far more like copper against the whiteboard.

    Amy, on the other hand, is pale with cool undertones, her heart-shaped face and blue eyes framed by ashy blonde hair. She looks smaller than Hazel, too, with a prominent collarbone and bony shoulders.

    She reminds Angel of a delicate bird, like a sparrow. The picture was sent over by her parents after one of the Bureau¡¯s Ilton Liaisons made contact to break the news.

    It is a slim compilation of facts, and Angel finds it hard not to interject some sort of personality into them. Angel keeps these assumptions to themself, though they can¡¯t stop imagining Amy on the ferry, nose buried in her phone, the view of the ocean rendered mundane by frequency.

    Or Amy taking her lunch break at the deli around the corner, munching on a turkey sandwich, no mayo.

    Or Amy, closing up the shop as the sun sets, making her way to a bar to hang out with her friends, drink one too many beers, and pass out on a friend¡¯s couch.

    Funny how these assumptions about Amy¡¯s life look so much like theirs when they were Amy¡¯s age. Angel is thirty-eight now. Twenty-four is a lifetime ago.

    ¡°Her parents have been notified, and we confirmed the identity of the victim via video link. They were quite distraught, as you can imagine. They hadn¡¯t even considered that Amy was in any kind of trouble. It wasn¡¯t unusual for her to stay on the mainland if she had an opening shift the next morning.¡±

    Quinn sits on the edge of Harvest¡¯s desk, a spare table that¡¯s been shoved unceremoniously against the other three so that it juts out into the walkway. They haven¡¯t been able to find her a computer yet, but her notebook, assortment of pens, and the open case file take up almost the entirety of the table anyway.

    It¡¯s unorganized and surprisingly chaotic for someone who seems so prim and proper. It¡¯s hard to believe that the same woman who refused to work on the case until the paperwork was finalized, the same woman who wears neutral colors in vaguely conservative cuts, is the same woman who isn¡¯t bothered by uneven stacks of paper and pencils rolling around the desk.

    Quinn frowned at the desk when they started the meeting, though he didn¡¯t comment. Yet as he speaks, he glances down and absentmindedly straightens a stack of papers. ¡°Do we know who she would have stayed with here?¡±

    ¡°No, the parents weren¡¯t really forthcoming about Amy¡¯s friends,¡± interjects Wild, clicking a pen as he leans back in his chair, narrow-backed to allow for his wings.

    ¡°Hiding something?¡±

    ¡°It seemed more like they just didn¡¯t know. They didn¡¯t keep close tabs on her. She was an adult, after all.¡±

    ¡°What about co-workers?¡±

    ¡°We interviewed the owner of the store, Sam Goodwin. Amy didn¡¯t show up for her shift this morning. He tried calling her, but her phone went to voicemail. He was annoyed, but once we told him about Amy and showed him a photograph, his face went pale. He seemed genuinely upset.¡± Wild points the pen toward Quinn. ¡°No illegal gambling either, as far as we could tell.¡±

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    The shared look between Quinn and Harvest does not go unnoticed, and Angel almost smirks at Quinn¡¯s annoyance. Quinn hates being wrong.

    Though to be fair, he so rarely is wrong about something. Not that Angel would ever tell him that. He¡¯d be far too smug.

    ¡°He said she was his only full-time employee at the moment. He did give us the name of another employee he had a few months ago who quit kind of suddenly, a guy named Lucas. He thought Lucas and Amy had a thing outside of work but didn¡¯t know for certain. The only contact he had was for is parents. I¡¯ve left a message..¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s something else,¡± says Harvest, spreading out the stack of papers on her desk. ¡°When we saw Amy at the boardwalk yesterday, she didn¡¯t have any magic in her aura. The blood sample confirms this. But the spell-burn and the illusion make it look like she did magic recently. It doesn¡¯t make sense.¡±

    Angel writes ¡°spell-burn?¡± under the photograph of Amy.

    ¡°Have we found anything to suggest a connection with Hazel?¡± Quinn looks over at Harvest.

    Harvest shakes her head. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know if they knew each other, to be honest. Ronan didn¡¯t recognize the name either.¡±

    ¡°Would Ezra know?¡± asks Angel.

    ¡°Possibly.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll follow up. We¡¯re still waiting for the full postmortem, too,¡± continues Angel. ¡°Dr. Burrows said the report might not be available until tomorrow.¡± They narrow their eyes suspiciously at Quinn.

    He shrugs their scrutiny away easily and instead focuses on gathering the pens on Harvest¡¯s desk into a pile. Yet, when Quinn turns to look at the whiteboard, Harvest frowns and scatters them again.

    ¡°If we can find her phone, that¡¯ll help with a timeline. She left work around four, and she was found around six. What did she do in between?¡± says Wild.

    ¡°We could check with the other businesses on the boardwalk,¡± says Harvest. ¡°If she worked there, she probably spent a lot of time in the area. It might be worth checking to see if anyone knew her or even saw her the day she died.¡±

    ¡°Would you be able to track her movements from the other day?¡± Quinn asks Harvest, as he frowns at the once again unorganized desk.

    ¡°Maybe. Some people are traceable for days. Others, just a few hours.¡±

    Quinn nods and swipes his jacket from the back of his chair. ¡°Right, then. We should get going.¡±

    Angel watches them depart until they feel Wild¡¯s gaze on the back of their head. ¡°What?¡± they ask, glancing over their shoulder.

    ¡°You seem to have changed your mind about her.¡±

    Angel shrugs and turns back to the whiteboard. ¡°I¡¯m just relieved she knows her stuff, that¡¯s all.¡±

    <hr>

    Valkaria Bay Boardwalk is slightly busier than the last time Harvest was there with Quinn. They start at Sandy Shores Souvenirs, but the amount of customers coming and going soon begins to hamper their progress. As soon as Harvest blinks into her second-sight, it seems that Quinn is already telling her to blink out of it again (¡°Better put those windshield wipers on¡±), for fear of having to answer some annoyingly time-consuming questions from passers-by.

    After the fourth time, she scowls and motions for him to follow her away from the shop, to a small alcove, just off the main thoroughfare. She leans against the concrete wall and closes her eyes for a moment.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he asks. She can feel him shift closer to her as he too, leans against the wall, his shadow undoing the sun¡¯s paltry attempts at warming the day.

    ¡°I can¡¯t concentrate with you interrupting me every few seconds.¡±

    Quinn nods and waits quietly, with his hands in his pockets. He¡¯s wearing a white shirt underneath a gray waistcoat. He¡¯s left his jacket in the car and rolled his sleeves up once so that his wrists are just visible.

    She nods, grateful for his understanding, and lets her eyes fall close again.

    His presence seems to recede. He doesn¡¯t need to breathe, and he doesn¡¯t fidget. She could be standing next to a statue and she is reminded of her memory of his voice when he compelled Amy.

    Sun-warmed stone in a desert. A forgotten monument to a nameless deity.

    She tells herself that she can do this, that this is why she was gifted her second-sight. This is why some nameless strands of mischief were woven just right, to make sure she could do this. To make a difference. To use it for good.

    She releases a breath and opens her eyes, letting the world flood back into her senses. ¡°I want to walk the entire boardwalk, starting here, all the way down until the Lighthouse.¡± She motions toward the tower in the distance, bright against the pale gray sky. ¡°I should apologize to Dominic, anyway¡± she mumbles.

    ¡°For what?¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°Bleeding all over him.¡±

    Quinn smirks. ¡°I think Dominic can handle a little bit of blood.¡± He pushes away from the wall and takes a step in the direction of the Lighthouse. ¡°Come on then, sniffer dog.¡±

    She scowls. ¡°I think I prefer ¡®little witch.¡¯¡±

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 12

    The wind from the ocean hits Angel like an ice pick, and they pull their oversized blazer tighter around themself as they make their way down the boardwalk. The weather had been unseasonably warm for October but has since decided to properly indulge in the turn of the seasons. The sky is a pearly white, and the ocean beyond the boardwalk is a murky silver.

    Angel finds Quinn and Harvest by the Lighthouse and waves hello as they jog forward. ¡°Where is it?¡±

    After hitting a dead end with Ezra¡ªwho had been unable to confirm any connection between Hazel and Amy, and reacted to the names of Locke and Ozias as if Angel was speaking a foreign language¡ªand no results from either portal analysis or postmortem, Angel could feel the tension gathering in their shoulders.

    The tension is familiar. It is the inevitable anxiousness that comes between the first burst of information when a new case is assigned and the sluggish progress of gathering statements and waiting for people to call back. When Quinn called with an update, Angel rushed down to the boardwalk, leaving Wild to badger Magi-Tech for their portal analysis.

    Not that Wild seemed to mind. Angel did catch a glimpse of a certain red-haired technician as they passed by the labs earlier.

    Harvest motions toward the dumpster behind the Lighthouse, in the same alley where she had been attacked, but further down. As Angel approaches, it¡¯s obvious why no one has noticed it until now.

    Amy¡¯s purse had been shoved behind the dumpster, hidden in the darkest shadow of the alley. To be fair, Angel adds silently, eyes flicking briefly toward the bandage on Harvest¡¯s neck, there had been other things to deal with the night before last.

    Angel pulls out a cloth evidence bag and a pair of gloves, both made of the same spell-woven threads of cotton. Before placing the purse into the bag, they take a quick glance inside, noting that Amy¡¯s phone isn¡¯t there with a slight sense of dismay.

    Still, the purse is something new and a step forward. ¡°I¡¯ll get it back to the Bureau and start logging the contents.¡± Angel slips the evidence inside their bag and begins to strip off the gloves. ¡°How did the rest of your questioning go? Any new leads?¡±

    Quinn shakes his head. ¡°Most of the businesses are closed during the week. There weren¡¯t a lot of people around to see Amy. We were just about to head into the Lighthouse and ask when Harvest caught Amy¡¯s trail.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it a trail,¡± Harvest adds. ¡°Her purse was here, but I¡¯m not sure she was here.¡±

    ¡°Someone stashed it?¡± suggests Angel.

    ¡°I think so.¡±

    ¡°We have to catch the ferry to Ilton after this, to meet with the parents. Otherwise, I would bag it myself,¡± says Quinn.

    Angel nods and bites their lower lip in thought. ¡°Okay, well, I can ask around the Lighthouse and see if anyone saw anything yesterday.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s alright. We can¡ª¡± begins Quinn.

    A well-timed horn echoes around them.

    ¡°I know, boss,¡± says Angel, looking over at the dock. ¡°But you¡¯re about to miss your boat.¡±

    <hr>

    Harvest¡¯s boots click against the cobblestone pathway. ¡°Do you know about the history of the island?¡± she asks. They have just disembarked from the ferry and are following the main road to the far east coast of Ilton, where most of the residential properties are built. ¡°They say that the first settlers were drawn here by the mischief in the sand: Eli Evans, Druella Stone, Gifforn Rosenbloom, the Honeysweet family.

    ¡°The fae legends go back even further. They say that the islands were pulled up from the bottom of the sea by the High King as a gift for his twin daughters, who wouldn¡¯t stop fighting.¡±

    ¡°Mischief, which is magic?¡± asks Quinn distractedly, checking the map on his phone.

    ¡°Yes, magic. I¡¯m mischief-born.¡±

    ¡°What are vampires?¡±

    ¡°Mischief-bred, but no one really uses those words anymore.¡±

    ¡°But you do?¡±

    She lifts a shoulder. ¡°Sometimes. Why? What do vampires call it?¡±

    ¡°A curse.¡±

    Ilton is the smallest of the twin islands, and the Whitmore house is only a fifteen-minute walk from where they disembarked. They find it easily, nestled in a row of seaside cottages, each painted a bright pastel color with matching picket fences. The lemon-yellow home with white trim should have looked welcoming, but the darkening clouds behind it make the yellow look mournful as if the entire house is sagging with the heartbreak of losing Amy. Harvest switches to her second-sight momentarily and sees the house almost completely covered in gray. Quinn knocks, and before Harvest can blink away her second-sight, the door opens with a wave of smokiness, as if a fire has just been extinguished.

    The Liaison Agent answers, a witch named Charlotte Nobel. ¡°Call me Lottie,¡± she says with a soft voice. ¡°The parents are in the sitting room. The mother¡¯s name is Flora, and the stepfather is John. The biological father passed away almost a decade ago.¡±

    The house is lived-in, with slightly faded floral wallpaper and slanted walls that creak even when no one is moving around. Framed photographs line the main hallway, though there is a dark square where one has been removed and set down on a table instead. A quick look tells Harvest that it¡¯s the photo they sent to the Bureau, the one affixed to the whiteboard back at the office¡ªonly this one is not cropped, featuring Amy¡¯s parents on either side of her. Her mother¡¯s arm is around her, mid-squeeze, and her father¡¯s soft smile, though tempered by the sun in his eyes, is genuine. Proud. It makes her heart hurt.

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    They settle into chairs by the window in the sitting room and are offered tea, which they both decline. Harvest extracts her notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket, while Quinn begins by offering condolences. His voice is effortlessly gentle. It¡¯s a delicate balance to maintain: swift and competent, yet empathetic and mournful.

    Quinn plays the part well.

    ¡°We don¡¯t want to take up too much of your time,¡± he says. ¡°But there are a few things we need to know right now as we begin looking into Amy¡¯s death.¡±

    Flora attempts to give him a smile but doesn¡¯t quite complete the movement. ¡°Yes, of course. Whatever we can do to help.¡±

    ¡°Can you start by going over the last time you saw Amy?¡±

    ¡°That would have been yesterday morning. She left for work as normal, though she had been running a little late. She ran out of the door. I only caught a glimpse of her back, really. She had come home very late the night before, and I think she overslept.¡±

    ¡°She sounds just like me when I was her age,¡± says Harvest, internally wincing at her own voice. Next to the skilled gentleness of Quinn, she¡¯s sure she sounds like a child. ¡°I used to stay out at all hours. My dad would be so upset when I came home late, especially if I didn¡¯t let him know that I would be staying out.¡±

    John almost smiles. ¡°I used to try to give her a curfew, but she never stuck to it. She definitely tried when she was younger, of course, but she¡¯s an adult. She would try to send us a message, though. A quick text to say she won¡¯t be home.¡±

    ¡°Did she do that yesterday?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± says John hoarsely. ¡°It wasn¡¯t unusual¡ªshe would sometimes forget, but¡ª¡±

    It¡¯s Flora who speaks up, grabbing her husband¡¯s hand forcibly. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault, John.¡± She looks at Harvest and Quinn with a guarded look. ¡°You have to understand. Amy was an adult, and we tried our best to treat her as such. She was extremely independent. She didn¡¯t have to share every detail of her life with us. We trusted her.¡±

    ¡°Do you know where she would have gone on the mainland when she stayed overnight?¡±

    Flora shakes her head. ¡°With friends¡­¡± She pauses, her previous resolve crumbling, not for the first time in the past few hours. It¡¯s as if the memory of Amy¡¯s death is the ocean tide. She is drowning in it one second and, the next, it recedes, giving her a temporary reprieve before it once again overtakes her.

    John takes over, placing a protective arm around his wife¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Amy would do that often. Stay on the mainland with a friend. It was easier for her, for work. And we both know how stifled she felt here on the island. She wasn¡¯t born with a gift, and that was hard for her to deal with sometimes. I think she felt ignored. Being surrounded by magic that she couldn¡¯t relate to. It was only a matter of time before she moved out.¡±

    ¡°Why was she still living at home?¡±

    ¡°Saving up money,¡± says Flora. ¡°She was very cautious about things like that. Didn¡¯t want to move before she knew exactly what she was getting herself into with¡­¡± She looks down at the tissue in her hands as if she isn¡¯t sure why she¡¯s still holding it.

    Quinn remains silent, waiting for Flora to continue. But it¡¯s John who speaks up first. ¡°She had a friend in particular. Well, I say friend, but I suppose he was more. We never actually met him. A vampire. His name is Nico. It¡¯s short for something, I¡¯m sure, but she always called him Nico.¡±

    Out of the corner of her eye, Harvest can see Quinn straighten his posture for a brief second before asking, ¡°Do you know anything else about Nico or where we could find him?¡±

    John shakes his head. ¡°I think they used to hang out near the boardwalk.¡±

    ¡°What about other friends?¡± asks Harvest. ¡°It sounds like Amy was pretty social.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid we don¡¯t know of many other friends from the mainland. She was quite close with a girl called Beth. I don¡¯t have her phone number though. I¡¯m sure she¡¯s on social media and all that.¡±

    ¡°Do you know her last name?¡±

    John shakes his head, his shoulders dropping forward, weighed down by the inadequacies of his answers.

    ¡°Do you mind if we take a look at Amy¡¯s room before we leave?¡±

    Flora attempts to answer, but her words are lost in a sudden twist of agony, so she nods instead.

    ¡°First door at the top of the stairs,¡± says John, now clutching his wife¡¯s shoulders as if he too is about to start crying.

    ¡°They¡¯re so heartbroken,¡± says Harvest once they are upstairs and Quinn has shut the door behind them. ¡°I mean, of course they are,¡± she adds quietly. ¡°I could barely see the house through their grief.¡±

    ¡°Real or fake, though,¡± says Quinn, almost under his breath. He hands Harvest a pair of cotton gloves.

    Harvest shoots him a startled look before slipping the gloves on. ¡°Genuine. I don¡¯t think either of them are involved.¡±

    Quinn shrugs and begins to look around the room. It¡¯s caught between two worlds: witch and non-witch. The bookshelves are full of romance novels or spell books with broken spines. A few crystals hang in the window, casting dancing rainbows around the room, but there is no magic in them¡ªno spell to brighten the rainbows, no mischief to make them perpetual. Drying herbs hang downward from the rafters, obscuring the art prints taped to the walls.

    Lavender suspended in front of Monet.

    Rosemary swaying with Renoir.

    A dusty cauldron sits on the shelf, being used as a pencil jar. The bed linens are the same shade of Amy¡¯s aura, or so Harvest tells him.

    Quinn moves to look at the contents of Amy¡¯s bedside table, noting with a hint of disappointment that the phone charger is sans phone. A useless hope, he knew, as he couldn¡¯t imagine a twenty-four-year-old going anywhere without their phone.

    ¡°The boyfriend, Nico,¡± says Harvest, looking over her shoulder, ¡°we should start looking for him.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± he says a little too quickly. ¡°We¡¯ll run the name through the Bureau records.¡±

    Quinn pulls back the blanket on the bed, moving the pillows to see if there is anything underneath them. Something falls out of the pillowcase and lands on the rug with a thud. Harvest is closer to the object, so she leans down to pick it up.

    ¡°A wand,¡± she says, handing it to him. ¡°Odd.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± He looks at the wand, made of silver maple with an amethyst inlay adorning the handle. The last witch he spent time with outside of his duties as a Bureau agent was in the early eighteenth century when wands were still considered an invaluable tool for practicing magic.

    ¡°It¡¯s like any trend,¡± she says when Quinn tells her this. ¡°Adult witches don¡¯t often use wands anymore. They¡¯re usually made for children as a way to encourage them to nurture their magic as they grow up. Like training wheels on a bike.¡±

    ¡°It was hiding under her pillow,¡± he says. ¡°Do you think she had more magic than her parents realized?¡±

    ¡°That, or maybe she was hoping her magic would still come, despite her age. But it¡¯s rare for magic to just suddenly show up.¡± Harvest frowns, looking around the room. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine how she must have felt, living here, surrounded by mischief and unable to use it. I would have been desperate to feel even a spark.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s not assume anything,¡± says Quinn, slipping the wand into a cloth bag. ¡°But you make a good point.¡± He glances around the room. ¡°Amy didn¡¯t fit in here. I don¡¯t think she spent a lot of time on the island. I think we¡¯ll get more from her friends in Valkaria.¡±

    ¡°Too bad we don¡¯t know who they are.¡±

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 13

    Angel settles into a booth in the back corner of the Lighthouse with a heavy sigh. They sip their pint of non-alcoholic beer, waiting for Wild to arrive.

    After an hour of asking customers milling around the bar, along with thorough questioning of both the bartender and the owner, no one recognized the picture of Amy.

    The bar has filled up considerably since they¡¯ve entered; the music is a little louder and the lights a little lower. The neon sign in the window flickers on. It¡¯s ¡°2 for 1¡± shot night, although Angel doesn¡¯t participate.

    When Wild arrives, he¡¯s not alone. A ginger-haired cat-s¨¬th sidles up to the booth, carrying two pints of beer. Wild introduces Angel to Ivo with a sheepish smile, a faint blush on his cheeks. He stumbles over the word ¡°friend¡± but Angel moves on as if it hadn¡¯t happened.

    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± Angel says. ¡°Thanks for taking over, Wild. I think it would be helpful to ask a few more patrons about Amy.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, no problem. We have some interesting updates about the portal.¡± Wild¡¯s eyes slide over to Ivo. ¡°The analysis is complete, but I don¡¯t know what it tells us.¡±

    ¡°It was a really interesting sample if I¡¯m being honest,¡± says Ivo. ¡°On the surface, it was your typical portal residue. We ran the normal tests, looking for origin signatures. The traces of sulfur were unusually low, though, so we ran a few more diagnostic tests, broadening our parameters to include markers outside of documented demon signatures.¡±

    Ivo pauses to take a sip of his beer. ¡°We didn¡¯t have expectations, but honestly, we didn¡¯t expect to find what we did, which was a particular chemical composition usually seen with witch magic.¡±

    ¡°Witches can¡¯t cast portals,¡± Angel says immediately.

    Ivo nods. ¡°Exactly. So I ran it again. Four times. The same results.¡±

    ¡°Can you compare it to the portal analysis from when Hazel disappeared?¡±

    Ivo nods, taking a sip of his beer again. ¡°Already did. It¡¯s a match.¡±

    ¡°So the same way that Hazel disappeared, is the same way Amy¡¯s body made it into Harvest¡¯s apartment.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure witches can¡¯t cast portals?¡± asks Wild.

    ¡°Reasonably certain,¡± answers Angel. ¡°But you know what witches can do?¡±

    ¡°Drink me under the table?¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    Angel doesn¡¯t make good on their promise, however, and, after finishing their pint, they leave Wild and Ivo in favor of returning to the office. They did have a brief idea of going home¡ªdropping off Amy¡¯s purse and leaving it until morning¡ªbut the thought of their studio loft, walls lined with unpacked boxes, was far less appealing.

