On a normal day, Mx. Landry sounded like a bullfrog with laryngitis. That day, they sounded even worse. "It's been a rough stretch. We're behind on everything. I've got six files."
They shoved a stack of folders through the drawer. Moose grabbed them and handed the three on top to me without looking at them. Then he stalked back over to the elevator and disappeared.
"Have you ever met his husband?"
Mx. Landry sat down and started typing. "Nope."
Okay, then. "I need—"
They reached for a key fob without looking and passed it through. Once I got back to the garage, I found that it operated a brand spanking new Ford Bronco. When I had it started, the odometer read fifty-seven. Nice. I don't think I'd ever driven a car that new before. I took a moment to familiarize myself and get some Andrey Avkhimovich playing to set the mood, and then I opened the first folder.
The photo showed a man with curly brown hair and a thick mustache. He had a round face, a thick neck, and plenty of padding in the midsection. Opposite that were his basic facts: Waylon Ickman, age thirty-one, werewolf. He was charged with self-prioritized hunting within a pack zone, and he failed to show up at his trial. He lived in a neighborhood full of low-rent apartments and chain stores. Last known employer was a gas station in walking distance of his home.
I put the Bronco in gear and peeled out of the parking garage.
***
The werewolf's apartment was in a huge complex that must have included at least three hundred units. The parking lot circled the exterior of the buildings in a layout that forced residents and visitors to follow labyrinthine paths of cracked concrete to their homes. At least two thirds of the lamps alongside the walkways were burned out.
With my gun in hand and pointed at the ground, I meandered through the maze until I found building C, climbed the stairs, and stood outside of apartment 327. I banged on the door half a dozen times as hard as I could with my closed fist.
Silence.
I banged again.
The resident of 329 yanked her door open. "It's five o'clock in the fucking morning, bitch."
I turned toward her just enough for her to see my gun. "You know where Waylon is?"
She held her hands up in the air. "I don't even know who Waylon is. Sorry I got in your business." She shut her door.
I banged one more time and yelled, "Bond enforcement! I'm breaking the door down in ten seconds if you don't open it."
In the near distance, there was a muffled thump and a low grown, a rustling of shrubbery.
Hot damn. Asshole picked the wrong day to run from me. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, Waylon's short, wide shadow was darting around the corner. "Bond enforcement! Stop or I'll shoot."
Half a dozen lights came on in the nearby apartments.
Waylon was directly ahead of me, thick legs pumping hard. I stopped, braced my feet, fired three rounds at the concrete behind him. He hit the dirt and rolled, covering his head with his arms. "Jesus Christ, lady! What the hell is wrong with you?"
I jogged up to him, dropped down with one knee on his lower back, and jammed the gun against the back of his head. "I heard you help yourself to the bloody buffet while your pack goes hungry."
The acrid odor of urine filled the air.
"I just wanted a snack." One side of his face was pressed into the ground. The other eye peered up at me, wide and tearful. "I was going to turn myself in. Honest. But it's my girl's birthday in three days and I thought we could celebrate first."
While he whined, I slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists and clamped them tighter than they really needed to be. I stood. "Get up."
Sniffling and sniveling, he climbed to his feet and faced me. The front of his pants were soaking wet. RIP, brand new car. With my gun in hand, I told him which way to go.
He nodded, sniffed and performed a perfect roundhouse kick that sent my weapon flying into the bushes before he took off running again.
Despite his substantial bulk and the fact that his hands were tied behind his back, the dude was pretty quick. He might have gotten away, but he took a wrong turn at building J and got stuck in a courtyard with a swimming pool and hot tub—both still drained and covered for the season.
I caught up and leaped on his back.
He staggered backward and slammed me into the pool fence. My poor back. Hopefully whatever popped yesterday would hold together today. Three quick punches to the side of his head had him back on his knees. I released him and kicked him in the gut for good measure and left him lying on the ground, wheezing.
