Quinn curses as he’s forced to brake suddenly, the seat belt straining against the sudden change. He presses the horn as he switches lanes, glaring at the driver who merged into traffic without using a signal. The metal of his ring feels warm against his skin, forever reminding him of why he wears it in the first place, like a muzzle on a reactive dog. He almost laughs as he recalls Harvest walking toward him, her hair like gold in the late-morning sun filtering down through the tree limbs. Just two hours after he was told to stay away from her. Fuck, he thinks, not for the first time. This case is going to be a tough one and it has nothing to do with the murder.

He glances at the side view mirror as he switches lanes again, preparing to turn. “Go ahead and say it,” he says.

“It’s just…” Wild hesitates, an unusual display of awkwardness as he fiddles with the silver necklace he wears—a Bureau issued illusion spell to be activated should he need to hide his more fae-like attributes. “You seem a bit on edge.”

Quinn nods. “I know. I apologize.” He runs a hand through his hair, wondering how honest he should be with Wild. He doesn’t have to tell him anything of course. Quinn is the senior agent and, either way, he doesn’t owe Wild an explanation. But it isn’t fair to his team to let his personal problems bleed into his work life. “I just have a lot going on at the moment,” he adds.

“It’s okay,” says Wild, graciously.

They share a brief look before Quinn nods and returns his attention to the road. “Tell me about the guard.”

“Emily Iverson, vampire, is a security guard for Grim Gardens who typically works the night shift. She’s been there for over a year now.”

Wild pauses and Quinn glances over to see his focus on the house to the right. It’s the house where Hazel used to live with Ozias, the vampire wanted for the murder of Amethyst Whitmore. It’s also the house where Wild was almost shot six months ago as he attempted to arrest Ozias and a handful of other unsavory characters. He’d been saved by a strategically placed protection amulet slipped into his pocket by Angel.

At the time, the house had been so heavily illusioned that they never would have found it if a credit card hadn’t been foolishly stolen from the neighbor’s mailbox and used to pay a bar tab. Now, as they drive past, it almost looks more abandoned than the illusion could have ever done.

Quinn hasn’t been officially involved with the investigation into Ozias—the case was handed off to a specialized team in organized crime—but he’s been following along with the investigation regardless. He knows the team have only just recently finished cataloging everything they found in the house and so far, the list of places Ozias may use as a hideout hasn’t yielded much. The last known sighting of him was in Boston. There are at least two agents attempting to infiltrate Ozias’s network, but neither seem to be making any headway.

“Do you think Ozias will ever come back?” asks Wild.

“Yes,” Quinn answers simply, and then at Wild’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “Ozias cares more about his things, than he does people. Or maybe even himself. He wouldn’t just walk away from all the money and weapons he has stashed around town. I don’t think he would walk away so easily from Hazel’s betrayal.” He adds the last part quietly, more to himself. What he doesn’t say out loud is that since he’s been staying late at the office to go over the case files he knows without a doubt that Ozias has returned to Valkaria at least twice since October.

He’s certain there have been more instances, too. The senior agent on the case thinks the visits are to see Hazel, and they’ve put her under surveillance, but there hasn’t been any evidence of contact between them. Quinn thinks the trips to Valkaria have more to do with tying up loose ends of whatever business contracts Ozias had here, but what does he know? The Council won’t assign him to the case, regardless of how many times he brings it up to Fitz.

Wild makes a noncommittal sound of agreement as they leave the house in the rearview mirror. “Well, back to Emily Iverson. She’s worked for the Gardens for a year and before that her employment history is just random jobs here and there. She worked the night shift at a gas station for a bit and even worked as a museum guard for a while.” Wild pauses, watching the road signs. “It’s the next left.”

Quinn turns and then slows as they approach a tall building on the right. Quinn slows the car and parks on the street. The six-storey building is painted a bright white with teal accents and pink doors. A concrete sign in the front marks the building as Sunset Ridge Condominiums. There’s a welcome symbol on the sign, in the corner as if it’s a part of the logo for the property management company.

Wild looks up at the bright white building. “Do you think she’s home?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Together, they make their way up the stairs that snake through the center of the building. They locate apartment 5B and Quinn knocks loudly, scowling at the vivid pink door.

When there is no answer, Quinn knocks again. Wild leans to look through the small window next to the door. He shakes his head with a shrug. After a beat of silence, Quinn leans closer, angling his head so that he can hear through the slab of wood, but the apartment is quiet. Then again, even if Emily was home, he wouldn’t hear anything. As a vampire, she doesn’t have a heartbeat and doesn’t need to breathe.

Quinn takes out his business card and writes a short message about how they just want to ask her some questions, then slips it into the rusty metal mailbox affixed to the stucco wall.

----------------------------------------

They return to the Bureau to find Angel and Harvest huddled around Angel’s desk. Although they are technically their own department, the Suspicious Death Squad exists within the Serious Crimes Division and doesn’t have their own office. Instead, they have three desks shoved together in the corner of the shared SCD workspace. Wild takes his seat, swiveling it around in a full circle before stopping himself in front of his own computer.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Any luck?” asks Quinn, sitting on the edge of his desk, arms folded.

Angel is scrolling through recent missing persons reports on their desktop computer, while Harvest has a laptop balanced precariously on the arm of her chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Harvest stiffen in response to his lack of greeting and the purposeful tilt of his shoulders that puts her mostly behind him.