    When Angel arrives at the Bureau, the tall brick building looks surprisingly warm and welcoming against the assembling clouds in the sky above. It feels more like a lighthouse than the one Angel has just left.

    Entering the building always comes with a rush of mischief, a pressing spell that reaches out to search for their credentials in their blood, in as much as it is looking for the badge tucked safely in their bag.

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    At their desk, Angel removes the purse from the evidence bag, hands covered in gloves as they carefully sort through the items inside.

    Amy¡¯s purse is made of black fake leather that is worn at the corners, with bits of material flaking off as they open it. Inside, there is a small clutch filled with makeup and a compact mirror. A few hair ties and bobby pins congregate at the bottom.

    There is a receipt for Sandy Shores, showing that Amy purchased a bottle of water the day before she died. On the back of the receipt is a drawing of a woman¡¯s profile and a few doodles of birds doing various activities: seagulls diving down into a wavy ocean, pigeons strutting down the sidewalk.

    There is an inside zipper that Angel slowly pulls back, revealing another bobby pin and two cherry pits. Although these are not likely to be vital evidence, Angel logs them on the computer just the same.

    When the purse is empty, Angel tips it upside down to make sure nothing is hiding in the corners, and then runs their hand along the inside, checking for anything sewn into the lining.

    Satisfied that the purse contains nothing more, they return everything to the evidence bag and write a six-digit case code on the label. On the way out, they will hand the bag over to the overly familiar, enthusiastic demon who works the evening shift in the evidence room.

    Angel puts off the interaction for a few minutes longer, answering emails and updating their calendar while considering what color to dye their hair next.

    Eventually, even their bare, poorly lit studio apartment begins to sound appealing in the face of busy work. With a sigh, Angel turns off their computer and heads home.

    <hr>

    As Harvest and Quinn make their way back to the docks, the sunlight dancing across the water suddenly disappears. Harvest looks to the horizon, seeing nothing but a smudge of darkness.

    She can smell the anticipation of rain in the air now, mingling with the sea and a hint of smoke from a fire somewhere on the other side of the island. The air is a heavy plum, disturbed only by white electricity gathering above them.

    Lottie has arranged transportation for the evidence they¡¯ve collected from Amy¡¯s bedroom, including a photograph of Amy and another woman whom the parents have tentatively identified as Beth.

    Quinn had begun losing his patience with them, his calm, understanding demeanor slipping¡ªso much so that when he showed them the wand, he did so with little grace and a fair bit of harshness, as if they had purposefully lied about Amy¡¯s abilities.

    They were baffled by the wand, which was supposed to be in a box in the attic. When Quinn told them he found it under Amy¡¯s pillow, Flora broke down in tears. When they left, Flora and John were clutching onto each other like the sole survivors of a shipwreck.

    Dr. Burrow¡¯s tincture (which Harvest has stashed in her bag) has lessened the pain in her neck, and Harvest feels that she might be able to forgo the bandage soon. Yet even as her neck heals, her arm still throbs. She takes a peek under her sleeve to see that her wrist is red, the rash circling her like a bracelet.

    With a grimace, she slides her sleeve back down, deciding instead to focus on getting back to Ronan¡¯s, where he will make dinner and put on a silly movie while she drifts to sleep on the couch.

    It¡¯s been nice to spend so much time with him, she thinks as she follows Quinn back to the ferry. The remains of her relationship with Ezra are now a fine dust of ash, and she considers moving out of her apartment. Even though only her name is on the lease, Ezra moved in fairly early on and it¡¯s hard not to consider it theirs.

    Besides, the memory of finding a dead body in her bed will always somewhat sour the thought of her home. Maybe Ronan needs a roommate.

    It isn¡¯t until they reach the ferry that Harvest realizes the storm rolling in is bigger than it looks. The ferry is closed for the night, and the attendant is as unsympathetic to Quinn¡¯s demands as he is to the badge Quinn keeps shoving in his face.

    There is a back-and-forth that lasts ten minutes, while Harvest, pragmatically, looks up nearby hotels that have vacancies. She does briefly consider calling her father, but she looks at Quinn, with his sharp teeth and his smoldering amber eyes, imagines introducing him to Theodore Rosenbloom, and changes her mind. As a popular vacation spot, Ilton has quite a few hotels to choose from, and the fact that it is October¡ªan off-season month¡ªis in their favor.

    If Quinn was annoyed when they arrived, he is irate now. She has a feeling that if she could see his aura, it would be as dark as the clouds that are now overhead.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 14

    They settle on a small seaside hotel called The Pearl. Its facade is similar to the Whitmore house but it is painted white and polished from years of ocean wind.

    The inside is not a quaint seaside cottage, however, and Harvest suspects there is a hint of mischief in the wooden beams and limestone walls. The front hall is adorned with seaside landscapes that, if stared at for a little too long, begin to reflect the weather outside, with a shoreline that looks eerily similar to the one that stretches beyond The Pearl¡¯s back patio.

    There is a crack of lightning as the door closes behind them, and Harvest brushes her hair out of her eyes, wiping a few stray raindrops from her cheeks. Quinn slicks back his hair, looking oddly composed despite the annoyance rolling off his shoulders. The employee at the front desk greets them warmly, ignoring Quinn¡¯s icy glare while she confirms vacancies and takes their details. She reaches out to accept payment, her fingers curled with one too many knuckle joints. Quinn relents with a huff, handing over his credit card while mumbling about expense reports.

    By the time Harvest finds herself in the cozy single room with a handmade green quilt and plush pink rug, the storm is directly over the island. She plugs her phone into the complementary phone charger, ignoring several texts from Ezra. She sends a quick message to Ronan, letting him know that she won¡¯t be home tonight. He responds with a frowning face, followed quickly by But is there only one room available? It is punctuated by a winking face, and she laughs despite herself.

    Quinn¡¯s room is next to hers, so she knows he has the same view of the beach below. She peers out of the balcony doors, watching the palm trees bend against the squall. A boom of thunder reverberates against the windows. She doesn¡¯t realize that she¡¯s clutching her torso so tightly until her wrist begins to bother her.

    <hr>

    Although his back is to the door, he knows when Harvest enters the hotel bar. He can smell her floral scent¡ªwhite flowers in the morning¡ªand hear the particular timbre of her heartbeat.

    For a minute, he thinks that she hasn¡¯t seen him, or perhaps she doesn¡¯t want to sit with him, but then she slides into the chair across from him with a glass of white wine for herself and a whiskey for him.

    She¡¯s removed the bandage from her neck, and Quinn can see the bite from Roderick, now just two pinpricks of red scabs nestled in a pale green bruise. It¡¯s healing quickly, thanks to Burrows¡¯s expertise, but the sight of it still causes a clenched sort of anger in his chest. Still, Harvest¡¯s eyes are framed by dark smudges, and her smile is thin, fighting against a yawn at the back of her throat.

    The bar is warm, and Harvest has left her jacket upstairs, leaving her in a form-fitting long-sleeve shirt. Quinn feels oddly formal, even though he has foregone his waistcoat and tie, leaving him in a white Oxford with the top few buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

    He thanks her, and they clink their glasses together. The whiskey is a poor substitute for what he actually needs, but the bar is out of stock for the evening. He lets the liquor slide down his throat, coating his gums with notes of cinnamon and oak. His phone buzzes, and he looks down at it briefly, reading the I can¡¯t do this anymore from Burrows before he turns it over, screen down.

    He doesn¡¯t miss the slight arch of Harvest¡¯s eyebrow, as she, too, sees the message, noting how quick he is to dismiss it.

    ¡°We had plans,¡± he finds himself saying. ¡°She¡¯s not happy I canceled.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t realize you two¡­¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s casual.¡±

    ¡°Does she know that?¡±

    He makes a vague noise in the back of his throat and takes a sip of whiskey. ¡°Ezra called me earlier.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know what we talked about?¡±

    Not that it was anything particularly interesting, he thinks. Ezra had only called to ask about Harvest since she hadn¡¯t been answering his phone calls, a fact that made Quinn inordinately happy.

    He always knew his friend had a bit of a temper, but the anger that flowed so easily the other night was disconcerting at best. She¡¯s better off without him.

    She shrugs and looks away, watching raindrops pelt against the window. ¡°Only if it¡¯s related to the investigation.¡±

    He rolls his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re a terrible liar.¡±

    ¡°So?¡± She looks at him sharply. ¡°Lying isn¡¯t an admirable skill.¡±

    ¡°Sure it is,¡± he says. He leans forward, elbows on the table. ¡°Lies keep relationships intact. It¡¯s honesty that tears people apart.¡±

    Her eyes, forever giving away her thoughts, narrow. ¡°And forces sisters to skip town without a forwarding address, right?¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± he says with a smug smile. ¡°That¡¯s where you went wrong.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything. Ezra is the one who told her.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but you would have told her eventually. You¡¯re not made for guilt.¡±

    She holds his gaze for a second longer before sighing heavily and turning her head away with a shake. The storm outside seems to be lessening and moving toward the mainland. Her mind is lost, drifting away like the storm above.

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    Silence grows between them until she reaches for her glass of wine and inhales sharply against a sudden jolt of pain in her wrist.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°Spell-burn from earlier.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not healing?¡±

    She shakes her head, peeling back the sleeve of her shirt. ¡°It¡¯s almost getting worse.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll get it checked out when we get back?¡±

    She nods, pulling her sleeve down again. She takes a sip of her wine before glancing out of the window. ¡°I can¡¯t stop thinking about Amy,¡± she confesses quietly. She looks at him, her eyes too bright in the low light of the bar. He can feel her tears even though they haven¡¯t spilled from her eyes. ¡°I know I shouldn¡¯t make assumptions, but what if she had been in trouble when we questioned her? I was so focused on looking for Hazel, that I didn¡¯t really look at her.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not your fault,¡± he says. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve been hiding something from me. You can¡¯t see the future, right?¡±

    ¡°No, but I could see her aura.¡± She takes a deep breath, looking down at her wine glass as she twists it between her thumb and forefinger. ¡°I completely dismissed her because of it. Because I couldn¡¯t see any magic in her.¡±

    She finally looks up at him, and Quinn is struck with the realization that Harvest feels guilty. She dismissed Amy due to a preconceived notion of what she should have been looking for and, in turn, only perpetuated the feelings of isolation that Amy¡¯s parents had mentioned.

    The thought lodges itself in the back of his throat, and he shifts forward in his chair, marginally sorry for needling her about guilt only a few minutes before.

    ¡°Could she have had magic, then?¡± he asks cautiously. ¡°Maybe you missed it.¡±

    ¡°Magic just doesn¡¯t show up, though. You¡¯re born with it or not.¡±

    ¡°What if it¡¯s something new? Angel called earlier and said the portal analysis showed signs of witchcraft. Maybe Amy had a gift you¡¯ve never seen before?¡±

    ¡°I suppose that¡¯s possible,¡± she says quietly. ¡°What good will I be as an agent if I come into crime scenes expecting to see something? I should have kept an open mind. I should have observed more before passing judgment and moving on.¡±

    He nods slowly. ¡°Yes.¡± He finishes his whiskey, setting the glass down with a thunk. ¡°But it wasn¡¯t a crime scene. It wasn¡¯t even an investigation. You weren¡¯t on the clock.¡±

    She hums reluctantly. ¡°But I am now¡ªon the clock that is¡ªand I won¡¯t let you down.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not me you have to worry about. It¡¯s Amy,¡± he says softly.

    She nods, eyes downcast. ¡°By the way, I¡¯ve been meaning to apologize to you.¡± She looks up at him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for getting you involved in this. It¡¯s gotten a bit bigger than I thought it would.¡±

    ¡°Why did you ask me?¡± he asks. ¡°You could have gone to your Aunt for this.¡±

    She shrugs, cheeks flushed. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to get my family¡¯s hopes up. If we started looking for Hazel again and we didn¡¯t find her¡­plus, you were interested. In me, that is. Before Ezra and I got engaged. I thought you¡¯d be more willing to help me than other agents.¡±

    He grins. ¡°And you thought what? You flutter your eyelashes a bit and I¡¯m willing to do anything? Give me some credit, Rosenbloom,¡± he says. ¡°Herman¡¯s investigation never sat well with me. I wanted to give it a proper go.¡± He shakes his head and picks up her empty glass. ¡°Next round is on me.¡±

    <hr>

    They stay chatting at the table by the window for another round of drinks before moving to sit on a couch on the opposite side of the room. The storm is still going, turning the sky into a bloom of purple flecked with pale green clouds. The bar has filled up. Soft murmurs and the clink of glasses mix with the patter of rain against the window.

    Altogether, the small crowd is a vigil burning in the depths of the descending night, from the group of witches huddled in the corner to the demon and pixie talking to the bartender, heads thrown back in laughter. There is even a vampire and a witch huddled in the corner, clearly on a date that is going well. Harvest whispers that she thinks it¡¯s a first date, but Quinn is adamant that it¡¯s a third date. ¡°Too familiar with each other,¡± he says into his whiskey.

    Quinn goes up to order another drink and some food for Harvest. Does she ever eat, he wonders as he tries to ignore the sound of her stomach. Then again, he isn¡¯t much better than her. He knows it was his hunger that made him short with Amy¡¯s parents earlier, not to mention his outburst with the ferry attendant.

    His teeth are sharp and ready for a meal he won¡¯t get tonight.

    He pushes the emptiness aside and chats with the bartender for a few minutes, engaging in random bits of small talk that he immediately forgets.

    Quinn returns with another glass of white wine and a sandwich for her. Perhaps it is the three glasses she has already had, but the food is an unexpected gesture that makes her blush. That is, until he says, ¡°I could hear your stomach growling from across the room, little witch.¡±

    She scowls at him but still takes a bite. ¡°You know, Dominic told me about you,¡± she says.

    ¡°Oh, yes?¡±

    ¡°He told me he¡¯s known you since before you both became vampires, which, as he hinted, was an extremely long time ago. He told me you weren¡¯t hired under the normal Bureau employment contract. You swore an oath, which is why you¡¯re an agent in the first place. He wouldn¡¯t say why you swore the oath, though.¡±

    ¡°And you want to know?¡±

    She shakes her head. ¡°Only if you want to share with me. Though I am curious about that ring of yours. No, he said that I could trust you to always do the right thing. Eventually.¡±

    He laughs lightly. ¡°And what else did dear Dominic tell you?¡± he asks, leaning closer to her. He knows it¡¯s a dangerous thing to do, filling his senses with her scent and letting the tingle of her body heat linger on his skin. He¡¯s far too hungry, and he¡¯s only putting them both in a precarious position.

    But it is his hunger that encourages him, his hunger that reaches out and brushes the back of his fingers against her neck, just beyond the fading evidence of Roderick¡¯s bite. It would be easy to reopen those wounds. The skin is already broken. He trails his fingers upward, settling them right below her earlobe. His thumb rests right behind her ear, feeling her pulse through the softness of her skin.

    Harvest¡¯s caramel eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans closer. But it¡¯s not the magical spark of a witch. It is a glint of playfulness, accompanied by a teasing lilt of her lips as she brings them closer to his ear. He can feel her heartbeat echoing against his sternum. ¡°You really are just a shameless flirt and I shouldn¡¯t trust any compliments from you,¡± she says.

    He laughs softly and leans back, schooling his expression into something more professional. After all, he is still a senior agent. ¡°You¡¯re one to talk. Fluttering eyelashes, remember.¡±

    Yet the boundary his distance puts between them doesn¡¯t soften the suggestiveness of his smile or the piercing gaze of his eyes, half-lidded and slightly golden in this light.

    She can tell he¡¯s hungry, and he registers the sudden stiffness of her posture as she realizes how close her neck is to his mouth and how quickly he can reach over and sink his teeth into her flesh. He thinks briefly of grabbing her wrist, sending his thoughts into her head, telling her that his bite isn¡¯t something to be afraid of.

    But blood taken by force never tastes quite as good to Quinn.

    And besides, he would never do that to Harvest. He pushes the instinct down.

    ¡°It¡¯s late,¡± he says. ¡°We should get to bed.¡±

    The frankness of his voice seems to shift something in her, and she lets out a breath, eyebrows raised at his phrasing. ¡°I¡¯ll see you in the morning,¡± she says, standing up and moving toward the exit.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 15

    When the bell over the door dings, Ronan barely looks up from the stack of invoices on the counter in front of him. ¡°Take a seat anywhere,¡± he says, wondering why Kipp is taking so long. He likes Kipp, and he appreciates the help, but she has a habit of taking a few too many breaks throughout her work shift.

    Then again, it wasn¡¯t her night to work anyway, and it¡¯s not like the diner is full. The only guest is Stuart, in his booth by the window as usual, doing his crossword and sipping his diet Coke.

    Ronan remembers when he first started working at the diner, taking too many breaks like Kipp. For him, it was always sneaking out back to smoke or staying late to drink beers with Hazel even though they were still underage. He was young, too young to really know himself. Yet he was self-assured enough to know that his friendship with Hazel would always be there, their lives entwined.

    Regrettably, though, they hadn¡¯t been the closest when Hazel disappeared. Their friendship slowly faded after she started dating Ezra, who always seemed a little too opinionated about Hazel¡¯s social life.

    Ezra was the same with Harvest, too, either tagging along when they made plans or making some excuse as to why she couldn¡¯t do something without him. He knows Harvest caught Ezra checking her phone on at least one occasion, which horrified him when she told him.

    Ronan finally looks up at the group who have just entered the diner, only to realize that they haven¡¯t sat down.

    The vampire standing in front of Ronan looks young, though he probably isn¡¯t. His skin is pale and smooth. His brown hair is cropped close on the sides and swept back away from his face. He is wearing a suit with no tie, and the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned. It¡¯s a deceptively casual sort of style that only comes from centuries of practice and a personal tailor on retainer.

    He smiles at Ronan, but the movement doesn¡¯t reach his crimson eyes. He places his hand on the counter and leans just slightly, as if settling in for a chat with an old friend.

    The two men with him are also vampires. Both are of similar build¡ªtall and burly¡ªwith stoic expressions, their dark eyes focused on Ronan. Personal security, he thinks, taking in their all-black attire. One of them sniffs at Ronan and mumbles, ¡°Dog,¡± under his breath.

    ¡°I¡¯m Grayson Locke,¡± says the vampire in the middle. ¡°I think you¡¯ve heard of me already, Mr. Kelly, so I won¡¯t waste our time with introductions.¡±

    Ronan folds his arms across his chest. He remembers Harvest mentioning the name Locke. Quinn said Grayson Locke gives vampires a bad name. ¡°Would you like to see a menu?¡± he asks with feigned innocence.

    Locke looks like he might laugh, but he takes a casual look around the diner instead. The diner is suddenly too quiet. There seems to be a shift in the air¡ªan imminent threat that Ronan feels in his belly. He clenches his fist in anticipation, feeling his nails sharpen into claws.

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    Locke nods his head, and the vampire to his left turns around to look at Stuart, the only guest in the diner. ¡°We¡¯re closing early,¡± he says, motioning for him to leave.

    Stuart looks at Ronan, equal parts worry and confusion flooding his face.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow,¡± Ronan says, grateful that Stuart listens to the silent plea in his voice and leaves. Ghouls can be dangerous, but Stuart is no fighter.

    Neither is Ronan, for that matter. He tightens his fist.

    The bell over the door is still jingling when Locke says, ¡°Where¡¯s Hazel?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± The words are barely out of Ronan¡¯s mouth before Locke reaches out. Ronan is taken off guard, having expected the imminent violence to come from one of the bodyguards. Locke, it seems, doesn¡¯t mind getting his hands dirty.

    Ronan feels the ring on Locke¡¯s index finger slicing through the skin on his cheek as it makes contact, a sharp sting that draws a thin line of blood. He takes an involuntary step backward, reigning in his instinct to retaliate by taking a deep breath and letting the pain wash through his chest. His hands curl into fists again, tighter this time, with claws so sharp that they almost pierce his palm. There is blood in his mouth, and he swallows. ¡°Tell me what you want and get out,¡± he says quietly.

    ¡°Hazel stole from me, and I want my product back.¡±

    ¡°And why do you think I can help with that?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Locke says casually, taking a step toward the counter. Picking up a menu, he eyes it disinterestedly before letting it fall back onto the counter.

    He continues to take in his surroundings as if he has never been inside a diner before. He pauses at the various portraits of the Rosenbloom family on the wall. Some of them date back to the 18th century and probably shouldn¡¯t be hanging in a greasy diner facing a window, but each of them is encased in a protective spell.

    Locke leans close to a portrait of Gifforn Rosenbloom and almost reaches out to touch the frame. He seems to sense the spell, pulling his hand back just in time. He finally turns back to Ronan. ¡°I was hoping the younger Rosenbloom sister would be here. But perhaps you will do instead.¡± Locke smiles tightly, eying Ronan with an expression caught between distaste and amusement.

    ¡°I still don¡¯t get why you¡¯re here. I haven¡¯t spoken to Hazel in years,¡± he says.

    When the next hit comes, Ronan is expecting it, having seen the small twitch in Locke¡¯s hand. Locke¡¯s fist lands in Ronan¡¯s palm, who utilizes the second of Locke¡¯s surprise to land his own punch. His claws slice through Locke¡¯s skin before the two bodyguards grab Ronan. One holds Ronan¡¯s arms while the other kicks him in the stomach with a steel-toed boot. Ronan coughs, his stomach clenches, and a few drops of blood from the punch earlier land on the scratched linoleum floor.

    Locke laughs, his canine teeth sharp. The cut on his cheek heals quickly, and he wipes away the line of blood with a silk handkerchief, then tosses the cloth on the floor. ¡°I know Hazel perhaps even better than you. She¡¯ll come rescue her little pup. And when she does,¡± Locke leans closer to Ronan, his copper-tinged breath brushing against Ronan¡¯s lips, ¡°tell her I want my product back. Who knows? I may leave the little sister alone if Hazel returns it all.¡±

    He gives Locke a reluctant nod, and the vampire restraining him lets him go with a shove.