By that time, more than half of the apartments had at least one window glowing brightly. Shadows lurked behind curtains as all the neighbors watched the drama unfold.
I whipped my knife out and pressed it to his throat. "Here's the deal, Waylen. I get paid when I turn in a body receipt. It doesn't matter if your body is still breathing or not. So, you're going to stand up and you're going to come with me, or I'm going to slit your throat and dance in a puddle of your blood because I have had the crappiest week you can possibly imagine and there's nobody here for me to take my rage out on but you. Get it?"
"You're crazy," he sniffled.
"Correct. Start walking."
All the fight had drained out of him. He slumped toward my car like a kicked puppy—pun intended—and docilly climbed into the warded rear of the vehicle.
I made sure he was locked in and went back for my gun which was thankfully still in the bushes and hadn't been picked up by any speedy onlookers.
It was almost six o'clock when I dragged him into the lobby of the agency.
Rider was signing for a body receipt.
Moose held a burlap sack with a moist red stain on the bottom.
Mx. Landry looked at the werewolf and me through the mesh-covered window. "Well, aren't you all terribly productive hunters when you're frustrated and full of unspent rage?"
Rider accepted his envelope full of cash and tucked it in a pocket. "I cleared my files. I'm going up north. See you when I get back." He turned and took a good look at my skip. "You pissed yourself? Really? Your're a disgrace to your species."
"She's crazy," Waylen whined.
"And you're a werewolf. Geez. No self-respect." He patted me on the arm, and I waited while Moose chucked the bag through the security door, signed, took his money and a stack of forms to be filled out, and left with minimal words.
"Alright, come on through," Mx. Landry said.
I pushed Waylen forward and into the security area, slammed the door shut behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief. My part was done.
From behind the door there was a brief yelp. As far as I'd pieced together, those who didn't exit through security into the office area fell through a chute into a holding room. After that, they were transferred to a cell and handed over to The Organization. This, of course, implied there was a whole other level of The Agency where there were prison guards and warded cells. Also, probably another entrance/exit somewhere on the store's property or in the vicinity as I couldn't see them transporting prisoners out the same way we brought them in. Sometimes I wondered what the little old ladies fussing over the cost of ripe strawberries in the store above us would think if they knew what transpired beneath their feet.
Without counting my money, I stuffed the envelope Mx. Landry handed me into my hoodie pouch. "See you soon."
The second I left The Agency's sheilded space, my phone started dinging with new text notifications. Shit. I'd forgotten to reply to Chantelle.
The general gist of her messages was that she was going to file a missing person's report if she didn't hear from me soon. And if the police couldn't find me, she'd get Jaja and Busia involved.
I called her cell.
She answered on the first ring. "Don't you dare ever do that again."
Tears pricked my eyes. "I love you, too."
Chantelle sniffled. "You're okay?"
"Right as rain."
"Where have you been? Did you get things figured with Nick?"
"Nick is free. We..." My stomach growled loudly. "Can you meet me at Morning Fresh for breakfast?"
"Yeah. Be there in twenty."
"Chantelle?"
"Yeah?"
"I really do love you."
"Love you, too. See you soon."
Morning Fresh Bakery was less than five minutes from Walmart. I turned the Bronco into the parking lot, carried my folders inside, and found an empty booth between four old men complaining about how computerized the tractors had become in modern times and a couple with their gray heads bent over the local newspaper.
There were six booths in a row along the windowed wall, and an S-shaped counter with stools. A pretty young blonde worked behind the counter. She shouted in my general direction. "Getcha somethin'?"
"Coffee for now."
Seconds later, I was completely sucked into the first file I'd opened.
Adan Charring was charged with class one criminal behavior—the equivalent of a felony that could land a human in a place like Rikers—if Rikers were full of prisoners who literally devour souls for breakfast. She was beautiful, thin, and bright-eyed. She looked to be my age, but as a fairy that could mean she was anywhere between twenty and five hundred years old.