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to say something—a passive-aggressive “Hello,” perhaps—but then she leans back and continues clicking. He’s almost disappointed. He wants her to be mad, to force a confrontation with him. He’ll take Aunt Bea’s warning to heart— and he’ll keep his mouth shut in the meantime—but maybe, just maybe he can get away with disobeying those orders if she pushes him to it. She doesn’t take the bait, however. She remains silent and Quinn shifts so that he can’t see her even out of the corner of his eye.

“We’ve narrowed it down to a few cases within the past year,” Angel is saying, eyes flicking curiously between Quinn and Harvest, who are doing such a good job at ignoring each other, it’s now a bit awkward. “I took the liberty of pulling the two most likely, but if the victim is recently missing, it might not even be reported yet.”

“Put in a flag to MPU,” he says, turning back to Harvest only long enough to make sure she’s listening. He doesn’t miss the eye roll. She worked for MPU as a trainee and knows the protocol. She’s probably already put in a request. “We also need to do a background check for Emily Iverson,” he continues. “She didn’t answer and I’m not hopeful that she’ll call back.”

“I can do that,” interjects Harvest, already making a note in her calendar.

“Fine. Broaden the range of missing persons reports while you’re at it. Let’s look at the last two years.”

He ignores the scowl on Harvest’s face. This is exactly the type of work she did for MPU and even she knew she was being underutilized. Still, it needs to be done and she takes the job in stride. “I’ll get right on that,” she says with a forced smile.

“See that you do.”

She refocuses on her computer and begins to type, though the sounds of the keyboard seem stilted and louder than they previously were.

He turns to Angel. “What do we have from the scene so far?”

“Hazel is working through the security camera footage, though we’re not expecting to get anything from it. Views are extremely limited.”

“Annoying, that,” says Quinn.

Angel huffs. “There was no sign of forced entry anywhere on the property. Our working theory is that the victim knew the guard. Maybe she snuck them in? Something happened, either an accident or an argument…” Angel’s voice trails off.

Quinn nods. There’s no need to explain. Although the details change, every case they’ve ever worked or will work, ends the same: with one soul gone and another dimmed by their own actions.

After a few seconds of thought, Quinn says, “Wild, can you call Emily Iverson? Bug her a bit if you have to.”

“What if she doesn’t answer?” asks Wild.

“Go around and annoy her in person.”

Wild nods. “Can do, boss.”

Quinn turns back to Angel. “When will we have the post mortem?”

“Hudson said the earliest he could get it to us is Monday morning,” interjects Harvest.

“Fine,” says Quinn. “We’re going to treat it like a murder in the meantime, given the potential injury to the skull. Anything else?”

Angel shakes their head. Wild is already calling Emily Iverson, and Harvest’s attention is once again on her computer screen. He leaves them to it and glances over at Fitz’s office. She’s sitting at her desk reading something on her computer screen, but the door is open and he saunters over, knocking once before slipping inside the office. He closes the door behind him.

She looks up expectantly. “Is this about your meeting with the Council?”

He’s not surprised she knows about that. Not only is she his superior, he knows the Council shared the full details of his employment with her when she took on the role. Besides the Council (and Dominic), she is the only other person who knows the entire story.

He admits their power dynamic might seem weird to some. He’s worked for the Bureau for almost two-hundred years and he’s been a vampire for over two thousand years. He answers to her, but she gives him a large amount of autonomy to lead his team—a smart decision considering that he has far more years of experience doing this than her. And yet, he’s fine with bowing to her when he has to, because it means there is very little responsibility put on him.

The one exception to this, of course, is any violation of his contract. While she may be notified of it, she has no say on what happens if or when he slips up. It’s up to the Council to reprimand him.

“The ring’s been modified with a stronger spell,” he says, sitting down. “I don’t expect it to change much though.”

“Anything else?”

“They’ve extended the contract by fifty years.”

“Well, when you have eternity, what’s another fifty years?”

He smirks. “Fair enough.”

“And how’s the Garden investigation going?”

“Fine. We’re still working on identifying the body.”

“Has Rosenbloom helped, at least?”

“Yes, actually. Victim is a female witch. Post mortem report will be done as soon as possible, and we’ll know more then, of course.”

Fitz nods. “It sounds like you have everything under control. Is there anything else you need from me?”

He considers telling her about Aunt Bea’s warning, though he would frame it as coming from Commissioner Rosenbloom. But, instead, he says, “No, that’s all for now.”

“I’ll let you get on with it then,” she replies.

He takes his cue and leaves the office. Standing at the far end of the room, he watches vaguely the hustle and bustle of the Serious Crimes Division and then makes his way to the triangle of desks that is Suspicious Deaths.

Sitting in front of his computer, he tries and fails to focus on the case. He spends twenty minutes reluctantly answering emails and then kills some time working through a backlog of case reports. Harvest gets up twice, both times to refill her mug of coffee.

When he leaves an hour later, he sees her bent over her laptop, rose gold hair tinted blue from the light of the screen, shoulders hunched unattractively. He feels a sharp pang in his chest as he fiddles with his ring, twisting it around his finger. He wants to sit next to her, sift through the data with her in companionable silence, bounce ideas off of each other until the sun rises. Refill her coffee when she yawns. Rub her shoulders when she gets a cramp from her poor posture.

Instead, he leaves without saying goodbye.