    Locke seems satisfied and turns to leave, but then he motions toward the bodyguards. ¡°Just a warning shot,¡± he says.

    The last thing Ronan sees is the barrel of a gun before a silver bullet is lodged in his shoulder.

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 16

    Harvest stands in front of Quinn¡¯s room and hesitates, only for a second, before bringing her fist up to knock on the door. She¡¯s fairly certain he¡¯s in there with the bartender. She heard two male voices come up the stairs a couple of minutes ago.

    Yet the frantic phone call she had just received from Kipp keeps replaying in her mind. ¡°Ronan was shot, and he won¡¯t let me call the police.¡±

    Kipp said that Harvest¡¯s number was first on his call log, so she tapped the name in panic. It took some seconds to get the full story from Kipp and understand that it was Locke who had come into the diner and shot Ronan. Kipp wasn¡¯t sure why. She couldn¡¯t hear much from where she was hiding in the back office, but she had seen one of them attack Ronan and, later, heard the gunshot. ¡°Oh god, he¡¯s lost consciousness now. He¡¯s so pale. He wants me to dig the bullet out, but I can¡¯t.¡±

    Quinn is shirtless when he opens the door. He smirks, bracing himself against the doorframe. A lock of hair falls over his forehead as he leans forward. ¡°Care to join, little witch?¡± he says at first, but when he notices her distress, he straightens up, frowning. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Ronan.¡± She looks beyond him and to the bartender, half-dressed and sprawled on the bed, before whispering, ¡°Locke attacked him.¡±

    That¡¯s all he needs to hear before he grabs a shirt and tells his guest that he¡¯ll be right back. In Harvest¡¯s room, Quinn curses at his phone, jabbing uselessly at the dark screen as if he can charge his dead battery with willpower. Harvest hands him the charger, and he thanks her, plugging his phone in and waiting for it to boot up. ¡°What exactly happened? Is Ronan okay?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she says, a slight jolt in her voice. ¡°Kipp couldn¡¯t tell me much. She said that Ronan was shot with a silver bullet.¡±

    Quinn¡¯s phone finally turns on, and he makes two phone calls: the first to the Bureau, requesting a medic team be sent to Tabitha¡¯s Diner, and the second to Wild. ¡°I want a full statement,¡± he tells Wild. ¡°And take Angel with you.¡± He moves to hang up but then barks into the phone, ¡°Call me after.¡±

    He tosses the phone down on the bed and runs a hand through his hair. His shirt is only half-buttoned, yet he doesn¡¯t seem to notice. ¡°He¡¯ll be fine,¡± he says, giving Harvest a gentle look. ¡°He¡¯s a wolf. Once they get the bullet out, he¡¯ll heal in no time.¡±

    She nods, sitting on the bed. ¡°I know. Why would Locke go after Ronan, though?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Wild and Angel will take a statement and file a report. They¡¯ll call when they have answers.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t be able to sleep until then.¡± She looks hesitantly over at the shared wall between their rooms. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I interrupted you.¡±

    He shrugs, sitting down on the bed next to her, his hand absentmindedly going to the small of her back. ¡°It¡¯s okay. He¡¯s sleeping now anyway. I¡¯ll wait here until Wild calls back.¡±

    ¡°Thanks.¡± She gives him a watery smile.

    <hr>

    The medic frowns as she stitches up the bullet wound. ¡°Are you feeling your healing abilities at all?¡±

    Ronan shakes his head. ¡°Not yet. But I¡¯ll be okay.¡±

    The medic¡¯s mouth straightens into a line, and Ronan knows she doesn¡¯t believe him. He knows there¡¯s something wrong, too. The bullet wound was still bleeding when the medics arrived, and it¡¯s barely stopped now, even though it¡¯s been two hours.

    But he¡¯s tired and annoyed by the presence of the two Bureau agents who are waiting patiently for the medic to finish, and he¡¯s anxious to get this over. He longs for a cold beer and his bed.

    Ronan looks over at the agents again, accidentally making eye contact with the tall fae, who gives him an obnoxiously hopeful smile. The other agent, the witch with purple hair, stands with arms crossed, barely hiding a yawn.

    ¡°Are we done yet?¡± asks Ronan.

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    The medic applies some white gauze to cover the stitches. ¡°For now. But you should see a doctor tomorrow about getting the stitches out. Your healing abilities should be taking over by then.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± he says, shrugging on an old shirt he had stashed in the office. ¡°First thing in the morning.¡±

    Finally, Ronan extracts himself from the medic and makes his way over to the table, where Kipp is watching him anxiously. He slides into the booth next to her and nods hello as the Bureau agents introduce themselves, showing their badges. ¡°I remember. You were at the Lighthouse the other night when I picked up Harvey.¡±

    ¡°Can I get you a glass of water?¡± Angel is looking at Kipp apprehensively, and Ronan can understand why. Her greenish skin is greener than normal, and her eyes dart around the diner as her leg jiggles nervously.

    Kipp looks panicked for a brief moment. ¡°Oh, gosh,¡± she says, her hands twisted in her apron. ¡°I should be doing that.¡± She looks around, lost without her pitcher of water and order pad.

    Angel smiles. ¡°It¡¯s okay. I think the boss can give you a night off.¡±

    Kipp laughs shakily and looks up at Ronan, who nods encouragingly. He squeezes her knee under the table if only to get her to stop jiggling her leg. When Angel returns with a glass of cold water, Kipp sips it gratefully.

    Angel slides into the booth opposite Kipp, removing a notebook from the inside pocket of their jean jacket, while Wild pulls over a stool. ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell us what happened?¡±

    Kipp tells them that she just returned from her break, only to feel a shift in air pressure as Locke and his security came into the diner. ¡°I¡¯m a seer. I can usually tell when something bad is going to happen, though I don¡¯t always know what will happen exactly.¡±

    ¡°Does the diner have any protection charms in place?¡±

    ¡°No, only a good luck charm. Everyone is welcome here, and protection charms can be finicky. The owners, the Rosenblooms, didn¡¯t want to accidentally discriminate against someone, you know?¡±

    ¡°So, you felt something shift, and then what did you do?¡±

    Kipp hesitates. ¡°I locked myself in the office. I know I should have¡­helped him.¡±

    ¡°You did the right thing,¡± Ronan interrupts. ¡°You made the right call.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± says Angel delicately. ¡°If that silver bullet stayed in there any longer, you wouldn¡¯t be standing.¡±

    Ronan shrugs, then winces with pain. Still, he gives them a dimpled smile, saying, ¡°When it¡¯s my time, it won¡¯t be a silver bullet that takes me down.¡±

    Angel narrows their eyes at Ronan as if trying to decide how much of his casualness is bravado in the face of trauma and how much of it is willful stupidity. They seem to land on the notion that it is a mix of both. ¡°Be that as it may, we need to know what happened here.¡±

    ¡°It was a vampire named Locke,¡± says Kipp. ¡°I heard him when I walked in before I locked myself in the office.¡±

    ¡°He wanted to send a message,¡± says Ronan, with a reluctant sigh. He looks down at his arm and flexes his fingers, wondering if he will be able to hold a spatula tomorrow. The cook who works the morning shift called out, and he already decided to cover the shift himself. Then again, there is a pool of his blood by the door. Maybe Tabitha¡¯s will open later than normal. ¡°He thinks I can get in touch with Hazel.¡±

    ¡°And can you?¡± asks Angel.

    ¡°No, like I told him. I haven¡¯t spoken to Hazel in years. Not since the day she skipped town and stopped answering her phone.¡±

    ¡°And why did he want to get in touch with Hazel?¡±

    ¡°She stole something.¡±

    ¡°Did he say what?¡±

    ¡°Product.¡± And, then, at Angel¡¯s raised eyebrow, he adds, more defensively than he means to, ¡°I don¡¯t know what he was talking about.¡±

    Angel pulls up a photo of Amy on their phone and asks Ronan if he recognizes her.

    ¡°Is the woman who was¡­?¡± He picks up the phone and looks closer at the screen. He¡¯s struck with the notion that she looks an awful lot like Hazel, though younger, all bones and angles with a sharper chin and none of Hazel¡¯s rosy, round cheeks and warm-toned skin. Still, the smile is the same¡ªwide and authentic. He can almost hear the laughter trickling from her mouth.

    ¡°Her name was Amethyst Whitmore, and she lived on Ilton. We¡¯re wondering if there is any connection to Hazel. Were they friends?¡±

    He hands the phone back to Angel. ¡°I don¡¯t recognize her,¡± he says with a shake of his head.

    Angel drops the phone back into their pocket and then extracts a business card from their bag. ¡°We¡¯ll let you get some rest for now, though we may have some follow-up questions tomorrow. Here¡¯s my number. Call me if you think of anything else in the meantime.¡±

    The silence that follows their departure is deafening.

    Ronan¡¯s sudden sense of exhaustion is heavy in his chest, and he takes a deep breath, leaning his uninjured arm on the table to rest his forehead in the palm of his hand.

    Kipp nervously twists her apron in her hands again and looks cautiously at him. ¡°I¡¯m really sorry. I didn¡¯t know what else to do.¡±

    Ronan¡¯s smile is soft, and he reaches out to cover her hands with his own. ¡°It¡¯s okay. You did the right thing. I¡¯m sorry you had to go through that.¡± He sighs, looking around the diner. The smell of blood sits in his nostrils, coppery with a hint of damp night air. ¡°We can clean up in the morning. Can I give you a ride home?¡±

    Kipp accepts gratefully and goes to grab her bag and turn out the lights.

    Ronan watches her as she turns the corner to the kitchen, making sure she is out of sight before reaching for his phone. He navigates to his contacts and scrolls until he finds the name he¡¯s looking for. The number he calls goes to voicemail, as he knew it would. As it always does. He leaves a message, his words quiet yet rushed.

    ¡°Hazel, call me back when you get this.¡±

 Wish You Were Here: Chapter 17

    Harvest awakes the next morning to the sound of the ocean and the soft rumblings of a hungry sky. The balcony doors are open, allowing the sea-salt mist of the morning to surround them. She remembers drinking wine with Quinn on the balcony last night, the rain having subsided sometime between leaving the bar and her knocking on Quinn¡¯s door.

    They waited for Wild¡¯s call while Quinn tried to subdue her worries until, annoyed with his platitudes that, while comforting in their sentiment, felt trite and coerced, she told him to tell her a story instead. He told her about sailing a pirate ship with Dominic in the 18th century. As plausible as it could be, she found herself a bit skeptical about one or two of the details.

    ¡°Wait, you¡¯re telling me Blackbeard was a woman?¡± she asked incredulously.

    Quinn took a smug sip of his drink before saying, ¡°Yep. And while some of the legends may not be true, the beard definitely was.¡±

    But after an hour of waiting, they came back inside the room, and Harvest sat next to Quinn on the bed while he flipped through the television channels.

    She¡¯s not sure when she fell asleep, but it¡¯s obvious that Quinn shifted to accommodate her, putting his arm around her so that her head rested on his chest. His shirt is still only half-buttoned, and her cheek rests against his skin, much warmer than she would expect from someone whose heart doesn¡¯t beat.

    Still half-asleep, she stretches, arching her back, and Quinn moves in response, his arm instinctively tightening around her, pressing her against the full length of his body. His hand goes back to stroking her hair, brushing lightly against her neck, while he does a crossword puzzle on his phone.

    The memory of the night before, of why Quinn is in her hotel room, comes crashing down on her, and she sits up suddenly, looking for her phone.

    Quinn reaches out to still Harvest¡¯s hand as she frantically searches her notifications. ¡°It¡¯s okay. Wild texted last night to say that Ronan is okay. He¡¯ll give us a briefing when we get back later. But everyone is good.¡±

    Harvest lets out a sigh of relief, her hand on her chest. Her heart is pounding from sitting up so suddenly. ¡°Ronan sent me a text too. He says thank you for sending help. His shoulder is almost completely healed by now.¡±

    ¡°See, little witch? I told you he¡¯d be fine.¡±

    She nods reluctantly and takes a deep breath as Quinn stands up and moves toward the door.

    Saying goodbye to Quinn over the threshold of a hotel room somehow feels more scandalous than waking up pressed against his body with her arm around his torso. She¡¯s not quite sure what comes over her, because instead of saying something like ¡°See you downstairs¡± and closing the door to get ready for the day, she presses a kiss to his cheek.

    She¡¯s fairly certain he can hear her heart beating frantically against her chest. But he leans into the kiss, his hand going to the small of her back to bring her closer.

    Her skin feels flushed, and she swallows. ¡°Thank you for staying with me last night.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± he says. His hand is still on her back, and she can feel his thumb tracing tiny circles through her shirt. She thinks, for one startlingly lovely and terrifying moment, that he might lean down and kiss her properly. But his expression shifts into a frown instead. ¡°Are you feeling okay?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    ¡°You look pale.¡±

    She begins to make an excuse for his concern, but, as if to prove her a liar, pain shoots through her wrist. She winces. ¡°I¡¯m still just a little tired.¡±

    Quinn presses his hand to her forehead. ¡°You¡¯re feverish.¡±

    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m just getting sick.¡±

    His hand slides down her arm, resting on the sleeve that¡¯s covering the spell-burn on her wrist. ¡°Your wrist is getting worse.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    And then she loses consciousness.

    <hr>

    Ronan grimaces in pain, wondering what made him lie to Harvest. His healing is alarmingly slow, and he¡¯s fairly certain the bullet was laced with something. He stays in bed later than he should, thinking about his blood staining the floor of the diner and what a nightmare it¡¯ll be to clean. He told Kipp to post a sign on the door saying the diner would open later than usual, and he¡¯d given her the day off.

    He thinks about calling his Aunt Moira. She would know how to get blood stains out of anything, even the white t-shirt he had been wearing when he was shot, which is now crumpled on his floor.

    The morning sun trickles in through his window, warming his shoulder and his cheeks, which are perpetually scruffy from laziness. Maybe he¡¯ll shave today, he thinks, rubbing his chin.

    His thoughts shift to the agents he met last night, the fae with his paper-thin wings and dark curls and the witch named Angel, with short purple hair, calculating eyes, and a permanent smirk. Agent Angel Fernandez. He fingers the edge of the business card Angel gave him, wondering if he should have said as much about Locke as he did.

    Though, to be fair, there wasn¡¯t much to tell.

    Ronan gets out of bed with a yawn and makes his way into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. In the short amount of time that Harvest has been staying in the spare bedroom of his apartment, she¡¯s made her mark, whether she realizes it or not. Her suede ankle boots are lined up by the door, in between his Doc Martens and his gym trainers. A paperback she was reading is on the coffee table, a Tabitha¡¯s Diner receipt sticking out of the top. Her favorite blanket¡ªthe amber-colored one that she brought from home¡ªis arranged artfully on the sofa, bringing some much-needed color to the neutral tones of his flat-pack furniture and hand-me-down curtains.

    He thinks maybe the room could do with a new rug. Something thick with deep reds and blues. He¡¯ll ask Harvest if she wants to go shopping with him; if every woman in his life is to be trusted, he¡¯s hopeless when it comes to picking the right color.

    <hr>

    When Ronan finally pushes open the door to Tabitha¡¯s, the pool of blood on the floor is gone.

    ¡°I cleaned it this morning,¡± says Kipp, looking well-rested and decidedly much too chipper for him. ¡°Well, me and Stuart.¡± She smiles at Stuart, who ducks his head sheepishly and focuses on his crossword. ¡°And Davey came in on his day off to help out in the kitchen. You look awful, by the way.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± he says with a yawn. ¡°I¡¯ll be in the back for a bit. Holler if you need anything.¡±

    The back office is dark and cool, and Ronan sits in the chair with his head cradled in his hands. His shoulder is pulsing, and he¡¯s fairly certain it will start bleeding through the bandage again soon if he moves too much. So he sits and breathes through the pain and wishes, despite the fact that it is just past noon, for a glass of the whiskey he keeps stashed in the bottom drawer of the desk.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    A knock on the door makes him jump, though his pain is momentarily forgotten as he looks up at the figure of Hazel Rosenbloom standing in the doorway.

    ¡°Hazel?¡± he asks breathily, wondering if, perhaps, the pain has gone to his head. Surely this is a hallucination.

    ¡°Hey, Kelly.¡±

    The sound of Hazel¡¯s voice washes over him, the same as it was two years ago but heavier with age and distance. He oscillates between worry and anger, his first instinct to inquire about her welfare vying with the pain in his shoulder and resentment he hadn¡¯t known he was carrying. He lands on anger. ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s all become a bit of a¡ª¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a fucking understatement¡ª¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t supposed to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Whatever you¡¯ve gotten yourself into, we can fix it together.¡±

    She pauses, blinking back her emotions while she twists her necklace around her fingers. ¡°I can¡¯t do that,¡± she says finally. ¡°I know Locke came for you, and I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ll make sure he won¡¯t hurt you again.¡±

    ¡°And what about Harvest? You know he was looking for her, not me.¡±

    She sighs, letting her hand drop down to the strap of the bag she has slung on her shoulder. ¡°I know.¡± She pauses, tilting her head to the side. ¡°Your shoulder still hurts, right?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not. I should know.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have the patience for riddles, Hazel.¡±

    ¡°The bullet was laced with something. It won¡¯t heal.¡± She extracts a vial from her bag, and when she holds it up to the light, Ronan can see something thick and dark writhing around inside. ¡°A leech,¡± she says, in answer to his silent question.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t a Jane Austen novel.¡±

    ¡°True. But leeches are still the most effective way to soak up a curse.¡± She smiles, and for a brief moment, Ronan feels like time has rewound itself, like Hazel was just here in this room a day ago, and now she¡¯s trying to convince him to go out tonight despite his better judgment. ¡°Do you trust me?¡±

    ¡°Never,¡± he says with a crooked smile.

    She returns the smile and walks fully into the room, motioning toward the couch against the wall. They sit down next to each other, and he reaches out to cup her cheek in his hand. ¡°Are you okay, Hazel?¡± he asks, his eyes searching hers for an answer. This close, he can see a few strands of silver in her strawberry blonde hair¡ªa fact that startles him. Then again, he¡¯s sure he has more than a few himself.

    She smiles at him sadly but doesn¡¯t answer. Instead, she tells him to remove his shirt.

    He does as told, revealing his wound, which has started bleeding through the gauze again. He grimaces with the movement, feeling a dull ache move down into his chest, pressing against his ribs. Hazel¡¯s fingers are cold as she gently removes the bandage. His skin is greenish-black where the bullet entered.

    ¡°I¡¯ll have to remove the stitches first,¡± she mumbles, her fingers teasing the skin around the wound. ¡°Got a pair of scissors?¡±

    In the end, they find a sewing kit stashed in the back of the desk drawer, and Ronan grits his teeth against the sensation of Hazel tugging the sutures out of his skin. The wound opens up again, and blood flows freely down his chest. Hastily, Hazel extracts the leech using a pair of tweezers and places it over the bullet hole.

    The leech latches onto his skin. Ronan takes a sharp breath, watching as it begins to swell, feeding selfishly on the curse in his blood. When he looks up, he sees Hazel staring at him with some unreadable emotion.

    Suddenly, she is a stranger, her smile locked away, a wall constructed behind her eyes. He doesn¡¯t know her anymore. She is merely passing him on the street, her lilac perfume just a whiff on the breeze, the feeling of her cold hands just a casual, accidental brush against his own.

    She meets his gaze for a second before looking down at the leech, bursting with stolen blood and a curse. ¡°I made a few mistakes,¡± she admits quietly.

    ¡°Tell me. I want to help you.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± She looks at him with a deep, steadying breath. ¡°I have it under control. I have a plan, and I¡¯m dealing with it.¡±

    ¡°At least tell me it won¡¯t be another two years before I see you.¡± He knows it¡¯s a meager attempt at levity, but it¡¯s effective nonetheless, teasing a small, gentle laugh from her.

    She shakes her head. ¡°I am sorry about that. I didn¡¯t know what else to do. Cutting all ties just seemed easier.¡±

    ¡°Because of Harvest and Ezra?¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°At first.¡±

    ¡°They broke up, you know. Because of your postcard.¡±

    She looks up, startled. ¡°That wasn¡¯t my intention.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say it was. But Harvest never truly got over the guilt of hurting you.¡±

    ¡°I bet you¡¯re glad they¡¯re over,¡± she says. ¡°You never liked him.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a selfish dick,¡± he says, feeling his anger returning. ¡°He¡¯s manipulative. He cut you off from your friends and family. He made sure you had nowhere to run, and then he broke your heart. He did the same to Harvest.¡± He sighs heavily, his anger spent. ¡°He¡¯ll never be able to deserve either of you.¡±

    ¡°You sound like my dad.¡±

    ¡°Look, I¡¯ll never tell you what to do¡ªI¡¯m not Ezra and I¡¯m definitely not your dad¡ªbut I love you. Please let me help you.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll hurt you,¡± she says softly.

    ¡°I can handle Locke.¡±

    ¡°Not Locke. Someone else. And maybe you could handle either one of them, but not now. Not after what I¡¯ve given them.¡±

    She pulls the leech away and it dislodges with a soft squelching sound. She returns it to the vial. ¡°There,¡± she says. ¡°You should start to feel better in a few hours.¡±

    She moves to stand, but Ronan grabs her hand. ¡°Hazel, don¡¯t leave.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t¡­ I have to¡­¡± She seems to struggle with her words, looking away from him. It¡¯s as if what she needs to say is the edge of a cliff, and she¡¯s not sure if she could survive the fall. She must decide that she won¡¯t. ¡°I¡¯ll see you around, Kelly.¡±

    And then her hand is slipping through his, and she¡¯s rounding the corner, down the hallway, into the diner. He follows, shrugging on his shirt, and sees her leave. She heads east, weaving between cars in the parking lot.

    He glances over at Kipp, and when he turns back, Hazel has disappeared. Without thinking, he pushes open the diner door, saying, ¡°I¡¯ll be back soon,¡± over his shoulder. The door to Tabitha¡¯s closes behind him.

    Outside, it smells of rain and grease from the diner¡¯s fryer. But there are other scents too, tangled lines of essence that he can follow, should he desire. He finds the green one¡ªthe one that smells of morning dew, linen, and lilacs¡ªand he starts walking.