The official charging documents stated that she'd used elemental magic to set a forest fire that severely injured a group of human hikers and caused a massive amount of damage to the tune of over a hundred thousand dollars.
I'd met a fire fairy before. Two of them, actually, and they were frankly terrifying.
I indulged in a moment of wondering who was in the files Moose had blindly chosen for himself before opening the next brief.
A crocotta going by the name James Smith was charged with thirty-eight counts of criminal conspiracy and twenty-two counts of feeding outside his assigned zone, which was probably the most common crime I came across. Common crime. Common name. And the dude looked like any dad on the sidelines at a Little League game with close cropped hair and baby smooth skin. However, he was an uncommon creature. I hadn't the first idea what a crocotta might be. That meant another trip back to The Agency after breakfast.
Through the big plate-glass windows on the south side of the building, I saw Chantelle's police cruiser pull into the spot beside the Bronco, so I closed the file and tucked both folders between my left thigh and the wood-paneled wall.
"Getcha somethin'?" the blonde yelled as Chantelle stepped through the door.
"Coffee and your Tuesday plate."
Morning Fresh names all their breakfast meals after days of the week, months, and local celebrities.
"Does the Tuesday plate have the cinnamon waffles?" I asked when she got close to the table.
"Nah. That's Friday. Tuesday is all the meat, two eggs, and a little fruit cup for the sake of balance." She slid in across from me.
"Which one's got the strawberry pancakes?"
"February."
I waved to get the girl's attention and asked for a February. She shouted the order back to the kitchen. I wondered if she really thought it was necessary to be that loud in the tiny little café or if she just screamed at everybody all the time, no matter the circumstances.
Chantelle clicked her nails on the table. "Okay. I'm here. I feel like we just did this over tacos."
I put my hands over hers and gave a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry I scared you."
She opened her mouth, closed it, twisted her lips into a squiggly little line, and tried again. "I have questions, but maybe you should just talk first."
I took a sip of my coffee to buy myself a few seconds. The mug was heavy and warm, the brew rich and strong. "Drake's got the good cider, but I think the coffee might actually be better here."
"Liv?"
No getting out of it, then. "Okay. So, Nick is fine. Or, well, he's home. He's cleared of all charges. I'm sure some version of events will turn up on the news, and I'm not sure what that's going to look like, but it boils down to the fact that Joseph..." I leaned closer to her and lowered my voice. "The guy who owned the place where the thing happened was a generally terrible person, as were all those working for him."
The old lady in the next booth over tipped her head slightly in our direction.
I chose my words carefully. "The thing that happened, you know, the thing that was being blamed on Nick—that happened two more times."
Chantelle's mouth opened again but I cut her off by holding up a finger.
All the people in that place were involved. It was one big toxic ball of yarn. About the time that came to light..." How the heck was I supposed to finish that statement?
She twisted her lips into a squiggle again.
"They left," I said.
"They left?"
"Involuntarily."
"Because your... employer took them somewhere?"
"Not exactly. They went on their own."
"Someone is going after them, right?"
"I genuinely don't know if that's possible. They went to a place where no one would want to follow, even if they could. After they went, the man in charge, the one you told me to keep an eye on, sort of lost it and basically admitted to having it out for Nick. He said Nick's the antichrist."
She tipped her head to one side and raised her brows. "Is he?"
"I don't know." As much as I hated to admit it, I supposed it was possible. "Maybe."
She dropped her head onto her folded arms and mumbled into the table about idiot women who fool around with their shady ass bosses.
The blonde showed up with her arms full of plates. She dropped them all on the table in no particular order and promised to return, "in a sec," with more coffee. We waited until she had our cups filled before picking up the thread again.
"It's not a regular working relationship," I said.
"It's some dark ethical territory. Are you going to deny that he's more powerful than you?"
I choked on my coffee. "No. I won't deny that."
Chantelle jammed a whole sausage link into her mouth and chewed while peering at me. "See? That's not okay. So, when I couldn't get ahold of you, you were where?"
