Nothing But Bones

1: Aggie

"I honestly think I'd rather be executed."

He gives a half-hearted chuckle and shakes his head. "I doubt that, Miss Sheridan."

He slides the envelope across the table toward her, then gestures to it.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Open it."

"You know, I'm not usually the one who gets accused of demonic activity, especially not by my two-bit wizard political adversaries." She toys with the manila for a moment, musing out loud in a way she probably shouldn't, given the setting. She could probably go on a years-long rant about the rumors about Drake Galloway being demon-spawn, but figures that right now isn't the time or place to make herself seem both more suspicious and more insane than she really is. She doesn't want to be either, and she's pretty sure the agent knows she isn't. "Good old Cuckingham. Whatever."

This is a turning point, she knows. Something she won't be able to take back. A stair she won't be able to step back down. A branch that will break as soon as she removes her weight from it. She toys with it for a second longer before she makes the most Tiff move of all: biting the bullet and opening the damn thing.

Skimming the contents, she asks, "What am I looking at, here?"

The envelope contains a few things: a picture of a middle-aged man, pictures of an old house surrounded by trees, a passport with her name and face, paperwork of some sort, and a check for $10,000. She has to wonder where they got this picture of her. It's not the same as the one on her driver's license.

A smile crosses the agent's face while he watches her inspect the contents. He folds his hands in front of him. "I'll give you a general idea of what you're looking at, and we'll go from there. The house is in Canada, just outside of Beaverdell. It's an insignificant blink-and-you-miss-it kind of shithole that only still exists due to its proximity to the border and the hotel. Which, admittedly, is lovely."

She bets. She doesn't say anything about it.

He continues, "Even though it's so close to the States, it is still firmly in Canada. Which, I might add, lies outside of our jurisdiction. We'd rather not work with the Canadian government if at all possible. Foreign magical departments always think their way is the best way. Canada, for some reason, are real sticklers for the 'my way or the highway' mantra."

"Like Lightning McQueen," she mutters, like it makes any sense.

Waving his hand in exasperation at the thought of the Canadian government's idiosyncrasies, he sighs. "Simply put, the best solution is to bring in an outside entity. And the darndest thing happens: you get arrested. Can you believe my luck?"

"Some luck it is."

He gives Tiff a smile and leans back in his chair. "I get to help a friend out of trouble and get out of a particularly frustrating bind. You see, the house is one of those local haunted houses for the area. I don't know if it's really haunted, but I need you to investigate it."

He takes the picture from the envelope and holds it up. "This is Boris Covington. Boris is a gifted wizard who once worked for the Black Robe Division. His employment ended about a decade ago. I cannot get into specifics, but just know his specialty lies in necromancy. Some very disturbing crimes are attributed to him. Not many people can harness death like Boris can. Most respectable wizards or magic users don't even go near that side of magic."

Oh. Joy. More necromancy. She just sighs.

He sets the picture down and slides it back toward her. "And speaking of nec-romantic acts. How's your marriage?"

"It isn't." She kicks her heel against the ground again. "Next question."

"Fair enough. The crimes Boris committed are ones we did not attach to him until he made himself scarce and completely disappeared. Not a trace of the man. Our specialists who track down rogue wizards have only been met with dead ends. Until now, that is." The agent grins. "He made a mistake and bought a house. Oh, not under his name or any names we've uncovered of his. No, no. Under his brother's name. A brother who hasn't been seen in over a decade. I am well aware this could completely be another dead end and could be his actual brother, but no one's confirmed he's deceased. Besides, I have a gut feeling."

"Yeah. Because that's so useful as probable cause."

His grin fades for a second, though the wicked spark dances in his pupils. Pulling the check out of the envelope and turning it so Tiff can see the amount, the agent's eyes find hers. "Accept this job and your criminal charges will be dropped and forgotten, and we'll handle Mr. Cunningham. You will be provided with a Passport, paperwork Kepler to pass as a service animal, and a tax-free check for $10,000."

The grin returns to his face. "What do you say?"

It's a lot. It's almost too much to think about. Breath caught in her throat, she assesses all of it. Ten thousand dollars and the promise of a mystery? Fuck. She's been begging for an opportunity like this, and she knows the agent knows that.

Ten thousand dollars. That's silver money; that's uranium money; that's the kind of money her aunt would tell her to put into savings and her other aunt would try to convince her to spend on motorcycle repairs.

She can't trust the government. She knows that. On an instinctual, historical, and deeply personal level, she knows that. Recent repeals have made her more disgusted than she already was. Even if the Black Robes Division has little to do with the Supreme Court, they deal in an evil she can't stomach.

But there's the folder in front of her, and the way her mouth has gone dry. A chance to leave the country for the first time. The ability to bring Kepler with her anywhere. The promise of necromancy, of real necromancy. An actual haunted house. Ten fucking thousand dollars. It's too much to pass up.

The words are out of her mouth before she registers that she's saying them. "Yeah. Okay. I'll do it. What's the catch?"

A genuinely delighted smile spreads across the agent's face as he straightens his posture. "I wouldn't necessarily say there's a catch, Ms. Sheridan. The offer is legitimate, and someone of your... history and skillset are perfect for a task such as this. The only catch, for the lack of a better term, is that once you're across the border, you are on your own. I can offer you no assistance, no contact, no help whatsoever."

That doesn't sound horrible. She does things on her own all the time. When was the last time the government stepped in to help with the hairless wererats behind the strip club? The answer is never; the answer is that that was a Tiff project.

Not privy to her whimsical thoughts of naked rats, his expression darkens while he stares at the demigod across the table. "Just understand that Boris was found to be an associate and informant to the late Chip Winger. I expect he'll be quite formidable if you run into him."