    He follows it down the sidewalk and through the neighborhood. He loses it briefly as he gets closer to the highway, the scent mingling with exhaust and heavy concrete, still musky with rain from the night before.

    But then he picks it up again, and he continues, walking past rows of homes and a park. He thinks he spots Hazel¡¯s rose gold hair at one point, but then she disappears into the crowd again.

    He crosses an intersection and cuts through an alley that leads him to a dive bar with brick walls and neon beer signs that cast red shadows on the group of vampires milling around, teeth sharp as knives.

    He doesn¡¯t stay.

    He picks up the scent again around the corner, following Hazel to an old subdivision called Willoughby Woods. She must be right ahead of him, just out of sight, walking quickly.

    The sun is high overhead, but the air is still cool. It¡¯s finally well into the autumn season, after record-high temperatures for the past few weeks. He takes a deep breath, feeling his healing abilities finally kick in. He continues to follow the thread as it weaves down the sidewalk.

    It ends at a house, the last on a dead-end street called Willoughby Glen Road. The house is an older Craftsman style, yet dripping with Victorian details, like it was designed by an overexcited first-year architecture student. From the sidewalk, it looks abandoned, with planks of wood covering the windows and a yard overrun with weeds. The tree standing in front lost its limb at some point, and the fallen branch rests quite happily in a hole on the front porch. Surrounding the house is a chain link fence. An official-looking notice¡ªwith a Valkaria Bay seal and a meaningless, presumably very important, string of numbers and letters¡ªhas been shoved inside a plastic sleeve and affixed to the fence with zip ties. The corner of it lifts gently in the breeze.

    The house would be a hard sell, even without the condemnation notice, he thinks.

    Hazel¡¯s trail is completely gone, snapped off right before the fence. As he gazes up at the house, he feels the sudden urge to keep walking, which is why he very intentionally and precisely takes a step closer.

    He reaches out to touch the fence, and instead of cold metal, his fingers brush against something warm and tingly. He glances down the street, making sure that there is no one else around, and then looks up at the abandoned house again. One of the 3s in the number 1313 nailed onto the mailbox is crooked.

    It¡¯s a small touch, which is precisely why the illusion is so good. His Aunt Moira has always told him that illusions fail because people don¡¯t put enough details in them. ¡°It¡¯s the small things that count the most,¡± she would say. He would have missed it if he hadn¡¯t followed Hazel¡¯s scent directly to the front steps.

    He fights the sudden urge to look away, bile rising into his throat as he steps forward, once, twice, and then his face is pressed against the fence, and he knows it isn¡¯t really there, that, like the boarded-up windows and peeling paint of the house, it, too, is an illusion. His brain fights him on this point, of course, doing its best to remind him that he does not possess the ability to walk through solid objects.

    He ignores this part of his brain and steps forward again.

    The illusion parts for him with a loud pop, the air pressure bursting around him so suddenly that his stomach lurches as if he were on a roller coaster. The illusion hastily reforms behind him as he stumbles forward.

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 1

    Quinn swats at a mosquito. He¡¯s standing on the balcony of the Rosenbloom Estate, though he would much rather be on the ferry he can see in the distance, already halfway to the mainland.

    When he called down to The Pearl¡¯s front desk to request medical assistance, he didn¡¯t realize that the island¡¯s only doctor would be Commissioner Rosenbloom¡¯s wife and Harvest¡¯s aunt. Aunt Bea, as she emphatically suggested he call her, promptly proclaimed Harvest to be haunted and whisked her away to her childhood room.

    ¡°She must have pulled Amy¡¯s spirit with her when she dismantled the illusion. She¡¯ll need to rest at home for the night,¡± Dr. Rosenbloom said, her purple eyes far too calculating for Quinn¡¯s taste. He has a feeling this is a perfectly acceptable form of quality family time for her, and she is making good use of the excuse. ¡°You¡¯re more than welcome to stay the night, Agent Quinn. I¡¯ll have Francine make up the guest bedroom.¡±

    Francine, it turns out, is the house ghost, who took one look at Harvest and agreed that yes, she did quite a good job at getting herself haunted. Then she looked at Quinn with an expression he wasn¡¯t sure he appreciated¡ªa look halfway between shy and seductive. He¡¯s sure if ghosts could blush, Francine would have had a fine dusting of pink across her cheeks.

    He¡¯s lucky he was able to extract himself from her watchful gaze and is, for once, astonished that ¡°work¡± seems to be a permissible excuse to a woman, no matter her state of living.

    The Rosenbloom Estate is on the edge of the island, on a beach front plot edged with pine trees. Surprisingly, the house itself is not an imposing structure; it is a welcoming Queen Anne painted pink with a bright red door. Honeysuckle bushes line the wrap-around porch, and a seashell wind chime jingles gently in the breeze, accompanied by the creak of a rocking chair.

    Quinn wonders if the chair is pushed by the wind or if there is another ghost floating around. He wouldn¡¯t be surprised if the entire Rosenbloom clan considers this plot of land their eternal resting place.

    It would explain why the ground around the house feels heavy with something that Quinn can only assume is mischief. It¡¯s the same suffocating feeling in his chest that he felt when he stepped foot on Ilton, only here it is intensified, like an open-mouthed demon sitting on his chest, its breath wet and hot.

    Then again, maybe it¡¯s just the weather. He feels like he is in a greenhouse, and the wealth of verdant, lush plants that pepper nearly every inch of Rosenbloom land, as well as the house itself, add to the effect.

    Even standing on the back porch and looking out at the beach view below, he can smell ripe strawberries, apples, and oranges. There is a faint whiff of green beans, tomatoes, and kale, too. There¡¯s more, he¡¯s sure¡ªbut the fresh, green smells are mingling together, and Quinn doesn¡¯t have the time or energy to sort them out.

    There is something otherworldly about it all that makes him wonder how much is the result of a skilled gardener or the machinations of a witch.

    The mosquitoes feel somehow bigger here, too, lazily swirling around him with round bellies full of blood mocking him and the hollowness in his own stomach.

    With tight gums and teeth too sharp, he found himself diligently maintaining a neutral expression while meeting Harvest¡¯s father, Theodore. He would rather come off as rude than see the fear that inevitably blooms in people¡¯s faces when they are reminded of his true nature. Theodore Rosenbloom looked kindly enough, but there was a gruffness to his greeting that hinted at a forthcoming ¡°What are your intentions toward my daughter?¡± spiel, and his interminable damnation would not be a point in his favor.

    As it stands, of course, his only intention is to use her unintentional connection to Amy to solve this case.

    He¡¯s left Harvest resting upstairs, in a bedroom that looks like it was decorated when she was thirteen, while he calls Angel and Wild with their latest update. He tells them about Harvest and their delay, explaining the haunting as thoroughly as he can.

    ¡°So, there¡¯s a chain? Connecting them?¡± asks Wild.

    ¡°I guess you¡¯ll be having a seance, then,¡± says Angel excitedly and with a hint of envy.

    He then asks about the shooting at Tabitha¡¯s, and Angel confirms that one of Locke¡¯s bodyguards is Roderick.

    ¡°Fitz said that he managed to make bail, though something tells me that Roderick had a little help there,¡± Wild says. ¡°And we¡¯re wondering why Roderick is important enough to spend so much money on.¡±

    Quinn asks about requesting surveillance on Roderick, and Wild volunteers to put in the request. Angel is uncertain, though. ¡°SCD is busy with these thefts,¡± they point out. ¡°I¡¯m not sure they¡¯ll want to pull anyone from it. Fitz is up to her eyeballs in surveillance requests already.¡±

    There is frustration in Angel¡¯s voice, a flat tone that he¡¯s sure matches his own. He thinks about the separate pieces of this case and how, despite the lack of evidence, everything circles back to Hazel Rosenbloom. It was her cryptic ¡°Help¡± scrawled on a grubby postcard that set everything in motion. If only she would come to them, instead of them wasting time and resources to find her.

    Although he¡¯s said that Hazel is not a suspect, the reality is that she has been his number one suspect from the very beginning. Despite his cynical nature, he hasn¡¯t had the heart to tell Harvest.

    After he says goodbye to Wild and Angel, Quinn calls Dominic. As the phone rings, he watches the sunset with a grimace and swats at another mosquito.

    When Dominic picks up, Quinn can hear the chaos of the Lighthouse in the background. He waits while Dominic moves to a quieter area, and Quinn imagines him standing in the storage room, the one with a suspiciously dark stain on the floor.

    When prompted, Quinn says, ¡°You lied.¡±

    ¡°Probably,¡± says Dominic, easily. Quinn can hear the smile in his tone. ¡°What is this about?¡±

    ¡°Amy. Our murder victim.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t lie,¡± he says. ¡°Angel showed me the picture. I didn¡¯t recognize her.¡±

    ¡°So, you¡¯re not Nico?¡±

    There is a long pause on the other end. And then, ¡°She didn¡¯t look like she did in the picture. And she didn¡¯t go by the name Amy. If they¡¯re even the same person.¡±

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    ¡°Well, don¡¯t stop there, Nico.¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t used that name since my original contract with Locke, and that¡¯s still true. I¡¯m serious, brother. I haven¡¯t done any work for him since¡­¡± He lets the sentence hang, knowing he doesn¡¯t have to say the words for the memory to resurface or for Quinn to understand. They both remember that night when Dominic came to Quinn with bloodied fingernails and the weight of guilt on his chest. ¡°But around four months ago, a witch showed up asking for Nico. She was sent there by Ozias, who knew about me because of Locke.¡±

    The witch, as Dominic describes her, sounds similar to Amy, though a few years older, with longer hair and a slightly curvier body. Despite the differences¡ªand the fact that she called herself Audrey¡ªQuinn is ready to assume that Amy had been dabbling in illusion spells, despite her apparent lack of a gift.

    ¡°It was a casual thing. Nothing serious.¡±

    ¡°And she¡¯s the only one who would call you Nico? There¡¯s no one else?¡±

    ¡°I corrected her the first time I met her. Everyone else in that crowd knows me as Dominic. She said it was our thing. I stopped bothering to correct her at some point.¡±

    ¡°The crowd. Is that Locke or Ozias?¡±

    ¡°It started off as Locke, but more and more of them seem to answer to Ozias now. I don¡¯t know what Audrey did for either of them or even if she worked for Locke at all. Ozias sent her to try to convince me to let them use the Lighthouse as storage for incoming shipments. The answer was always no.¡±

    ¡°Did you ever see Audrey with Hazel?¡±

    ¡°If I did, I wasn¡¯t paying attention. It gets busy some nights and I do work from time to time.¡±

    ¡°Did you love her?¡± Quinn asks, even though he knows what the answer will be.

    ¡°Almost,¡± replies Dominic, though there is a catch in his voice that hints at more.

    Quinn watches the ocean waves in the distance, the sun dipping down closer to the diamond-tipped waters. ¡°Was the sex good at least?¡± he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

    Dominic huffs. ¡°Yeah.¡± A pause. ¡°Are you around? Do you want to come over later for a drink?¡±

    ¡°Wish I could,¡± he says, telling Dominic that he is stuck on Ilton with Harvest until the morning, though he doesn¡¯t explain more than that.

    He¡¯s not even sure how to, if he¡¯s being honest. Harvest looked so pale and feverish. Fragile, he thinks. The wound on her neck was well on its way to healing, but in the hours since she collapsed, her wrist had only gotten worse.

    ¡°How does Burrows feel about that?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s work. She understands.¡±

    ¡°Well, let me know when you¡¯re back on the mainland.¡± As they say goodbye, he adds, as if he can hear the tightness in Quinn¡¯s voice, ¡°Get some blood in you. Eat a few crickets if you have to.¡±

    When Quinn hangs up, his annoyance is amplified by the truth in Dominic¡¯s words as much as the gnawing emptiness of his stomach. He is so annoyed that he almost ignores the incoming call from Burrows.

    Yet, it is the consideration that it could be about the case and not, as he assumes, about them that pushes him to accept the call with a silent curse.

    <hr>

    It¡¯s weird being back on Ilton, looking out at a view so familiar yet broken by the incongruity of Quinn. He stands on the back porch, talking on his phone and scowling at the sunset. Harvest comes to stand next to him and rubs her arms against the brisk seaside breeze, suppressing a shudder at the sudden chill.

    He gives her a sharp look, mouthing, ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°Just cold,¡± she says softly.

    Quinn shrugs out of his jacket, still listening intently to the phone, and places it around her shoulders. She breathes in the smell of him, something that reminds her of earth aching from the sun, black tea, and spices, a hint of pennyroyal on the edges. Her arm twinges as she squeezes the jacket around herself, and she grits her teeth against the pain.

    Aunt Bea has wrapped her wrist after laying down a thick layer of salve, which, although it is helping, has not reached its full efficacy yet. Her exhaustion remains, as well, and she feels a yawn growing in the back of her throat. She feels almost drunk and delirious like everything is a dream.

    And perhaps it is. She could never have imagined introducing Quinn to her family, seeing him here on the island, surrounded by the unruly, feral nature of her family home. He is as put-together as usual, wearing his waistcoat and shirt buttoned up. She misses the casual, undone version of him from the night before, shirt half-buttoned and hair all messy.

    Not that she would ever say that out loud. The lack of boundaries between them has been wildly unprofessional, particularly here on the island.

    She¡¯s glad she came clean with him about her motivation for roping him into this. His assurances that she has not, somehow, manipulated him into doing something he otherwise wouldn¡¯t have has not completely eradicated the twisting, dark feeling in her chest, but she feels lighter nonetheless. Ezra always made her feel that her empathy was exploitative, and yet Quinn told her that there¡¯s no harm in recognizing what motivates people. She¡¯s seen Quinn do the same when dealing with co-workers or interviewing Amy¡¯s parents. She¡¯s not naive enough to think that Quinn does so out of a wealth of empathic ability, but she¡¯s sure she can temper the darker sides of herself to be more like him.

    There is a sharp stabbing in her wrist again and she closes her eyes as the pain rushes through her. It¡¯s getting worse, the pain, the fever sitting right underneath her skin. She¡¯s glad to know and understand what¡¯s happening to her, though. Her aunt has given her a slip of paper with an address and the name of someone who specializes in communicating with the dead. Ironically enough, the slip of paper is from her prescription pad.

    Diagnosis: Haunting. Treatment: See expert.

    They will catch the first ferry out of Ilton in the morning. In the meantime, Harvest sighs against the exhaustion, feeling grateful for the sound of the ocean and the comfort of her family home. Even Francine¡¯s fussing isn¡¯t tiresome.

    ¡°Thanks. Talk later,¡± Quinn says into the phone. Although the call is finished, he continues to look at his screen, thumb swiping away at something. ¡°That was Burrows,¡± he finally says. ¡°She found scarring in Amy¡¯s brain that points to a year of almost constant compulsion from a vampire. She also found something else during the postmortem.¡± He angles his phone toward Harvest.

    She takes his phone in both hands and pinches the image to zoom in. ¡°Where was this found?¡± There must be something shaking in her voice because Quinn gives her a sharp look. ¡°It was found in her stomach, right?¡± Her breath comes out hot, and it fogs the screen, clouding the image of the small cherry pit carved with a tiny symbol, almost indecipherable from its exposure to stomach acid.

    ¡°How did you know that?¡±

    She looks up at him, shaking despite the warmth of Quinn¡¯s jacket around her shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s my fault Amy is dead.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°Calm down, dear. You¡¯re not making any sense.¡± Aunt Bea places a cool hand against Harvest¡¯s forehead. ¡°You¡¯re delirious with fever.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she says, leaning away from Aunt Bea and turning back to the books in front of her. She is surrounded by haphazardly arranged stacks, books pulled down from the shelves seemingly at random as Harvest searches for something in particular. ¡°I have to find this journal.¡±

    ¡°Whose journal?¡± asks Aunt Bea, but Harvest has already turned her back, attention on the bookshelf as she begins a new stack, sighing with frustration.

    Quinn stands in the corner of the library, arms folded across his chest. Aunt Bea glances at him as if to say Are you going to do something about this?

    Quinn shrugs. What can I do?

    Harvest sighs in frustration. ¡°I know what that cherry pit is because I made something like it when I was a kid.¡± She turns to Aunt Bea. ¡°Do you remember that first year you and Aunt Trixie came back from the Fae-Lands? The journal I had. I need to find it.¡±

    Aunt Bea shakes her head. ¡°I don¡¯t remember. Maybe Francine does? Or your father?¡± She takes a step closer to Harvest and squeezes her shoulder. ¡°But I do know that you need to rest or that connection between you and your victim is only going to drag you down into Death.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s right,¡± Quinn says, pushing away from the wall and coming closer. ¡°I can feel the cold coming off of you from here.¡±

    ¡°I need to find it,¡± she says quietly.

    A muscle in Quinn¡¯s jaw clenches, then unclenches. ¡°What does it look like?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the problem. I can¡¯t remember. I was only twelve.¡±

    Quinn looks around the room, at the rows of books and seemingly random objects, at the cavernous space that is too large for the house and appears to stretch into nothingness. ¡°At least let me do the heavy lifting,¡± he suggests. ¡°You, sit. I¡¯ll bring the books to you.¡±

    It takes almost the whole night because their search is interrupted at various points for dinner and an official conversation with Aunt Trixie when she arrives home. Eight cups of coffee are consumed, plus one top off of blood for Quinn, and the moon is high in the sky when, surrounded by fifty-three stacks of books, precarious and disorganized, Harvest gasps and says, ¡°Found it!¡±

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 2

    Angel spreads the map out on their desk and frowns. Next to Angel, Wild arranges his laptop and clicks the trackpad to accept a virtual call.

    ¡°Hello, Lucas,¡± he says when the call connects.

    Angel glances over at the screen and sees a twenty-something-year-old with an awkward, shy smile and a nose piercing. His hair is mussed as if he has just woken up, and he blinks blearily at the screen. Angel doesn¡¯t feel too different after a late night at Tabitha¡¯s Diner and an early morning filing the report for the shooting. Angel managed to get four hours of sleep.

    To be fair, it is one hour more than Angel typically gets.

    Angel remembers Wild telling them that Lucas, Amy¡¯s former co-worker, is a werewolf, though his second-form wasn¡¯t inherited. His family history is as mundane as it gets, except for his unexpected run-in with a werewolf when he was sixteen.

    ¡°It hurt like hell, my first transformation, but I got through it okay,¡± he says. ¡°My parents had a rough time adjusting. They were ready to hide me from the world. They didn¡¯t trust that I knew myself.¡± He gives Wild a lopsided smile and shrugs. ¡°I was lucky that Sam was willing to work with my schedule. He comes from a magic family himself and never once complained about me taking time off around the full moon.¡±

    ¡°Did you work shifts with Amy often?¡±

    ¡°Only on the weekends sometimes, when it was busy.¡±

    ¡°Did you ever spend time together outside of work?¡±

    Lucas¡¯s eyes dart to the side and then back to the screen. He leans forward before answering the question. ¡°Only once,¡± he says, though his tone is suddenly uncertain.

    ¡°We¡¯re just trying to get to know Amy a little more,¡± says Wild gently. ¡°So we can find out what happened to her. We¡¯re not worried about anything else right now.¡±

    Angel is sure Wild is thinking the same thing as them, adding up Lucas¡¯s late morning and bloodshot eyes, combined with his reluctance to talk to a Bureau agent. He¡¯s afraid of getting into trouble. And with young kids like Lucas, it¡¯s almost always related to drugs.

    Lucas sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to the side again, as if unconsciously looking for an escape from answering Wild¡¯s questions. Despite the confidence Angel had seen when they first looked over at the screen, Lucas suddenly seems younger than his twenty-two years.

    ¡°We hung out once,¡± he says, his words coming out in a rush as if some inner battle had been fought and lost in the few seconds of silence, ¡°under the boardwalk. It was after work, and we were drinking. Like, a lot. And then, well, she asked me if I would bite her. She wanted to be a werewolf.¡±

    Not quite what Angel is expecting, but they continue to listen as they look down at the map. They reach for a photo sitting next to it on their desk. It arrived that morning, sent from Ilton. Amy and possibly-Beth smile at Angel as they contemplate the photo.

    ¡°What did you say?¡± Wild is asking Lucas.

    ¡°I said no! I told her she didn¡¯t want that. I tried to tell her how painful it is, but she got angry with me and stormed off. She was really drunk, and I shouldn¡¯t have let her wander away. I don¡¯t even know how she could walk straight.¡±

    ¡°Was this the only time she asked you something like this?¡±

    He nods. ¡°I quit the next week because I was moving away for school. I didn¡¯t see Amy again.¡±

    Angel holds the photo up to Wild, pointing at it and then pointing at the screen.

    Wild¡¯s eyes flick over, and he nods, refocusing on the computer screen. ¡°Did Amy ever mention a friend named Beth? Or maybe someone named Hazel?¡±

    ¡°No, the only friend she talked about was this guy named Nico. And sometimes this guy named Ozzy. She¡¯d say things like, ¡®I want to get my hair cut short, but Ozzy would never approve.¡¯ I tried to tell her that she should get her hair cut however she wanted, but she never listened to me.¡±

    ¡°Did you ever meet Ozzy?¡±

    Lucas must shake his head because when there is no verbal answer, Wild says, ¡°That¡¯s okay. What about Nico?¡±

    ¡°No, I never met him either. She was in love with him, though. I always thought he was way older than her or something. She once said something about her parents not approving.¡±

    Angel reaches for the scissors and begins to cut out possibly-Beth¡¯s face, still half-listening to Lucas¡¯ answers.