"Dealing with all the stuff. You know... the... people. And their leaving. And everything around that." I popped a forkful of strawberry-covered carbs into my mouth and sighed in contentment. "Then, right on the heels of finishing that up, one of my coworkers needed help with something. By the time I got home I was dead on my feet."
The look on my face must have conveyed my inner wince at that particular phrase. "What aren't you saying?"
"Nothing. I was just really tired. I slept all afternoon and straight through the night. Picked up a skip early this morning and then I called you."
"Where'd you sleep?" She chomped down on a crispy slice of bacon.
"At my place."
"With whom?"
"Geez, Chantelle! I didn't sleep with my boss last night, okay?"
The farmers grew suspiciously quiet.
She used her napkin to wipe her mouth. "I worry too much. I'm sorry."
All my blood rushed to my fingers and toes and my mouth went dry.
Chantelle reached for my hand. "You look like a ghost just walked over your grave. You okay?"
"Nick said he was sorry."
"For what?"
"I'm not sure it matters."
She watched me like she thought I might be having some sort of episode.
"He doesn't apologize. He doesn't let anyone apologize to him. It's a whole thing."
"These are the kinds of things that have me worried. That isn't healthy. The boy's waving a red flag right in front of your eyes."
"It's..." What was it? It's not like I knew. "It's like a cultural thing."
"I thought he was Irish."
"I think he also lived in Greece for a while." I stared at a pool of syrup on the edge of my plate like maybe if I concentrated really, really hard I'd suddenly understand the code around magic and apologies. Why hadn't I ever asked?
"Greece?"
"It might have been Italy."
Chantelle pushed her half-empty plate to one side and wrapped both hands around one of mine. "I'm really worried about you."
And then it came to me. I couldn't tell because it wasn't my secret, but Mandrake was part of the community. Sort of. In a peripheral kind of way. I'd even mentioned to him that he should fill Chantelle in. He'd been on the fence, but I had a plan to push him over to the other side. I met my friend's gaze. "I realize I sound like a lunatic because I'm trying to tell you everything I can, but I can't tell you everything."
"Legal but secret," she said.
"Right. But it's not just work. It's complicated, but I can't even tell you why it's complicated." Yup. I definitely sounded like reality was slipping away. "I need you to ask Drake."
"Ask Drake what?"
"Tell him you're really worried about me, and that you have questions about Nick and me." Inspiration struck. "And tell him you have questions about the woman he's going to Europe with!"
She smacked the table with the palm of her hand. "That's another thing. I went in there yesterday to get a coffee and she was perched up on the counter like his little pet bird."
"You need to ask him. Push. Don't leave until caves." I gently pulled my hands from hers and leaned back, satisfied to have found the solution to my problem. "He can tell you everything." Was that true? "Well, I don't know if he knows everything, but he can paint the general picture without the same ethical issues I worry about."
"Why does Drake know? Why can he tell me, but you can't?"
I chewed on my thumbnail.
She rolled her eyes. "You can't tell me why he can tell me, but he'll explain."
"I really think he will."
Outside, sirens grew closer. A firetruck zoomed past the restaurant and disappeared in the distance.
Feeling better than I had in days, I forked up a pile of pancake and shoved it in my mouth. Around my food, I started to explain. "Drake understands why it's all so secret. I'm sure if you go over there—"
Another firetruck zoomed past, then two more in quick succession behind it.
"Gracious," the eavesdropper in the next booth exclaimed. "The whole west side of town must be on fire."
I dropped my fork and it clattered onto my plate. "Crap!"
"Now what?"
I yanked a twenty of the envelope in my hoodie pouch and threw it on the table. "I've got to go."
"What the hell, Liv?"
"My skip's at that fire. I know it." I ran to the door, remembered I'd left the files, went back and snatched them up, and raced to my car with my best friend, four farmers, an old woman, and the counter girl gaping at me. Pretty sure the old man never looked up from his paper.