    When Wild closes his computer with a sigh, he looks over at Angel. ¡°Are you thinking what I¡¯m thinking?¡±

    ¡°Maybe,¡± they mumble, eyes still focused on the photograph. When they look up, they see Wild leaning back in his chair, wings hanging down, with his hands braced against the back of his neck in boredom or frustration. Most likely both. ¡°Ozzy is definitely Ozias, right?¡±

    ¡°I think so. This is the connection we¡¯re looking for, yeah?¡±

    ¡°Too bad we still don¡¯t know about Nico. The age gap is interesting, though.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I suppose,¡± says Wild. ¡°What about the werewolf bite thing? Fetish? Or just a stupid drunk idea?¡±

    ¡°Desperation. We know that Amy didn¡¯t have any magic, and she kept a wand hidden from her parents. She was desperate for a gift, even a second-form.¡±

    Wild hums, contemplating their words. After a few seconds of silence, he says, ¡°What are you doing, by the way?¡± He leans across to get a closer look at Angel¡¯s desk, covered by a map of Valkaria and the remnants of the photo. Angel has just finished isolating possibly-Beth¡¯s face, and they place it in the center of the map, right in the middle of downtown.

    ¡°Trying to find Beth,¡± they say. ¡°Nothing came up when I ran the image through the database. If we can narrow down our search, maybe we can get an address.¡±

    Angel closes their eyes, their hand hovering over the photo. They slowly lower their arm until their palm rests on something solid, though there is still nothing there.

    There is always mischief in the air if one knows how to feel it.

    The solid thing shifts under their fingers, resistant at first, like water-packed earth, and then soft and malleable, like individual grains of sand and clay and soil, sifting only for them. Their fingers move, playing a silent song, pressing and digging until the grains move, creating a groove in the solid thing, like a hole for water to fill, a river to be born. Angel follows this river, letting it flow and rush forward.

    From Wild¡¯s perspective, nothing is happening, of course. But after a few beats of silence, the photo lifts slightly. It floats across the map, with Angel¡¯s hand still hovering over it. It settles down on a street not too far from Valkaria Bay Boardwalk.

    ¡°Can you get something more specific? That area could have fifty houses.¡±

    Angel nods, hands on their hips. ¡°Not to mention all of the people who may just be walking by. Or the retail spaces. Location spells are not very precise. They sometimes even get the person wrong, and you end up finding someone who just looks similar to whoever you¡¯re looking for. Not to mention, Beth is a witch, and the house she¡¯s in could have a protection ward around it, meaning¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I get it,¡± says Wild. ¡°Guess we better start searching property records.¡±

    Angel begins by looking for the name Beth or any variation thereof, while Wild focuses on married couples who may have a daughter in the same age range as Amy. After twenty minutes, Wild tosses his highlighter down in frustration and stalks off. When he returns, he has a photocopy of the map, but he¡¯s magnified the section they are searching. Angel tries the spell again, and they narrow it down to a specific block.

    In the end, it¡¯s a social media picture posted by Susan Wilson of herself and her daughter that leads them to Beth, or Elizabeth, as Susan has captioned the photo.

    <hr>

    Elizabeth welcomes them inside the house, and yet Angel has a feeling that Elizabeth has better places to be. Perhaps because she had her keys in her hand and had opened the door before they even knocked. Her attention was so focused on her phone that she nearly bumped into the two Bureau agents she most certainly had not been expecting to see on her doorstep.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    More likely, however, it is because she tells them so. Very plainly¡ªas she opens the door to let them in¡ªand repeatedly¡ªas she directs them to the kitchen for a short chat. She keeps emphasizing the word ¡°short.¡±

    The house is nice, perhaps too nice for the twenty-five-year-old, with polished marble floors and couches that look as if they¡¯ve never been used. The walls are white yet adorned with large abstract oil paintings in various shades of blue and green that match the ocean just beyond the glass walls of the kitchen.

    ¡°It¡¯s my family¡¯s home,¡± Elizabeth says when Angel mentions that it must be nice to be so young and live in a house this size by herself. ¡°My parents are on vacation. I¡¯m just house-sitting.¡±

    The three of them sit next to the kitchen window at a small glass table. The window is large enough that they are afforded an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Wild¡¯s wings are almost see-through as the sun shines through them. In this light, they look much more like dried leaves from the forest floor. His brown tweed suit and burgundy tie add to the effect. Angel tries not to think of their ill-fitting suit jacket and plain white shirt as they extract their notebook from their pocket. At least Angel¡¯s hair suits them, bright purple waves curling around their ears, their short fringe highlighting their high cheekbones. Angel pushes thoughts of their appearance away. There are more important things to focus on, such as interviewing the witness in front of them.

    Elizabeth does not offer them tea and sits down primly, like a school child who¡¯s been called to the principal¡¯s office and who¡¯s confident in the fact that she¡¯s done nothing wrong.

    As Wild begins his questions, Elizabeth seems to lose whatever attention she had briefly mustered when she sat down. Her eyes slide to her phone as she talks. Her dark curly hair is pulled back into a ponytail and it bounces every time she looks down at her screen. ¡°I used to love hanging out with Amy. We were really good friends at one point. I just¡­ I can¡¯t believe she¡¯s¡­¡±

    ¡°How did you and Amy know each other?¡± asks Wild.

    ¡°We went to college together,¡± she says. Her eyes stray to her phone screen.

    ¡°Is there anything you can tell me about Amy¡¯s life? Her other friends, places she liked to go?¡± he asks.

    Elizabeth looks up and blinks.

    ¡°Hobbies?¡± he adds with a small, somewhat desperate smile.

    She presses her phone between her palms as she answers, her eyes glancing out to the ocean view and then back to them. ¡°To be honest, I hadn¡¯t seen much of Amy before she died. She started hanging out with another friend. She would make plans and bail a lot.¡± Elizabeth¡¯s phone vibrates, and she looks down at the notification.

    ¡°I know you are very busy, Ms. Wilson,¡± says Angel, the tone of their voice particularly bracing against Wild¡¯s softness. ¡°But it is really important that you answer our questions fully. Amy has been brutally murdered, and every detail about her life will help us.¡±

    Elizabeth¡¯s face pales at the words ¡°brutally murdered,¡± as Angel had hoped it would.

    Wild doesn¡¯t look over at Angel, but they can sense a shift in his wings. He doesn¡¯t approve of their harshness. He rarely does.

    Still, he continues the interview, his voice level and reassuring. ¡°When¡¯s the last time you spoke to Amy?¡±

    ¡°Sometime last week. At a bar downtown. It¡¯s not a place I normally go to, but I was there with some friends. Amy was there with a group of people I didn¡¯t know. And I think¡­ ¡° Elizabeth leans closer and says in a quiet, hushed voice, ¡°I think she was doing drugs.¡±

    ¡°Why do you say that?¡±

    ¡°She was just¡­ off? Like, erratic and a little paranoid.¡±

    ¡°Did she have a history of drug use?¡±

    ¡°Not when we were close. I tried to get her to hang out with me instead of that group she was with¡ªthey weren¡¯t being very nice to her¡ªbut she said she was fine and that we¡¯d hang soon.¡±

    ¡°Tell me about the people she was with.¡±

    ¡°A group of vampires, mostly, but a few demons and a witch with ginger hair. She¡¯s the one Amy kept ditching me for until I just stopped trying.¡±

    ¡°Do you know this woman¡¯s name?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, it was something like Hannah or Hailey.¡±

    ¡°Hazel?¡±

    ¡°Yes. That sounds right.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°You okay?¡± asks Wild, looking in the rear-view mirror before making a right turn. ¡°You were a bit harsh with Beth.¡±

    ¡°Take a right up here,¡± says Angel, looking down at the map on their phone. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    Wild makes an unconvinced hum in the back of his throat. ¡°Are you, though? Fine?¡±

    Angel sighs and looks over at him. ¡°I might be a little annoyed. Why does no one seem to know anything about this girl? It¡¯s like she kept everyone separate.¡±

    ¡°She seemed to use nicknames a lot, too. Like she was speaking in code half the time.¡± He pauses, looking at the side-view mirror, before changing lanes.

    Angel looks back at their phone but can still feel his gaze.

    ¡°That¡¯s no reason to take it out on a potential witness, though,¡± he says eventually.

    ¡°Would you focus on driving?¡± Angel keeps their eyes glued to their phone, glancing up only to confirm which street they have just passed. ¡°You need to take a left at the light up there.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± he says, his tone infuriatingly calm. Wild¡¯s serene manner may work on suspects¡ªand it¡¯s what makes him an excellent interviewer¡ªbut it can be extremely annoying to have a colleague so even-keeled, so patient.

    It also makes it harder to take their frustration out on him.

    Angel sighs. ¡°I¡¯m just tired. I didn¡¯t exactly get much sleep last night.¡±

    ¡°I know. What did you think about Ronan?¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Think he¡¯s involved?¡±

    ¡°Hmm, no. He seems too pure.¡±

    ¡°Pure?¡±

    Angel laughs. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s the wrong word. He seems like the type of friend who¡¯s ready to rush in and save the day. He¡¯s protective of both of them. I wonder if he¡¯s in love with them. Oh, park here.¡±

    Wild checks the side-view mirror as he maneuvers the car into a space on the street outside of their destination. ¡°I thought they were just friends,¡± he says finally.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say he was sexually or romantically interested in either of them. There are so many different types of love, Wild.¡± Angel exits the car and looks up at the unlit neon sign of the Vintage Lounge.

    The brick facade of the building reminds Angel of the Bureau, but that is where the comparison ends. The main entrance of the bar is on the side of the building, down the alleyway, and Angel feels momentarily sad to leave the protective cover of the sun and descend into the damp shadows.

    ¡°What was the owner¡¯s name again?¡± Angel asks, ignoring the urge to rub their hands together and mumble the words to a beginner¡¯s protective spell.

    ¡°Eleanor,¡± Wild supplies, consulting his notebook.

    Angel bangs a fist on the metal door. Eleanor is listed as a vampire in the Bureau database, so Wild hasn¡¯t bothered to activate his illusion necklace, and his wings are tucked close to him, looking vaguely like a cloak.

    It takes a minute or so, but the door screeches open, and the bar owner is there, hand on her hip, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She wears all black, though her t-shirt features the logo of the bar, and her bright red hair is pulled back into a long braid.

    ¡°Hello. Eleanor, yes? I¡¯m Agent Fernandez, and this is my colleague, Agent Neverbee. We spoke on the phone earlier.¡±

    Eleanor grunts in greeting and steps back to let them in. The bar is warm inside, the air stagnant and smelling of stale smoke.

    She switches on a light, and the bulbs overhead flicker into life slowly, as if waking up for the first time. Eleanor leans against the bar and snubs out her cigarette. The end of the cigarette is red with her lipstick. ¡°What is it you wanted again?¡±

    ¡°We were wondering if you remember either of these two women. They would have been here last week sometime. Both witches.¡± Angel lays two photos out on the brushed aluminum bar. It feels sticky with undiluted cleaner.

    Eleanor doesn¡¯t look down at the photos, however. Her gaze follows Wild as he looks around the room. ¡°You don¡¯t got a warrant,¡± she says when he uses a delicate finger to lift a curtain covering the entrance to a long, dark hallway. ¡°Besides, it just goes to the bathrooms.¡±

    Wild smiles politely and lets the curtain drop.

    Eleanor turns back to the photos, glancing down quickly before saying, ¡°Nope, not familiar.¡±

    ¡°Could you please look again? This is important. This one here,¡± Angel points to Amy¡¯s picture, ¡°has been murdered, and this one,¡± they tap a finger next to Hazel¡¯s face, ¡°could be in trouble.¡±

    Eleanor shrugs. ¡°Breaks my heart. But I don¡¯t recognize them.¡±

    ¡°Is there someone who might recognize them? A bouncer? A bartender?¡± asks Wild.

    Angel can see Eleanor¡¯s attention fading. She doesn¡¯t want to get involved. No one ever wants to get involved, they think bitterly.

    Before Eleanor can respond, Angel leans an elbow on the bar. ¡°What time does this place open?¡± they ask. ¡°Soon, yeah? People will start filing in. Ordering drinks. Settling in for a game of pool. I can¡¯t imagine having two Bureau agents hanging around would help your business.¡± Angel looks over at Wild. ¡°I think I hear someone yelling for help, don¡¯t you?¡±

    Wild nods, looking back at the hallway covered by a curtain. ¡°Quite possibly. Maybe we should take a look around? Stay for a while? Get a warrant?¡±

    Eleanor scowls and picks up her pack of cigarettes. She brings one to her mouth to light it. ¡°Fine,¡± she says, blowing out a stream of smoke. ¡°Josh might know.¡± She calls out Josh¡¯s name, and there is a muffled sound of footsteps before Josh rounds the corner from a back room.

    ¡°Yeah, boss?¡± he asks, wiping his hands on a rag. What Josh lacks in height, he makes up for in looks, with his square jaw, full lips, and carefully coiffed hair. He flashes both of them a dimpled smile, his teeth white, straight, and very much not pointed.

    Angel doesn¡¯t trust his easygoing smile one bit.

    ¡°These Bureau agents want to know if you recognize these two.¡±

    Josh leans over, rubbing his artfully stubbled chin in thought. After a second of consideration, he points to the photo of Hazel. ¡°This one comes in all the time.¡±

    ¡°And the other one?¡± Angel angles the photo of Amy so he can get a better look.

    His mouth quirks to the side, the dimple making a reappearance. ¡°She looks a little like someone who hangs out with Ozias. It gets busy here. I can¡¯t always keep track of who comes and goes.¡±

    ¡°Do you know Ozias well?¡± asks Angel.

    The sudden interest does not go unnoticed by Josh, whose open expression shutters. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say I know him at all. I¡¯m aware of him. Like I said, it gets busy here. I don¡¯t chat with the customers. The only thing I can tell you with certainty is that he prefers A-positive and he drinks his whiskey neat.¡±

    ¡°Do you remember the last time any of them came into the bar?¡± asks Wild.

    ¡°A few nights ago, maybe.¡±

    ¡°Did they pay with a credit card?¡±

    ¡°Always cash.¡± He pauses and then adds, with a hint of uncertainty, ¡°Well, except for last week. One of them had a credit card. I remember because I was expecting it to be declined. Ozias is awful about paying tabs, and he never tips.¡±

    ¡°Would it be possible to get a copy of that receipt?¡±

    Josh looks over to Eleanor briefly, who considers the request while she snubs out her half-smoked cigarette. She gives a short nod to indicate she¡¯s okay with it.

    Josh pulls out a stack of receipts from last week to begin sorting through when Angel¡¯s phone rings. Frowning at the unknown number, Angel leaves Josh under the watchful supervision of Wild while they take the call outside.

    It¡¯s Kipp¡¯s frantic voice on the other end, and Angel listens intently until Wild comes out of the Vintage Lounge, storing the receipt in his pocket.

    Angel says, ¡°We¡¯ll be right there,¡± before hanging up the phone and looking at Wild.

    ¡°What was that about?¡±

    ¡°Ronan Kelly is missing.¡±

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 3

    ¡°Mischief Seeds?¡± Quinn says, not for the first time since she uttered the words.

    ¡°I was in sixth grade. I thought it sounded cool.¡± Harvest sits back in her chair and looks at the ocean in front of them. The sea breeze whips her hair around her face, and she tucks it behind her ears. They are on the first ferry out of Ilton, having spent the night at her family home.

    Dinner had been surprisingly calming. Quinn somehow managed to charm Aunt Bea, who actually blushed when he complimented her apple pie, even though he couldn¡¯t eat any of it. She¡¯s not sure where her aunt rustled up a glass of blood for him either, but she wonders if they have one less chicken now.

    Francine had taken a shine to him almost immediately, whispering to Harvest that she should bring him back for Christmas.

    Her dad was equally impressed, but only after Quinn mentioned something favorable about the wine, which prompted an entire conversation about Theodore¡¯s wine-making endeavors. Quinn even requested a tour of Theodore¡¯s set-up, and they disappeared to the garage for an hour (which made Harvest so nervous she briefly thought about casting an amplify spell, so she could hear what they were talking about).

    When Aunt Trixie arrived home, she pulled Harvest and Quinn away to discuss their progress on the case. They sat huddled in the library while Quinn talked about Hazel and Amy, and their connection to each other. Harvest knows that Quinn isn¡¯t seriously considering Hazel as a suspect, but she could tell Aunt Trixie is worried about Hazel¡¯s involvement.

    If it came down to it, would Harvest be able to arrest her sister? She hopes she doesn¡¯t have a chance to find out.

    At one point, Quinn mentioned that Roderick was released on bail. Harvest stiffened at the news, caught between annoyance and fear. Quinn reached out to squeeze Harvest¡¯s knee in support, a movement that Aunt Trixie noted with barely contained interest.

    When Quinn began to talk about Locke and Ozias, Harvest got the sense that he was leaving something out, and when she commented that they were still looking for the boyfriend, she couldn¡¯t help but wonder at his sudden disinterest.

    Then again, Quinn could change his entire persona just by altering the tilt of his posture. Maybe her imagination was getting away from her.

    She was probably just tired.

    She is haunted, after all.

    ¡°As I said last night,¡± Harvest continues, ¡°It was a cherry pit, just like the one Burrows found. I used a needle from my aunt¡¯s sewing kit and carved an alchemical symbol on it. The symbol wasn¡¯t real¡ªI cobbled it together from various ones I found in the library.¡±

    It took her most of the night to find the book, a bright pink spiral-bound notebook that said ¡°Harvest Rosenbloom¡¯s Book of Shadows - Keep Out.¡± She hastily flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for.

    The spell had been meticulously researched, as meticulous as a twelve-year-old could be, that is. It was a mash-up of symbols from various eras and cultures and even a few random words of Latin that amounted to gibberish (or something lewd if Quinn¡¯s smirk was anything to go by). Of course, since she was twelve years old, her spell was also sandwiched in between lyrics from a Spice Girls song and a doodle of a boy she had a crush on at the time.

    To add to the effect, she had even written out her name with the crush¡¯s surname and encased the whole thing in a heart. She quickly ripped out the pages she needed and slipped the notebook back onto the shelf before Quinn could question her about her wish to one day be ¡°Harvest Honeysweet.¡±

    ¡°And what was it supposed to do again?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Give me magic powers,¡± she says with a smirk.

    ¡°Magic powers that you didn¡¯t already have?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I wanted to be like Aunt Bea. Fae magic is different from most other forms of mischief. It¡¯s not tied to nature. Not like witch magic is, which tends to be more elemental. Didn¡¯t you notice that our library was a little bigger than it should be? That our house sits a little too close to the edge of the cliff? That¡¯s fae magic.¡±

    ¡°What about the overgrown jungle?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s witch magic. My father¡¯s, to be exact. I wanted to do what Aunt Bea could do. Defy the laws of physics and make my closet bigger on the inside. Turn leaves into actual money. Grow wings¡­¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that what illusions do?¡±

    ¡°An illusion doesn¡¯t truly change anything. Fae magic fundamentally alters something so that it is entirely different or new.¡±

    ¡°I take it the seed didn¡¯t work?¡±

    ¡°Nope. Gave me a stomach ache though, and I got to skip school, so that was something, at least.¡±

    He frowns. ¡°And Hazel knew about your little experiment?¡±

    ¡°Of course. We shared everything then.¡± Her voice is wistful, and she blinks as she looks out at the beach front that is looming closer. The ferry will dock in a few minutes.

    When she awoke this morning, she was anxious to get started again¡ªto unlink Amy and solve her murder¡ªbut now it feels like something is slipping out of her grasp. She¡¯s being forced to wake up from a dream too early. She feels homesick and wonders if the feeling is hers or Amy¡¯s. Both, probably.

    Quinn¡¯s shoulder is pressed against hers, and when she looks at him, his eyes are trained on her, searching for something. It¡¯s a repeat of yesterday, standing in the doorway of her hotel room with her heart beating against her rib cage and his lips so close to hers.

    He opens his mouth to say something, or maybe give her a smile or a smirk.

    Perhaps his lips will find their way to her own.

    She¡¯s not sure which she prefers.

    But the ferry horn blows, announcing their imminent arrival at Valkaria Bay Boardwalk, and whatever he had been about to say or do dies on his lips. When he does open his mouth again, it is with a chuckle as he says, ¡°You wanted wings?¡±

    <hr>

    The address Aunt Bea gave them is on the outskirts of downtown, at the northernmost tip of Valkaria, where high rises give way to refurbished brick warehouses and blocks of bungalows-turned-storefronts.

    Harvest isn¡¯t sure what to expect¡ªthey have nothing but an address and a name¡ªbut what they find is still somewhat of a surprise. Sandwiched between a seemingly defunct jazz club and a donut shop is a hand-painted sign proclaiming their destination to be that of a psychic.

    The air smells like exhaust and batter in hot oil. Harvest stares up at the sign with three layers of paint, specters of businesses past. She looks down at the note and then back up at the storefront.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Quinn stands next to her, shielding his eyes from the sun with a frown as he looks up at the sign. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°Nothing. It¡¯s just that these are almost always a scam. Why would Aunt Bea send us here?¡±

    ¡°Unless it¡¯s not a scam.¡± He looks over her shoulder at the note again. ¡°And Frank is a real psychic.¡±

    ¡°Maybe.¡± She moves closer to look at the window display.

    It¡¯s dusty and dim inside. A tarot deck is splayed on a velvet tray next to a precariously stacked selection of occult titles that are almost certainly fake. Jethro¡¯s Directory of Demons. Passport Handbook for Death. Understanding the Five Love Languages of Ghosts. There is a sign pasted against the glass: Get 20% off a tarot reading with every exorcism! The fine print says: Ghosts or poltergeists only! Does not apply to demonic possessions.

    She swallows, nausea rising behind her sternum and reminding her why she is here. When Quinn pushes open the door, a small bell jingles, and Harvest looks up, noticing the satchel of salt above them. She spots a symbol¡ªa circle bisected with a line¡ªcarved into the door frame, too.

    Perhaps Aunt Bea is right. But the person who greets them isn¡¯t Frank, and there is something about the woman behind the counter that makes Harvest feel cold and slightly worried as if there is a half-remembered task at the back of her thoughts.

    ¡°Welcome to Valkyrie Psychic Emporium!¡± She greets them with a smile. ¡°My name is Penelope. How can I help you?¡± Penelope¡¯s silk dress looks out of place in the small, dim store and would be far more appropriate at a dance club or a date night. There is a splash of something across the front, a stain from a dropped drink.

    ¡°Hello. We were looking for Frank,¡± says Harvest, making her way toward the sales counter on the far side of the room, Quinn trailing after her.

    The floors creak comfortingly as they pass by a large circular table overflowing with occult accouterments. Bowls of dried herbs and crystals. Baskets of candles and incense in various colors and sizes. Copper spoons displayed inside tiny pewter cauldrons. Harvest absentmindedly lets her fingers trail against a chunk of amethyst.

    Books line the walls, though a few of the titles look leather-bound and far older than Harvest would expect. In all, the room is a contrast of new and old, surprisingly normal, and yet there is a sense of heaviness to the objects; they hold mischief in their spines and cores.

    ¡°Frank is in a meeting.¡± Penelope purses her lips, head tilted to the side. ¡°Perhaps it is something I can help you with?¡±

    ¡°Maybe.¡± Harvest hands the piece of paper to Penelope. ¡°My aunt gave me this.¡±

    Penelope nods smugly, reading the prescription from Dr. Rosenbloom. ¡°I thought I heard some chains rattling. As a resident of the Afterlife myself, I have quite an ear for such things. Got yourself haunted, didn¡¯t you?¡±

    Yes, that¡¯s what¡¯s off about her, Harvest realizes. Penelope¡¯s slip dress with spaghetti straps is out-of-date. Her long hair is pulled back into a bun with a few spiky strands sticking out, and her strappy heels, coupled with a choker necklace, are reminiscent of a decade long since past. Penelope¡¯s skin is so pale, it is almost translucent. She seems half-here, touching and interacting with the world, and yet removed in an odd way, like a letter in a word just slightly out of order.

    ¡°Is that something Frank can help with?¡± asks Harvest.

    Penelope nods again, adding a carefree wave of her perfectly manicured hand. ¡°Oh, yeah, Frank handles cases like this almost daily. Follow me.¡±

    They do as told, and Penelope leads them around the sales counter and through a heavy red curtain. When the curtain falls back into place, they are enveloped in a dense silence. The air is warm despite the darkness, a shimmer of mischief meant to keep people out¡ªor to keep something in.

    The hallway they are greeted with is far longer than it should be, considering the size of the building. It twists and turns and winds back into itself, forever leading them downward. At first, the walls are a simple white, then they are covered in damask wallpaper and tapestries. Penelope pauses at one of the tapestries and reaches out to touch the woven visage of a young man, with dark curly hair and pouting lips, staring out at the view like a subject in a Baroque painting.

    She sighs sadly and moves on.

    Soon, the walls are smooth wood, connecting seamlessly to the floor. A thick rug hides their footsteps. Harvest wonders if this is fae magic, but when she lets her fingers trail against the wood grain of the walls, the spark she feels is colder than she would expect.

    ¡°It¡¯s a pocket,¡± says Penelope when Harvest comments on the coldness. ¡°Not quite Death, not quite Life. Something in between.¡±

    ¡°Kind of like you,¡± Harvest teases, bumping Quinn¡¯s elbow with her own.

    He shrugs as if to say You¡¯re not wrong.

    They pass several doors with various styles of entryways¡ªsimple wooden slats, intricate stained glass, rusty metal¡ªuntil they come to a pebbled glass doorway with gold lettering.

    Souls Town Investigative Services

    Frankie Hart, Detective

    Penelope Church, Detective and Stylist

    Penelope knocks, two short raps of her knuckles, and then pokes her head inside. ¡°Got a haunting for you, Frank.¡±

    There is a muffled conversation, and then Penelope opens the door wider to let Frank¡¯s previous client through. Quinn and Harvest step to the side to allow the eight-foot troll to duck out of the room.

    Penelope greets him with a hand on his arm and a concerned smile. ¡°Hey, Oscar. Cat missing again? Let¡¯s get you some tea.¡± Penelope escorts Oscar down the hall, waving goodbye to Harvest and Quinn.

    Frank, it turns out, is not the middle-aged, paunchy man that Harvest had been imagining. Frank is actually a young girl, a little younger than Penelope, with large round glasses and a short brown bob. She¡¯s wearing an oversized army green jacket, patched and raggedy.

    ¡°Got a reference?¡± she asks gruffly. She¡¯s sitting behind a large desk squeezed into a room that is much too small for it.

    Harvest enters the office to hand Frank the prescription Frank inspects it carefully, holding it up to the bare light bulb hanging in the middle of the room, looking for an invisible watermark. ¡°You¡¯re Bea¡¯s¡­?¡±

    ¡°Niece,¡± supplies Harvest.

    Frank nods approvingly. ¡°Well, I owe Bea a favor. Tell her this makes us even.¡±

    Frank stuffs the paper in the inside pocket of her jacket and then motions for them to sit down. ¡°Why don¡¯t you start from the beginning?¡±

    Frank takes notes as Harvest explains what brought her here, nodding and humming. In the end, Frank leans back with a knowing smile, agreeing that Aunt Bea had the right idea. ¡°Yes, I can definitely help with that.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°Explain this to me again,¡± says Quinn. It¡¯s not that he doesn¡¯t understand, but that he wants to know how to explain to Commissioner Rosenbloom why her niece walked through a door and never came out again. Frank keeps insisting that this won¡¯t happen but there is something in her tone that makes Quinn suspicious. ¡°And it¡¯s perfectly safe?¡±

    Frank shrugs. ¡°Nothing is perfectly safe. Life isn¡¯t perfectly safe. How can you expect Death to be anything close to safe?¡±

    They are in the room next to Frank¡¯s office. The doorway was a rough-hewn plank of ash wood, and when they passed through, they could see why such a door was chosen: the room holds a forest of ash trees, stretching up into a sky of nothingness. The air is eerily silent and crisp.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± says Harvest. She wears a long overcoat in a drab olive that highlights the dark circles under her eyes. Frank tells her that it¡¯s cold where she¡¯s going. ¡°I need to do this.¡±

    This is walking through a door into Death to find Amy and undo the chain that links them together. When Quinn asked for more details (how is the chain undone? Is there a key?), Frank had been annoyingly blas¨¦ about the whole thing, with a simple shrug as their go-to answer for almost all of Quinn¡¯s questions.

    ¡°And it¡¯s an actual chain?¡± he asks again.

    ¡°I mean, no. But it¡¯s real enough. Why do you think her arm is so sore?¡±

    ¡°And you can do this? Open the door?¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡± Frank adjusts her glasses. ¡°I¡¯m a Reaper. Well, I used to be a Reaper. I¡¯m retired now. But I still have a passport. She¡¯ll be protected under my visa.¡±

    ¡°What could go wrong?¡± he asks.

    ¡°She could get stuck, I suppose. But I doubt that.¡± Frank looks at Harvest appraisingly. ¡°If she¡¯s got an ounce of the mischief her aunt has, nothing will keep her in Death if she doesn¡¯t want to be there.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m coming with her,¡± he says, but Frank is shaking her head even before he finishes the sentence.

    ¡°You can¡¯t. Not with those fangs. Death would spit you out as soon as you stepped over the threshold. The only reason you¡¯ve gotten this close is because Penelope made sure the wards allow all souls to enter, regardless of their state of damnation.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll be okay, Julian,¡± says Harvest softly. Quinn looks at her sharply. ¡°I trust my aunt. She wouldn¡¯t send us here if she thought it was dangerous.¡±

    A muscle in Quinn¡¯s jaw twitches. He doesn¡¯t voice his approval, yet he doesn¡¯t stop Frank when she walks up to a tree and knocks on the trunk. When the door appears, it is a simple yellow door that reminds Quinn of the Whitmore seaside cottage.

    He regrets his approval of this plan immensely.

    But, of course, now he can see the chain that links Harvest to Amy¡¯s spirit, somewhere on the other side of Death. It¡¯s a simple silver chain that ends in a thick manacle around Harvest¡¯s wrist, the obvious source of the rash marking her delicately pale skin. Harvest looks even more exhausted, with splotchy, feverish cheeks and drooping shoulders.

    ¡°Well,¡± says Frank. ¡°See you in a bit.¡±

    Harvest bites her lip, her hand poised above the door handle. She looks at Quinn over her shoulder. ¡°Wait for me.¡±

    Quinn¡¯s jaw muscle twitches again. His arms are folded across his chest, and his legs are spread wide as he stands in front of her. ¡°If you die, I¡¯m having Frank bring you back as a ghost so you can file your own paperwork.¡±

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 4

    There is everything and nothing. But this is not nothing. This is merely the absence of everything, a white-fogged wasteland that fills Harvest¡¯s eyes with static. The only sound is the chain clunking as she looks around. The sound echoes against something in the distance¡ªa wall, a building, or maybe even a mountain.

    She steps toward the something in the distance and finds herself surrounded by pink. The air is cold, and it shifts with a soft sigh until she is standing on a thick, plush carpet, and the static is contained within four walls.

    A familiar room, with walls covered in famous works of art. Pink bed linens. A bookshelf of dusty spell books sandwiched between romance novels.

    Amy, wearing a matching manacle, stands by the dresser, admiring herself in the mirror. She holds the wand in different positions, the amethyst blindingly bright despite the lack of light. She casts an unsee spell with a flick and swish. She maneuvers through the characteristic swirl of a levitation spell. She waves the wand around to emphasize her words as she carries on a fake conversation with her reflection.

    Then she sighs and puts the wand down. The chain between them drags against the carpet as Amy turns to look at Harvest.

    ¡°It¡¯s just a hunk of useless wood,¡± she says, looking despondently at the wand.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Harvest steps closer, pulling the coat tighter around herself. Frank hadn¡¯t been exaggerating about the temperature in Death.

    Amy grimaces. ¡°It¡¯s stupidly cold here, isn¡¯t it? Smart that you brought a coat.¡±

    ¡°I was lucky. Someone gave me good advice before I came. Do you know why I¡¯m here?¡±

    Amy nods and grabs a sweater from the back of the desk chair. She jumps onto the bed, pulling the sweater over her head. ¡°I died.¡± She pauses to straighten the sweater and frowns as if she¡¯s just remembered why she¡¯s here. ¡°He killed me.¡±

    Harvest sits delicately on the bed beside her. ¡°Can you tell me what happened?¡±

    The words barely leave her lips when the room begins to tilt. Harvest blinks against the sudden change in light.

    Seagulls are fighting over a french fry, but when Harvest and Amy walk by, they scatter noisily, strutting away and circling back around once they pass. The boardwalk is dreary, and it takes Harvest a few seconds to realize that it¡¯s not the weather but the nature of the place. Everything is desaturated and dull. Zapped of warmth and, more importantly, life.

    Harvest feels the same. Drained. The manacle around her wrist feels tighter. She has the inexplicable desire to curl up on the park bench and close her eyes. She shivers and pulls the coat tighter, slipping her hands into the sleeves to warm up her fingers.

    ¡°I met him at that bar,¡± says Amy, pointing toward the Lighthouse, a gray column against a vast gray sky.

    ¡°Ozias?¡±

    ¡°What? No, I met Ozzy through Hazel. I met Nico at the Lighthouse.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s Nico?¡±

    ¡°The owner of the bar.¡±

    ¡°You mean Dominic?¡±

    Amy smiles wistfully and takes a step. The chain that connects her to Harvest drags both of them forward.

    They are inside the Lighthouse now. It¡¯s packed, but with shadowy figures that are misshapen and blurred. The corners of the room recede into darkness. The neon sign is buzzing, but the light it casts is milky white, too bright to look at.

    Amy is sitting on a bar stool, her long blonde hair almost as white as the neon lights. It¡¯s longer, though, and it drapes over her shoulders, highlighting her chest and tiny waist. She looks older than the waifish twenty-something Harvest saw at the souvenir shop.

    Because, of course, this isn¡¯t Amy.

    This is Audrey.

    Audrey rests her elbow on the bar and smiles at Dominic. ¡°Hey, you,¡± she says.

    Dominic looks up from what he¡¯s doing and gives her a smirk. ¡°Hey. What can I get you, darling?¡±

    Audrey leans forward and whispers something into his ear, her lips brushing against his cheek as she pulls back.

    He straightens up and frowns. ¡°I told you. I won¡¯t do that. Ozias can try to bait me however he wants. I¡¯m not letting him use my bar for that. Besides,¡± Dominic leans forward, his hand brushing against Audrey¡¯s knuckles, ¡°you shouldn¡¯t be hanging around him in the first place.¡± He looks up at her, his eyes raking over her face, landing on her slightly parted lips, before trailing up to her eyes. She leans closer to him.

    Harvest blinks, but auras do not exist here.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Instead, she observes Audrey¡¯s glassy eyes and the way she sways slightly. She can hear the smoothness of Dominic¡¯s voice, his accent slightly deeper and tinged with something ancient, like the smell of frankincense or an unknown letter with too many lines. He gently caresses the inside of Audrey¡¯s wrist, where the skin is thin and sensitive, a direct line to her heart. They look like they are about to kiss.

    Audrey suddenly straightens up and looks at Harvest. When their eyes meet, she is Amy again, thin with straight hair, all bones and angles. ¡°He would do this all the time,¡± she complains. ¡°It used to drive me crazy. I know he was doing it because he cared about me. He never actually compelled me to do anything. Just made suggestions. Not like Ozias would. But still. I asked Hazel to give me something to protect me against compulsion. She was still working on it when¡­¡± Amy pouts and looks around the room. The crowd¡¯s laughter picks up and grows louder until it melds into the sounds of the ocean outside, which is suddenly to her right.

    They are on the boardwalk and Amy spins the rack displayed by the open door of Sandy Shores Souvenirs. She sighs and makes her way into the store, taking her place behind the sales counter. Harvest recognizes this as the memory of when she and Quinn first started looking for Hazel. When they first met Amy.

    The store looks sad without its bright blue walls. The aisles look the same, but when Harvest looks closer, the products sitting on the shelves are blobs of muted purples and blues, inky blacks, and steely silvers. Harvest looks at herself as she walks around the store, following a trail of Hazel¡¯s aura.

    Over by the counter, Quinn is leaning close to Amy, his fingers brushing the inside of her arm much like Dominic had only moments ago¡ªor at least it felt like it was moments ago. There are no clocks here; only faceless circles hang on the wall.

    ¡°I knew what he was doing,¡± Amy says, looking down at Quinn with a sad smile. ¡°But I was scared to let you know that I know Hazel and he never asked me if I knew her anyway. She burst in here the day before, crying. She was scared and hurt, and I didn¡¯t want to make it worse for her.¡±

    Amy moves from behind the counter, the chain scratching against the perspex covering, cloudy from years of use. She stands next to Harvest and looks at Quinn with a wistful sigh, eying his profile. But then she straightens up and looks at Harvest with wide eyes, the chain rattling as she grips Harvest¡¯s coat sleeve. ¡°I went to her right after you left. I tried to tell her. I just wanted to warn her.¡±

    With a tug, the world tilts again, and Amy plops down on the blue velvet sofa and holds a pillow to her chest, her neon pink sweater clashing wildly with the jewel tones surrounding her. They are in the living room of a house. Harvest takes a glance out of the window, but the street is a blurry haze.

    Amy¡¯s memory of the living room has a surprising amount of detail. The hardwood floor is covered in a thick, tufted rug that depicts peacocks in a field of green, unknowingly hunted by a tiger hiding among spiky tendrils of vines. The walls are bright white and covered in oil paintings in gilded frames. A Titian. A Bouguereau. A Vel¨¢zquez. Harvest assumes they are prints, but leaning closer, she suspects they are originals.

    Or, at the very least, that¡¯s how Amy remembers them.

    ¡°I was going to move in here with Hazel in a few months,¡± Amy says, sliding back into the couch cushions. She said she wouldn¡¯t charge me rent, but I wanted to help out at least. I was saving up.¡±

    ¡°Your parents said something about that¡ªthat you were saving up.¡±

    ¡°You spoke to my parents?¡± she asks, sitting up. ¡°Are they okay?¡±

    Harvest shakes her head. ¡°They¡¯re hurting. They miss you a lot.¡± She wonders if it¡¯s insensitive to tell a ghost that her loved ones seem lost without her. ¡°They feel a little responsible, I think.¡±

    Amy¡¯s face crumples with emotion and unshed tears. ¡°I miss them too. They were good parents, you know? Even if they had a hard time understanding what it¡¯s like to not know magic. They tried.¡±

    ¡°But you did know magic? A little?¡±

    ¡°Stone fruit,¡± she says with a smirk. Her hand is cold and clammy when she grasps Harvest¡¯s arm. She moves to stand up, and suddenly they are in the kitchen, surrounded by brushed gold details and marble countertops. There is a fruit bowl on the island, filled with peaches, plums, and cherries.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t do the spell, but I did a lot of the prep work.¡± Amy slides onto a stool and plucks a cherry from the fruit bowl. ¡°Stone fruit was, like, code for them, in case anyone was listening. It was my idea.¡± She lets the cherry fall back into the bowl. ¡°Ozzy liked it. He would let me use as many as I wanted for free, as long as I helped out, and ran a few errands for him.¡±

    Harvest picks up the fallen cherry and considers it for a moment, rolling the stem between her forefinger and thumb. ¡°And they worked? They gave you magic.¡±

    ¡°For a while. They hurt like hell afterward. You have to throw them up eventually, or they burn your stomach. I saw a vampire refuse to vomit a portal one up, and his stomach just slowly disintegrated. It was gross.¡± Amy wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. ¡°I used to use an illusion when I met with Nico. I knew it wasn¡¯t right. It¡¯s like lying to someone, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Harvest shrugs. ¡°I¡¯m not an expert on relationships. Someone once told me that lying is what keeps people together.¡±

    ¡°Do you think that too?¡±

    Harvest looks out of the window. A fluffy gray tree moves like static in the breeze outside. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat. ¡°No,¡± she says after a moment of thought. ¡°I think life isn¡¯t so black and white.¡± She turns back to Amy. ¡°Did Nico ever agree to help Ozias?¡±

    ¡°No, never. To be honest, I was glad. For one, it meant I had an excuse to keep going back. And two, well, it meant that I could keep him to myself. That¡¯s a childish thing to say isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°A little, but, to be fair, he is kind of dreamy. I don¡¯t blame you.¡±

    Amy laughs. ¡°You look so much like Hazel, sometimes.¡± Then, the smile disappears, replaced with a broken, teary-eyed look. She sniffs as she looks down at her hands folded in her lap. When she looks back up at Harvest, there are glowing tears in her eyes. ¡°You know, I think I may have had a crush on her. Just a little. She always knew what to say or do. In any situation. And she could make you feel so special. She really cared, you know? She tried to stop him so many times¡­¡±

    Harvest steps closer, the chain rattling as she places a gentle hand on Amy¡¯s arm.

    Amy seems to shatter under Harvest¡¯s touch, and she begins to cry in earnest¡ªgreat, wracking sobs shuddering through her chest. If Amy was alive, her skin would be red and splotchy. Instead, her cheeks grow paler, a bright white covered in streaks of silver tears. Harvest pulls her into a hug, the coldness of Amy sinking through the rough wool of her coat.

    The sound of a door slamming shut startles them both, and Amy looks at Harvest, stricken and even whiter than before.

    ¡°He¡¯s here,¡± Amy whispers. She pulls back from Harvest in panic, shoulders shaking, hands gripped around her torso. ¡°I can¡¯t¡ªI don¡¯t want¡ªI can¡¯t go through this again.¡±

    Harvest hears the footsteps getting closer, impossibly loud in this cold echoing place in Death, and she just sees a glimpse of who must be Ozias, tight-lipped and steely-eyed in anger. She turns to Amy, grabs the chain between them, and pulls.

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 5

    Ronan wakes with a start.

    ¡°Shh,¡± says Hazel, her hand on his shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s okay. You¡¯re okay.¡±

    ¡°Haze¡­what¡­?¡± Ronan blinks until the room comes into focus. He remembers, with a rush of pain in his head, that he had walked through the illusion only to come face-to-face with one of Locke¡¯s bodyguards. He remembers the vampire as the one who shot him. This time, however, there was no gun but a fist that landed on the side of Ronan¡¯s head before he could block it.

    He sits up, taking in his surroundings. The roof is slanted, with wooden beams dark against the white paint on the walls. It makes the room feel smaller than it is. It must have been a great feat to fit the queen-size bed, dresser, and writing desk inside. The bed is neatly made, except for the impression left by Ronan as he unknowingly slept. There is nothing on the walls besides a golden-framed mirror.

    The room is entirely impersonal, like a photograph in a catalog. Almost too perfect. He wonders if this is an illusion as well. ¡°How long was I out?¡± he mumbles, peering through the window to catch a glimpse of the pale blue sky beyond, broken only by the spiny tendrils of the tree outside. There is nothing to indicate the time of day.

    Although the bullet wound has long since healed, his muscles are stiff from inactivity, and he massages his shoulder, stretching his neck to each side before he finally looks at Hazel. He should be angry with her, but when she smiles and says, ¡°Hey, Kelly,¡± he gathers her into a hug without thinking, breathing her name against her cheek.

    She holds onto him, too, her fingers clutching his t-shirt. ¡°Your shoulder is healing up nicely,¡± she whispers.

    He pulls back but keeps his hands on her upper arms. ¡°What¡¯s going on? Are you okay?¡±

    She avoids his gaze and shrugs casually. ¡°Been better. You were out the whole night. How did you find me?¡±

    ¡°Wolf, remember,¡± he says with a crooked smile, tapping the side of his nose. ¡°Who owns this house?¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± she says, standing up. ¡°You can¡¯t stay.¡±

    ¡°Fine by me. Let¡¯s get out of here.¡± He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up as well.

    ¡°I can¡¯t leave. Not yet. Ozias won¡¯t let me.¡±

    ¡°You asked for help. Help is here. Take it.¡±

    Hazel turns away from Ronan. ¡°That was a momentary lapse in judgment. I shouldn¡¯t have reached out to Harvey in the first place. It only brought more trouble.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s been holding a lot of guilt, you know.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

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    ¡°She misses you.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°I miss you.¡±

    Hazel smiles sadly. ¡°I know.¡±

    Ronan looks around the room and then glances out of the window. The street below is quiet, with well-manicured lawns and nearly identical houses. The house across the street is the only one that looks lived-in, with a slightly unruly yard, though not so unruly as to appear abandoned.

    A car turns around the corner and drives down the street. He doesn¡¯t watch which driveway the car pulls into. He makes his way back to the bed, where Hazel has sat down, legs crossed, clutching a pillow in her lap.

    ¡°You did all of this? The house, the illusion?¡±

    ¡°Ozias pays me well.¡±

    Ronan grimaces. ¡°Do you love him or something? What does he have over you?¡±

    Hazel shakes her head. ¡°Nothing.¡±

    Ronan looks like he¡¯s going to protest.

    ¡°Nothing,¡± she says again. ¡°Seriously, I chose to work for him. This is all my fault and that¡¯s why I¡¯m going to fix it myself. But for now, you have to leave. He¡¯s in a meeting downstairs, so he won¡¯t be paying attention. I think I can sneak you out of the back.¡±

    For a moment, she looks so scared and fragile, and he almost agrees to leave. But the door swings open and interrupts him. Ronan stands to greet the vampire who enters the room, fists curled tight and hackles all but raised.

    The vampire gives Ronan a terse, slightly curious smile and then holds out his hand. ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯ve officially met. I¡¯m Dominic. Nice to meet you.¡±

    Hazel releases her breath, watching Ronan and Dominic shake hands. ¡°Is he still downstairs?¡± she asks Dominic.

    Dominic nods. ¡°In the study. He sent me up here to get you.¡±

    ¡°Already running errands for him, uh?¡± She arches an eyebrow and smirks, but her expression remains reserved.

    He meets her gaze and raises a finger to his mouth, his eyes glancing downward to indicate that whoever is downstairs is listening. Leaning close, he says something into her ear that Ronan can¡¯t hear.

    Whatever it is, she nods and glances at Ronan. ¡°I have to go downstairs, but I¡¯ll be back up soon.¡±

    Ronan is already shaking his head, but he keeps his mouth shut, looking pointedly at the window. Earlier, when he looked out, he saw the slope of the roof and made note of the distance between the attic window and the tree just outside. He could jump down himself and survive the landing. Hazel would have to shimmy across the roof and climb down the tree, but even if she jumped from a low-hanging branch, he would be able to catch her.

    Hazel considers the option, letting the possibility play out in her head while she bites her lower lip. Dominic nods encouragingly. He points to himself and then downward, then toward Hazel and the window, as if to say, I can cover for you while you get away.

    Ronan watches as she struggles with making a decision. With a deep breath, she takes a step forward, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment of relief, Ronan thinks that she is going to come with him.

    But when she wraps her arms around him, he knows she isn¡¯t going to leave. His heart plummets down into his belly as she whispers, ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a few minutes.¡±

    She gives him one last squeeze and then steps back, leaving the room in one swift movement, the scent of lilacs the only remnant of her presence.

    Ronan attempts to sit down on the bed while he waits but doesn¡¯t stay seated for long. He decides to pace, arms crossed, eyes down as if he can pierce through the wood floor with sheer determination. He glances out of the window when he hears a car door slam shut. He can¡¯t see the visitor at this angle, though he does hear the doorbell ring.

    He hesitates for a second before making his way to the door, slowly pulling it back and poking his head out so that he can hear better. The voice of the visitor snakes its way up the stairs, and Ronan can just about hear the words.

    ¡°Why, hello Hazel, dear.

    But it¡¯s not the words that make Ronan¡¯s hands tighten into fists, his teeth barred. It¡¯s the voice, a particular timber of youthfulness tinged with a metallic coldness and dripping in thinly veiled threats.

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 6

    A customer named S. Thornhill purchased three beers and a cocktail from the Vintage Lounge last Tuesday.

    Wild holds the receipt in his hand and sighs. The thin paper is slightly creased from his fingers, and he flattens it carefully on his desk. Wild searches the Bureau database for S. Thornhill, expecting it to come up with hundreds of names.

    Instead, there are only three.

    Wild looks over at Angel, whose eyes are drooping slightly as they flick through reports from the night before, looking for anyone who matches Ronan¡¯s description. It took an hour to calm Kipp down the day before, and by the time Angel put out a bulletin looking for him, it was late in the evening. Angel had logged the receipt into evidence but then turned their attention back toward looking for Ronan.

    With no information of where he would have gone after leaving the diner so suddenly, scouring all incoming reports is the logical next step in trying to find him. Of course, both Angel and Wild have the fear that their search will yield a match.

    Better not to find him, if it means finding him in the morgue.

    Wild is certain Angel stayed later than they said they would so that they could try a few location spells. He found the map crumpled in the bin this morning.

    Wild yawns and turns back to the list. The first is a young man named Sebastian Thornhill, and he answers the phone almost immediately, which surprises Wild, who was expecting to get voicemail. Wild stutters over his introduction, ignoring Angel¡¯s amused smirk, and asks Sebastian if he has ever been to the Vintage Lounge.

    But Sebastian doesn¡¯t drink alcohol and never goes to that side of town.

    The second is Sage Thornhill, whose number is out of service. A more thorough check of the name brings up a death certificate.

    The third, Susan Thornhill, doesn¡¯t answer the phone. ¡°Feel like heading over there?¡± he asks Angel, whose head is dropping so far forward that he¡¯s surprised he doesn¡¯t hear snoring coming from their direction.

    Angel sits up with a jerk. ¡°Yep,¡± they say, blinking around the office, surprised to find it so bright and so busy.

    <hr>

    Susan Thornhill lives on a dead-end street, though her house is only halfway down. The house is a newer build, cookie-cutter perfect with bland brown trim and a beige stucco exterior. The yard is a little overgrown, but the house is clearly lived in.

    With the curtains drawn, Wild can see the living room, with its pink floral wallpaper and chintz loveseat. A cat lounges on the windowsill and stares disapprovingly as Angel knocks on the door.

    When the door swings open to reveal an elderly fae with thin pointed ears and green waxy skin, Angel introduces them and asks for Susan Thornhill.

    The fae looks up at them beneath dew-encrusted eyelashes and nods enthusiastically. ¡°I¡¯ve been expecting you.¡±

    Ms. Thornhill¡¯s house is warm compared to the cool October wind outside, and perhaps that is because it is essentially a greenhouse. Fitting for a Blodeuwedd cutting, whose life force is tied to the clusters of meadowsweet and broom flowers that fill the room.

    Wild knows immediately that it would be nearly impossible for her to frequent the Vintage Lounge unless she could somehow transport her entire living room with her.

    ¡°I told you lot,¡± she is saying, rummaging around the kitchen for a tea kettle, ¡°that something like this would happen.¡± They hear the sound of boiling water and a tea set being placed on a tray.

    Angel sits down on the couch, surreptitiously pushing a leaf out of their face. The leaf seems even more interested and brushes against their cheek. Angel scowls and shifts to the middle of the loveseat, leaving Wild to take the armchair next to the window.

    The cat jumps gracefully down from the windowsill and sits in front of Wild with its head cocked to the side as if taking its owner¡¯s annoyance onto itself, as if to say, ¡°Yes, she did tell you¡­¡±

    When Ms. Thornhill comes back into the room, she places the tray down on the table and offers them each a biscuit, which they politely decline. Wild, because he is not fond of the crumbly biscuits flavored with dried cranberries. Angel, because they know better than to eat food given to them by an unknown fae.

    Even when freely given, accepting and consuming food from the fae counts as a favor, which, among certain races, is viewed the same as a contractual obligation. The obligation could be as menial as saying ¡°Thank you¡± or exchanging currency.

    It could also be as monumental as swearing a lifetime of servitude. Wild remembers a mortal who wandered into a contract with one of his uncles, who requested the mortal¡¯s right eye, which was promptly displayed on the mantle, next to a jar of teeth from previous contracts.

    It¡¯s one of the reasons fae so often go into the service industry: no one¡¯s going to skip out on a check when the consequences are unknown. Better to just pay your bill and tip well.

    Ms. Thornhill finally sits down and bites off a corner of her biscuit, chewing angrily.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you start from the beginning?¡± suggests Wild.

    Ms. Thornhill looks accusingly at them as she talks, telling them about the rowdy neighbors who moved in at the end of the street. ¡°I¡¯ve got nothing against vampires,¡± she says, in a way that sounds as if she does indeed have something against vampires. ¡°I have a little baobhan sith in my lineage, as it were.¡±

    Wild highly doubts this, considering that baobhan sith and Blodeuwedd are from two vastly different lineages, the former a creature built of shadow and blood, the latter requiring a steady diet of humidity and sunlight.

    ¡°Took you long enough to respond to my complaint. Worse than a pack of wolves, they are¡ªurinating in my front yard. On everything within a mile radius, frankly. I have a seedling to nurture,¡± she says, setting her teacup down with enough force to splash the pale brown liquid over the sides. She looks over at a framed photograph on the side table. ¡°I can¡¯t raise my little Theodora in this kind of environment.¡± She picks up the photograph and hands it to Angel, who is sitting closest.

    Angel makes an appropriate fawning comment about how adorable Theodora is before purposefully handing the photo to Wild.

    Little Theodora is not quite so little. She stands in front of the house, a few feet taller than the front door, her bark skin dark against the leafy visage of her mother. Wild smiles politely and agrees that, yes, one cannot raise such a sweet child in such an environment.

    ¡°Just the other night, there was a whole to-do about something or other. The blonde witch and the vampire were out in the middle of the street, yelling at each other. And don¡¯t get me started about that other witch. Far too young to be hanging out with men like that. You know,¡± she says, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a stage whisper, ¡°I caught her snooping through my mail a while back.¡±

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    ¡°We¡¯re very sorry you¡¯ve had to deal with such a disruption,¡± says Wild, setting his teacup down. He pulls a photo of Amy from the inside pocket of his jacket. ¡°Is this the person you saw going through your mail?¡±

    Susan confirms with a hearty nod.

    <hr>

    ¡°It looks like no one is home,¡± says Wild, as they stand outside Number 1313. The sky overhead is bright blue, but the wind is still cold, and Wild tucks his wings closer to himself, covering his shoulders against the frigid air.

    The house sits at the end of the road with a chain link fence around it. It looks far older than its companions and much older than Ms. Thornhill¡¯s newly constructed home across the street.

    ¡°Hmm, maybe,¡± says Angel, peering at the number on the door frame. ¡°But don¡¯t you feel unusually willing to walk by without looking?¡±

    ¡°Illusion?¡±

    ¡°I think so.¡±

    ¡°Can you¡­?¡±

    Angel shakes their head. ¡°Too big. I¡¯m not strong enough to do that by myself. Maybe if Harvest was here.¡±

    But Wild knows that Harvest and Quinn are miles away¡ªHarvest perhaps even further if Wild understands what Quinn had told him earlier.

    Wild looks up at the cloudless sky, feeling the wind brush against his wings. ¡°I bet they didn¡¯t bother to extend the illusion on top of the house.¡±

    Angel¡¯s eyes brighten as they rummage in their bag. Angel finds their illusion loupe and holds it up to their eye, adjusting the focusing ring as they observe the house. ¡°You¡¯re right. It looks like the illusion extends to just above the highest peak of the roof, where that attic window is.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to take a look.¡± Wild extends his wings, but before he can take off, Angel places a hand on his arm.

    ¡°Wait. I won¡¯t be able to see you once you land on the roof.¡± Angel rustles around in the bottom of their bag, handing Wild scraps of paper and a tube of lip balm, before they find a small metal coin. On one side, the Bureau crest is carved into the silver, and on the other side is an imprint of an ear. Wild accepts the coin gratefully, slipping it into his back pocket.

    The coins are a part of the standard-issue Bureau kits, much like Wild¡¯s necklace, but are rarely used these days in favor of smartphones which have a much broader range. The coins, however, are quieter and smaller than a phone, with a very sensitive trigger.

    Depending on the strength of the coin, the user doesn¡¯t even need to make any sound: a strong enough thought will transport itself through the magic and reverberate against the corresponding coin, which Angel holds in their hand.

    ¡°If you need backup, let me know,¡± Angel says. They rummage around in their bag again until they pull out a small glass vial. The vial is filled with crushed salt and dried herbs, though Wild isn¡¯t sure of the specific names. He begins to ask what it is when Angel very quickly and expertly plucks a hair from Wild¡¯s head.

    He makes a short bark of protest, rubbing his head with a scowl.

    Angel places his strand of hair in the vial, sealing the cork by circling their finger around it three times, whispering the word ¡°Apretado,¡± until a thin gold line appears around the cork like a string. The magic sinks into the cork, sealing the vial shut.

    ¡°Keep this in your pocket,¡± Angel says, placing it in the inside pocket of Wild¡¯s jacket.

    ¡°Thanks, Dad,¡± he says playfully. ¡°I do know what I¡¯m doing.¡±

    ¡°I know. I just¡­¡± Angel looks over at the house again. ¡°Be safe. Let me know if you need backup.¡±

    He nods. ¡°Will do.¡± With a deep breath, he extends his wings. They look like they fell from the trees behind him¡ªpaper-thin reds and browns and deep, golden oranges¡ªand then, a second later, he is airborne. He looks down at Angel, who is peering up at him with a hand over their brow, leaves scattering around their feet.

    Now that he is above the illusion, he can see what it is hiding. The house is certainly not as derelict as it was made to appear. It¡¯s a modern square with rust-colored bricks and reclaimed wood details, topped by a sloping roof. The windows are tall and look almost more like frames, displaying the interior as if it were a painting. There are two cars and a motorcycle parked in the driveway.

    Wild gently lands on the roof, hands gripped on the metal as he lowers himself down the incline. He briefly wishes he had asked Angel to perform an invisibility illusion on him, but decides to risk taking a peek through the window anyway.

    The room is empty, and, luckily¡ªperhaps because it is on the second floor or perhaps because the house was illusioned so well¡ªthe window isn¡¯t locked. Wild slowly slides it upward and very nimbly folds himself through the opening, wings tucked to avoid bumping the top of the window frame.

    He steps down quietly, his footfalls cushioned by the rug on the floor. The door is open, and he can hear voices wafting up the stairs¡ªthe rough rumblings of two or three different masculine voices and at least one feminine voice.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know nothing,¡± says one of the masculine voices, and Wild registers the accent as Roderick. He doesn¡¯t recognize the other voices, but he wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he recognized their names and faces. He pulls the coin out of his pocket and whispers against the side with the ear, knowing that his words will echo against the matching coin in Angel¡¯s hand. ¡°Roderick here. Possibly Ozias and maybe Hazel too.¡±

    Slipping the coin back into his pocket, he takes slow, deliberate steps out onto the landing outside of the room. Before he exits, he glances down and sees a phone on the dresser. He taps the screen, and a picture of the moon comes up, covered by frantic notifications from Kipp. He pulls the coin out again. ¡°Ronan is here too.¡±

    At the top of the stairs, he pauses, listening for the voices and trying to gauge where they are coming from. From where he¡¯s standing, he can see a corner of brushed brass that he thinks is a stove. The voices are coming from the opposite side, where an archway leads into a living room.

    ¡°What are you even doing here, Nico?¡± asks one of the masculine voices. ¡°I thought you were out of the business. What excuse did you use a century ago? Irreconcilable differences?¡±

    ¡°Dominic is allowed to change his mind,¡± says another male voice. ¡°He¡¯s here to talk business. Now, if you¡¯ll excuse us, Grayson, I¡ª¡±

    There is the sickening crunch of bones being broken and a grunt. Wild inches down the stairs, holding out the coin and hoping that the conversation is being picked up and passed back to Angel outside. He pauses next to the entryway of the room but doesn¡¯t dare take a peek. He presses his back against the wall and listens.

    There is a choked groan, followed by the sound of someone spitting.

    ¡°I see you are as willing to use violence as you were a century ago, Grayson.¡± Wild is fairly certain this is Dominic. Or Nico, as Locke insists on calling him.

    ¡°You may have grown a heart and joined the animals, Nico, but some of us still live in respectable society,¡± replies Locke.

    A chuckle. ¡°Grayson, why are you even here? How did you find the place?¡± Ozias, perhaps?

    ¡°A little rat told me where to find you,¡± Locke replies smugly. ¡°I came for her.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not going back,¡± says Hazel.

    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to convince her,¡± suggests Roderick. There is a scuffle, boots making a heavy sound on the floor, and an alarmed cry from Hazel.

    ¡°You stay the fuck away from her,¡± says Ronan. His voice sounds almost more like a growl.

    There is another intake of breath from Hazel as Roderick says ¡°I¡¯ll do whatever the fuck¡ª¡± His voice is suddenly stopped with a thunk and a choked gargle, the unmistakable sound of a sharp object being sunk into muscle. A body falls to the floor.

    ¡°Dammit, Dominic, there¡¯s blood everywhere now. We just had this carpet cleaned, for fuck¡¯s sake.¡± Ozias, again. Wild is certain of it, now.

    ¡°This is getting tedious,¡± says Dominic. ¡°Are we talking business or not?¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± says Locke. ¡°Give me the stone fruit and the knives you took from me, and I¡¯ll be out of your hair. You can keep the rat.¡± There is a deep thud, and Wild imagines this is Locke pushing Roderick¡¯s body away from him with his shoe.

    ¡°I think you¡¯ll find those are mine,¡± says Ozias. ¡°I commissioned the products. You didn¡¯t even think it would work until Hazel demonstrated the portal.¡±

    There is silence for a second, and Wild isn¡¯t sure what¡¯s happening. And then Hazel¡¯s voice says ¡°Don¡¯t touch me,¡± louder and more insistent than before, with a slight panic in the back of her throat. There is a slap and Wild hopes Hazel left a mark on Locke¡¯s face. Wild is sure he deserves it.

    There is a low growl, and Wild wonders how much of Ronan¡¯s second-form is willing to show itself right now, despite the bright, clear sun outside. It sounds like Roderick is dead or at least injured enough to be unconscious. Wild hopes that Angel has called for backup and is working on dismantling the illusion.

    Then, he hears the unmistakable metallic click of a gun.

    In one quick, smooth movement, he holds his badge out and swings around to face the room.

    He takes in the scene quickly: Ronan is standing next to Hazel, poised to run. Ozias is gripping Hazel¡¯s upper arm possessively. Locke has a gun pointed at Hazel. Dominic is standing off to the side, his hand reaching behind him to shield a weapon¡ªprobably the weapon he used to stab Roderick in the chest, who is crumpled on the floor, turning the ornate rug a deep crimson.

    ¡°Bureau,¡± Wild announces, ¡°please lower your weapons and¡ª¡±

    The gun goes off.

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 7

    Hazel twists her necklace in her fingers and leans forward, her free hand gripping her knee in an attempt to stop her legs from jiggling nervously. ¡°What happened to Ronan? Is he okay? And the agent who was shot? Will he be okay?¡± Her eyes dart between Agent Quinn and Agent Fitzgerald, who sit across from her with stony expressions.

    ¡°You¡¯re not really in a position to be asking questions,¡± says Quinn, eyebrow raised.

    She sits back and nods reluctantly. The metal chair scrapes against the floor, punctuated by the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Hazel knows it¡¯s cold, but she¡¯s too anxious to feel it. ¡°What do you want to know?¡±

    ¡°Did Ozias kill Amy?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°You,¡± she says, folding her arms across her chest as if she can squeeze out the emotions rolling around in her heart. Her chest still hurts from the loss of Amy. ¡°Ozias knew you had been asking some questions about me. You barged through her brain, and he couldn¡¯t be certain that you hadn¡¯t seen something about his business. He was mad.¡±

    Quinn¡¯s face is expressionless. If he feels any remorse for compelling Amy, he doesn¡¯t show it. ¡°Did you witness him killing her?¡±

    ¡°No, I wasn¡¯t there. By the time I got home, she was already¡­gone.¡±

    ¡°We found Amy¡¯s purse at the Lighthouse. Do you know how it got there?¡±

    ¡°Ozias gave it to Roderick to plant at Dominic¡¯s place. Ozias wanted to frame him because he wouldn¡¯t take his business deal.¡± Dominic had been incredibly persistent in his refusals and with every new ¡°No,¡± Ozias seemed to get angrier. She had been shocked when Dominic showed up at the house earlier that day, claiming that he was ready to talk business.

    ¡°Then why make Amy look like you?¡±

    ¡°He knew the illusion would start to fade eventually. It was his backup plan, for when you realized it wasn¡¯t me.¡±

    ¡°Do you know where her phone is?¡±

    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s at the house. In her room. She stayed there a lot.¡±

    He looks intently at her for a beat, his amber eyes unreadable, before glancing down at the file in front of him. ¡°Produce,¡± he reads. ¡°Import of various types of fruit. Stone fruit. Which was code for Mischief Seeds?¡±

    Hazel smiles softly. ¡°You¡¯ve been talking to Harvey. Is she here? Can I see her?¡±

    ¡°Later,¡± says Quinn. ¡°After you clear up some things for us.¡±

    Hazel nods. ¡°You¡¯ve arrested Locke, right?¡±

    Quinn studies her for a brief moment. ¡°Yes, and we¡¯d like to keep it that way. Ozias, unfortunately, escaped. We think he used a stone to help him open a portal. Right after he stabbed Roderick and used Roderick¡¯s gun to shoot a Bureau agent.¡±

    Hazel lets the lie wash over her. She doesn¡¯t confirm it, but she also doesn¡¯t contradict it. When Dominic stabbed Roderick she couldn¡¯t help but think it was for the best, really. Roderick was always too slippery for her tastes, too willing to agree with Ozias or Locke or whoever he decided was stronger at the time. Amy would talk endlessly about Dominic¡ªhow virtuous he was, how much he cared about her, how good he was in bed. She would like to think that Dominic truly cared about Amy. Perhaps Dominic came to the house to kill Ozias to avenge Amy but just happened to get Roderick instead. ¡°Ozias will be long gone now, but I can give you a list of some places he might go.¡±

    ¡°We would appreciate that,¡± he says.

    ¡°You made other things for him. For both of them, Locke and Ozias?¡± says Fitzgerald. She mirrors Hazel¡¯s body language but cocks her head to the side.

    Hazel confirms this. ¡°The stones were his favorite, though. They gave the user magic abilities they wouldn¡¯t otherwise be able to wield.¡±

    ¡°Like giving a witch the power to open a portal,¡± Quinn says, pushing a photo across the table.

    Hazel recognizes it as the security camera footage from her disappearance two years ago. A foolish display, she knows. But she had been so angry with Harvest and Ezra. Especially Ezra. She¡¯s sure he picked a fight with her that night just so he had a reason to tell her about the affair. Cutting off all ties was equally foolish and something she regretted almost immediately.

    But Locke¡¯s employment offer was persuasive, particularly because it came with the threat of violence.

    Also, there was money. Lots of it.

    When she met Locke at a random bar a few months before her disappearance, she let his flattery sink beyond her defenses, something she rarely did even with Ezra. He complimented her bracelet, and she told him it was a modified shield charm that she developed for nights she went out without her fianc¨¦. It served a similar purpose to a can of mace and, while she never had cause to use it before, Locke had been so interested, she demonstrated it a few times.

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    He was smitten from the get-go, though there was never any hint of impropriety on his part. This only served to lull her into a sense of complacency which was shattered almost as soon as she demonstrated her portal spell.

    Cut off from her family, Locke would threaten them whenever it seemed like she was losing interest or loyalty, reminding her that if she went back, she would lose her family in a much more permanent way.

    She is thankful for her unmarred skin though. She managed to avoid signing a contract with a few well-placed declarations of love. She played her part so well that she sometimes wondered if she truly did love him.

    And yet, as the months passed, her goal shifted until it was simply: save up enough money to get her and Amy out of Valkaria.

    But then Ozias approached her with soft kisses and promises of equal partnership. It helped her break away from Locke. Ronan asked her if she was in love with Ozias, and if the question had come to her a month ago, she might have said yes.

    ¡°Or maybe it allows a vampire to open a portal into a bank vault,¡± posits Fitzgerald. ¡°Maybe it gives a werewolf the power to make themselves invisible as they sneak out of said vault?¡±

    ¡°Yes, that,¡± says Hazel. She was not always privy to the intricate operations that Ozias would plan, but she knows Fitzgerald is talking about a recent string of bank and museum heists, made possible because of the stones.

    The cold of the room has finally hit her, and it seems to highlight her exhaustion. She doesn¡¯t have the energy to recount everything that has happened in the two years she¡¯s been gone.

    Yet, when Quinn asks about the postcard, Hazel finds herself spilling way more than she anticipated. ¡°I was scared. Ozias could be violent, and I just had enough of it. I didn¡¯t know what else to do. So, I sent a postcard to Harvey, who¡­well, I knew she would come looking for me. I shouldn¡¯t have brought her into it¡ªI spent two years trying to keep her away from Locke and Ozias.¡±

    It¡¯s as if she gives him what he¡¯s been looking for: a reason to absolve her of her crimes, a justification to let her go. It was self-defense. He threatened her. She was just trying to protect herself and her family. She wonders if he will end the interview there, but instead, he asks, ¡°Can you tell us again why Ozias killed Amy?¡±

    She takes a deep, shaky breath, realizing that he wants something different. Something more than what she told him earlier. Maybe it¡¯s for the investigation¡ªsome angle she can¡¯t see from where she¡¯s sitting right now¡ªbut she wonders if it¡¯s more for himself. He wants something that will take away his guilt, and absolve him of his crimes. ¡°I think it was a warning,¡± she says after a beat of silence. ¡°To you and Harvest, but also me. He was reminding me that he could hurt the ones I love if I didn¡¯t do what he wanted.¡±

    Quinn¡¯s amber eyes look at her so intensely that she thinks she can feel his gaze, two spotlights of heat on her cheeks.

    It¡¯s Fitzgerald who breaks the silence. ¡°We¡¯ll want a list of everything you made for Locke and Ozias.¡±

    ¡°Of course. Whatever I can do to help.¡±

    <hr>

    Harvest anxiously waits outside of the interrogation room. She had been watching the interview on a video link down the hall but came to stand outside the door when it seemed like they were wrapping up their questions.

    When Harvest returned from Death, Quinn was on the phone with Angel who seemed unable to string together enough words to form a sentence besides a rushed ¡°Meet me at the hospital.¡± Harvest nearly fainted from the left-over coldness of Death mixed with the fear that something had happened to Wild¡ªwhich is when Quinn added gravely that Ronan was there, as well.

    She¡¯s fairly certain he broke a few laws rushing them to the hospital.

    Wild, thankfully, was relatively unharmed. He was given some painkillers and a dressing for the cut on his chest where the bullet hit the vial in his jacket pocket.

    When Harvest left Ronan at the hospital, he was being checked over for a concussion but was otherwise unscathed. After the interview with Hazel, Quinn will drive Ronan and Harvest home, while Hazel will be taken into custody awaiting a potential charge. Quinn assured her that it would probably be a minor charge, with a fine or Bureau conscription attached. Harvest glanced down at his ring and wondered if Quinn was speaking from experience.

    When the door finally opens, Harvest catches a glimpse of Hazel, head bent over a piece of paper as she writes a list of magical tools and weapons that she made for Locke and Ozias.

    To be honest, it is quite impressive¡ªthe things Hazel was able to make¡ªand Harvest is oddly proud of her sister, though it is overshadowed by the tragedy of Amy¡¯s death and the surmounting anxiety at Harvest¡¯s own egregious actions that started this whole mess in the first place.

    Quinn leans against the wall and lets his head fall back with a thump.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± she asks. She leans a shoulder against the wall and watches him as a muscle in his jaw jumps with unsaid thoughts.

    ¡°You were right,¡± he says quietly. Harvest has the distinct feeling that she is seeing something rarely observed: Quinn showing regret. A rare blossom of emotion. An azalea of guilt. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have compelled her. It was heavy-handed, and it¡¯s what got her killed.¡±

    Harvest hesitates for a second but then places her hand on his arm. He looks at her sharply but doesn¡¯t move away. ¡°Ozias killed Amy, not you. Like you said, it wasn¡¯t an investigation at the time, and you were only there because I pulled you into it. Ozias was manipulative and violent.¡± She looks down at her wrist, where the rash has already started fading. ¡°Amy can rest peacefully now, even with Ozias on the run, and Hazel can start healing.¡±

    ¡°Is that supposed to make me feel better?¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s not really about feeling better, is it? It¡¯s all about learning from mistakes and moving on, right?¡±

    He smirks, his regret already withering away. Or maybe he shelves it and forgets where it is. He must have had years of practice doing this. ¡°I¡¯m inclined to agree, little witch.¡± He looks at the door of the interview room and then back at Harvest. ¡°Do you want to see her?¡±

    She nods.

    Quinn knocks on the door once before opening it and stepping to the side to let Harvest into the room. When Hazel looks up at Harvest, her eyebrows are knit together in anxiety. She brings her hand up to twist the charm on her necklace. Harvest almost laughs at the realization that she is doing the same thing. They must look like twins.

    ¡°Hey, Hazel,¡± she says.

    ¡°Harvey.¡± Hazel stands and takes one step toward Harvest before she stops herself. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about all of this.¡± Her arms drop to her side, and she shakes her head. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have gotten you involved. I just¡ª¡±

    Hazel doesn¡¯t get the rest of her sentence out because Harvest has already thrown her arms around her, hugging her tight.

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 8

    Harvest sometimes forget the power in simplicity, in feelings laid bare in sparse, direct language, in familiar movements and actions.

    Ronan¡¯s Aunt Moira reminds Harvest of this, as she hugs her tightly. When Aunt Moira pulls back, she looks pointedly down at Harvest¡¯s wrist and runs a calloused finger over the thin pale scar. There is a knowing glint in her eyes and Harvest notices a similar scar across Aunt Moira¡¯s tanned skin, white lines across the tops of her wrists, a jagged pink around her arm, a thin chain of scarring around her neck.

    And yet, Aunt Moira has always worn the weight of the dead well. She stands tall, just a little taller than Harvest, and cups her cheek with a cool hand. ¡°We¡¯ll get you right as rain. Don¡¯t you worry about it, darling.¡±

    She¡¯s glad Ronan talked her and Hazel into spending a night at his family¡¯s home before their trip to Ilton tomorrow. She has held onto her guilt for so long that it has become a physical thing, rotting and writhing beneath her sternum.

    She is ready to let it go.

    It¡¯s a simple spell, if a bit gruesome. She¡¯s not entirely sure what the liquid is, but it tastes bitter like wormwood and stings like moonshine. She chokes it down, the whole bottle, and some of it spills over her chin but she pays it no mind.

    The liquid doesn¡¯t stay down for long.

    She hasn¡¯t eaten, so it¡¯s all bile that comes, acrid in her nostrils, and it makes her eyes water. She¡¯s glad it¡¯s just Aunt Moira and Hazel here to witness this. She¡¯s sure she looks awful, vomiting the contents of her stomach up onto the small patch of dirt, wriggling with worms. Hazel holds her hair back and whispers assurances, telling her it will be okay, that she forgives her. Harvest thinks she says something back, something akin to ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    She¡¯s been saying those words to Hazel a lot, so much so that Hazel has become slightly annoyed with the frequency. Harvest tells her she¡¯s okay with that because an annoyed sister is always better than a missing one.

    Later, they sit in the grass with bare feet and eat blackberries and drink orange juice Aunt Moira squeezed that morning. The air is brisk with the promise of frost, but it will still be some weeks before that wish comes true.

    There is a howl in the distance and Harvest knows it is Ronan. The full moon made her appearance a few hours ago. The howl is soon joined by others in a chorus that echoes around them. Mims, where Aunt Moira lives, is a small rural town, populated mostly by the small pack of werewolves and the Appleton Coven next door. Harvest can feel the magic in the soil. It¡¯s not quite the same as Ilton, which feels like a product of mischief, but it¡¯s just as strong. Magic has been practiced and borrowed for so long on these lands, that it has seeped into the earth.

    There is a sudden prickling sensation on Harvest¡¯s skin, the warmth of someone¡¯s stare. She turns but sees only dark trees.

    ¡°I had a plan,¡± Hazel says quietly, suddenly, drawing Harvest¡¯s attention away from the woods. ¡°I was changing the seeds. They still worked, but I added some symbols. To take away a little bit of his strength each time. The more he used, the weaker he would get.¡±

    ¡°And then what?¡±

    ¡°I would leave. I would get Amy out of there and leave.¡±

    Stolen story; please report.

    The silence stretches and Harvest can hear her breath in the night, shaky and uncertain.¡°You were never planning on coming back.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that I didn¡¯t want to. I did. Harv, I missed you so much. We both made mistakes, but I still love you. I always will. But I wanted to get Amy out of there. You only know Locke and Ozias by reputation. You didn¡¯t see what they did. What they are capable of. How they treated her. She deserved more.¡±

    Harvest doesn¡¯t say anything. She¡¯s not sure there are any words to say. Instead, she reaches over and squeezes Hazel¡¯s hand. Hazel squeezes back and they lean against each other, watching as the horizon turns pale pink with morning light.

    <hr>

    Dominic and Quinn sit on the balcony of the lighthouse tower, feet dangling off the edge, glasses of blood consumed in between bottles of beer, as the waves below break against the shore. The full moon is high in the sky, but not for much longer. Quinn can feel the night slipping as morning colors appear in the sky.

    ¡°Where is it?¡± asks Quinn.

    Dominic looks like he wants to play dumb for a brief moment. ¡°Back in the steamer trunk.¡±

    ¡°Locked?¡±

    ¡°Always.¡±

    Quinn nods and takes a sip of beer. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want it escaping again, would we.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t go there to use it,¡± says Dominic quietly. ¡°I mean, I had a feeling I would need it, but I didn¡¯t mean to¡­¡±

    Quinn waits but it quickly becomes obvious that his friend isn¡¯t going to continue. So, Quinn does the thing neither of them wants to do and says, ¡°And yet you used it to kill Roderick.¡±

    If Dominic needed to breathe, he probably would have let out a long sigh of relief. Instead, he nods. ¡°It seemed like a good idea at the time.¡±

    ¡°You did save me the trouble of having to do it myself.¡± A pause. ¡°It was you, right?¡±

    Another nod.

    Quinn continues. ¡°Because the dagger has a tendency to¡­¡±

    He doesn¡¯t need to say the rest of the sentence. They are both aware of the dangers of fae-forged blades in the hands of those with no fae heritage. Neither Quinn nor Dominic can properly sense the curse inside of the metal, a curse placed so long ago with words whispered between bleeding lips against the steel, but they are highly susceptible to it just the same.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± says Dominic. ¡°I didn¡¯t complicate anything for you, did I? With the Bureau?¡±

    ¡°No, the official report is that Ozias killed Roderick before leaving. Hazel confirmed it.¡±

    ¡°Smart one, that,¡± he says, at the mention of Hazel. He takes a sip of beer. ¡°The sister is cute,¡± he adds casually.

    ¡°I suppose so.¡±

    ¡°Have you told her about the ring yet?¡±

    Quinn looks down at the gold metal that is not a handcuff but might as well be. ¡°No, and I have no intention of telling her.¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± says Dominic, taking a sip of blood. ¡°But you know secrets don¡¯t stay silent for long. It¡¯d be better if she heard it from you.¡±

    Quinn pretends he hasn¡¯t heard. ¡°Amy¡¯s funeral is tomorrow. Are you going?¡±

    Dominic shakes his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯d be welcome. I¡¯ve never met her parents and I¡¯m sure they see me as the unsavory vampire who corrupted their daughter.¡±

    ¡°I think they see Ozias as that, more so than you.¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°Maybe. Any word on where he is?¡±

    ¡°None. Hazel gave us a list of places, but so far they¡¯ve all been abandoned.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep an ear out. If I hear anything, I¡¯ll let you know.¡± He motions toward Quinn¡¯s empty bottle. ¡°Another one?¡±

    Quinn nods and Dominic leaves to fetch more drinks from the fridge. The sky is quickly gaining light, pink overtaking blue. Quinn watches the ocean, struck by the notion that it looks the same as it does every century.

    The same sounds, a soft rumble in the background.

    The same colors, blues, greens, and purples. He doesn¡¯t know the proper names for the colors, though. Harvest would know, he thinks. She wouldn¡¯t say blue, she¡¯d say cerulean or something silly, like stone-heavy sapphire.

    In contrast to the singularity of the ocean, he is still marvelously mutable from century to century. Even now, he finds that he is not the same vampire he was fifty years ago.

    He takes comfort in that fact. He has not always been Agent Julian Quinn. He has answered to many different names over the centuries, some he barely remembers and many more he is sure he has forgotten. Dagvulf, his first name. Quintus Domitius Julianus Gothulus, the one that will always own him, in his heart. Julian the Blind, a moniker assumed during a wild, brief moment of madness. Jareth, during the 80s, because, well, it was the 80s.

    He has used the name Julian Quinn frequently throughout it all; it¡¯s the name he signed on his Bureau employment contract, just over two hundred years ago at this point.

    It¡¯s starting to grow on him.

 At Deaths Door: Chapter 9

    The smell of the sea mixes with the smoke from the bonfire. Harvest dips her head back to let the sun warm her face. The air is filled with the cries of seagulls and the soft murmurings of the ocean waves, punctuated by the clink of wine glasses and the soft sniffles of tears flowing freely.

    Harvest lets it all wash over her as she takes a deep breath, not bothering to sort through the energies and emotions, grief mixed with love in a rainbow haze. Instead, she lets it all sit on her shoulders, as soft and comforting as the homemade sweater she is wearing.

    Hazel took up knitting while she was away, and she¡¯s become quite good at it.

    Despite the sun, the air is still chilled, the bonfire serving both a symbolic and practical purpose. It seems that the whole island has come out to celebrate Amy, and they gather around the flames, wiping tears from the corner of their eyes. Amy¡¯s parents are huddled close to the bonfire. John¡¯s arm is around Flora as they talk about their daughter.

    Amy¡¯s mother looks over briefly, and Harvest gives her a small wave. Flora¡¯s eyes crinkle with emotion, and she nods a silent thank you before her attention is taken by the crowd around her. On the opposite side of the bonfire, Quinn and Hazel stand next to each other and make stilted, awkward small talk. Harvest will rescue both of them from each other soon, but for now, she¡¯s content to stand on the outskirts of the crowd, sipping the homemade wine that her father brought. Theodore Rosenbloom is next to Hazel, chatting quietly with a fishing buddy. Every so often, he glances back at Hazel, as if afraid to lose sight of her again.

    Aunt Trixie and Aunt Bea are talking to Wild and Angel. Bea seems genuinely interested, hanging off of Wild¡¯s every word, while Trixie listens with feigned interest, as Wilde recounts how the vial Angel gave him stopped the bullet. It left him with only a minor scratch, not even deep enough to need stitches. He beams proudly at Angel, who ducks their head and shakes off the admiration with red cheeks.

    The sun begins to set, and the clouds stretch across the sky in a last-ditch effort to impress those below, entire swatches of impossible colors splattered against the electric pink backdrop. It is with some alarm that Harvest realizes it¡¯s only been a week since she received Hazel¡¯s postcard.

    Harvest and Hazel have been staying at the Rosenbloom Estate for the past few nights, and while their conversations are not always without animosity, they have been working diligently to reconnect with each other. Aunt Trixie has always told them that they are stronger together, and Harvest is starting to believe it too. Even her second-sight seems to be more vibrant around Hazel, the colors so bold they block out everything else when she blinks.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Suddenly, there is a drop in temperature, and the rim of Harvest¡¯s drink frosts over. She looks at the ghostly figure that has suddenly materialized next to her. ¡°I thought I unchained you,¡± she says with a smile.

    ¡°You did,¡± says Amy. ¡°But I wanted to stick around a bit longer.¡± She looks over at her parents sadly and takes a deep breath, more out of habit than necessity. She¡¯s still wearing her pink sweater, and she pulls the sleeves down to cover her hands before she hugs her torso.

    Harvest studies Amy¡¯s profile for a beat before looking back out at the ocean. ¡°Okay, but¡­you know, unchained spirits who spend too much time over here can get a bit¡­unstable,¡± she warns.

    Amy nods. ¡°I know. I¡¯ll be careful.¡±

    Harvest smiles and sips her drink. ¡°If you need anything, I¡¯m here for you.¡±

    Amy smiles back and then, with a nod and a soft sigh, she is gone.

    The warmth of the sun returns, and Harvest settles into the sand to watch the waves. Night descends, and the darkness seems to wrap its arms around the crowd, shuffling everyone closer to the bonfire. Harvest eventually relents and makes her way to the fire, rubbing her hands together to warm her fingers.

    Quinn comes to stand next to her, his eyes glinting like melted gold. ¡°Sorry, by the way,¡± he says.

    ¡°For what?¡± she asks, studying his profile. His face is lined in orange from the bonfire, and, for a second, she imagines he is made of fire. Not like the volatile burning flame of Ezra¡¯s gift, though. He is a low-simmering heat, burning in the depths of the desert.

    He could melt fae-forged steel with a kiss.

    She looks down at her drink. Her father¡¯s homemade wine is much stronger than she anticipated.

    ¡°That one time, with the message and the pint.¡± He looks over at her with a smirk, showing a canine tooth that is a little more pointy than it should be. ¡°Though,¡± he adds quietly, leaning closer. She can feel his lips against the shell of her ear. ¡°The offer always stands, little witch.¡±

    ¡°Again, that¡¯s not how apologies work,¡± she says with a laugh, jabbing her elbow into his side.

    He leans back with a smile. ¡°I saw your transfer was approved. I¡¯m glad. You were wasting away with Herman. Fitz is a good agent. You¡¯ll learn a lot from her.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± she says.

    ¡°Though you¡¯d learn more from me.¡±

    She rolls her eyes but clinks her glass against his beer bottle. ¡°We¡¯ll see about that, Agent Quinn.¡±

    She takes a sip of her drink and, together, they stand in silence, watching the fire crackle in front of them.

    ¡°You¡¯re worried,¡± he says, eyes trained on her.

    ¡°He¡¯s still out there. We know what happened to Amy and she¡¯s found¡­well, peace, I suppose. But Ozias is still out there.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll find him,¡± he says.

    The conviction in his voice draws her attention away from the flames. ¡°We¡¯re not supposed to make promises we can¡¯t keep,¡± she says, paraphrasing the Bureau Agent Manual (¡°Chapter 5: Dealing With Grieving Family Members¡±).

    ¡°Then I guess I better keep this promise.¡±

 At Deaths Door: Epilogue

    Ozias leans against the tree and watches the crowd around the bonfire. The gold pendant is cold against his chest. The mischief is annoyed at being used by him. It didn¡¯t consent to be used by a cursed creature, but it was created with rules and technically, Ozias isn¡¯t breaking any of them.

    He stands just out of the way, casually leaning against a pine tree, and watches Hazel smile softly at something her father says to her.

    He¡¯s not as upset at Hazel¡¯s betrayal as he thought he¡¯d be. He sees now that he was bored with her. She was a tool, a means to an end. It¡¯s a shame to lose her abilities, but he¡¯ll make do. There¡¯s got to be another witch just as skilled.

    He lets his gaze wander until it lands on the sister.

    Harvest.

    Harvey.

    No, Harvest is better. It¡¯s a selfish name.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Someone who gathers things, who keeps them for themselves. Ozias is a bit of a harvester himself, gathering useful people, and acquiring wealth in both a material and metaphorical sense of the word.

    Harvest is shaking her head at something Agent Quinn has just said, but it¡¯s in humor, not disagreement. Ozias doesn¡¯t know Quinn, but he has heard about him from Locke. Locke used to hint that there was a darkness to Quinn. It¡¯s why the Bureau has put him on a leash.

    Ozias can smell the power in the ring from here. The seeds have helped in that respect: he¡¯s acquiring a taste for mischief like a sommelier understands wine.

    He hasn¡¯t heard much about the sister, though. Hazel was tight-lipped when it came to her family. He always assumed that it was because she was estranged from them, but now he realizes that Hazel was protecting them.

    Protecting her sister, in particular.

    Ozias smiles at Harvest, admires the fall of her hair, the quirk of her lips. She looks so much like Hazel, and yet, the differences are just as intriguing as the similarities.

    There is a darkness in her, a black spot on her heart. He likes the shade of it. It reminds him of his own heart.

    He will have to lay low for a while. The Bureau will not let him go without a fight, after all.

    But maybe he can have a bit of fun in the meantime.