Not Stuart, then, he thinks as a young-looking fae female saunters up to their booth. With the exception of her tapered ears and violet eyes, Aunt Bea looks surprisingly human. Then again, she did spend the first sixteen years of her life here, as the changeling left in place of Commissioner Rosenbloom.
He’s since learned that some fae are born here—like Kipp, who he can see out of the corner of his eye as she wipes down the bar top—and some travel here for a new life. He has the sneaking suspicion that Wild is here for the latter, too, though he can’t imagine what the affable and charming Wild Neverbee has to run away from. Regardless, the Commissioner and Dr. Rosenbloom also fit into the second category, though Harvest once mentioned that they both hold citizenship papers here and in the Fae-Lands, which, she emphasized, is a difficult thing to obtain.
To be honest, he’s not even really sure what the difference is between this world—the one he’s known all his life—and the Fae-Lands.
“Sorry I’m late, love,” says Aunt Bea, pressing a kiss to her wife’s cheek. “The ferry was so crowded this morning.”
“No bother,” says Commissioner Rosenbloom. “We were just finishing up here.”
Aunt Bea turns to Quinn and smiles, but it lacks the warmth he’s come to expect from her. “I’ll get straight to it, then,” she says, hand on her hip. “You know, I had only a vague knowledge of what happened at Christmas, but it wasn’t until last week when my wife here let slip the full story.” She pauses, as if waiting for him to defend himself or make an excuse. Before he can formulate a reply, she continues. “I like you, Julian. My niece likes you too. Maybe a little too much. But then you killed someone in front of her.”
He does open his mouth there, but she cuts him off.
“I don’t care how noble it may or may not have been. I’m a medical professional. I understand having to make tough decisions. But there is no reason to do such a thing in front of her.”
“You sent her to Death,” he says, recalling the first case he worked with Harvest, when she entered a door through to another realm—actual Death—to talk to their murder victim.
“I sent her to a professional who could help her. And if you think I haven’t talked to Frank about letting my niece wander around Death without an escort, then you’re thicker than I realized, Agent Julian Quinn. What I’m really upset about is the fact that you snapped someone’s neck with little thought for how Harvest would be able to handle bearing witness to such a thing.”
He wants to tell Aunt Bea that she’s underestimating Harvest. He wants to explain that she insisted on staying. He wants to say that Harvest isn’t as delicate as she looks. But he doesn’t, because as much as these things are true, they don’t negate the fact that Harvest hasn’t been the same since that day. He thought there was something between them even then—even as they sat on the cold floor of Little Cabin and felt the loss of Rowena together. She was supposed to meet up with him at the office the day after Christmas. While he waited around distractedly beginning the paperwork for Henry Faulkner’s case (only to pawn it off on Angel, who rolls their eyes every time but who he knows secretly enjoys the tedious work), she was at home getting ready for a date with Dominic. Since then, he’s seen her less often than he did before they started working for the same department.
He doesn’t hold it against Harvest or even Dominic. How could he? Dominic is his brother, and he trusts him to treat Harvest right. And Harvest? Well, after her last relationship, she deserves to be happy and loved.
But she’s been avoiding him at work and barely interacts with him outside of the office. In fact, the only times he sees her now are from a distance in the shared workspace at the Bureau, or at the Lighthouse, because she’s staying at Dominic’s that night. He says as much to Aunt Bea.
“Let’s make sure it stays that way, then,” she replies. “I don’t want you associating with her at work or outside of work.”
“And what would Harvest think? You meddling with her life like this?”
“She won’t know because you’re not going to tell her—or that leash around your pinky finger will get even tighter. Do you understand?”
His first thought is that Aunt Bea doesn’t have that power, but then his gaze flickers between her and the Commissioner, and he’s certain that the latter wouldn’t hesitate to uphold such a demand from the former. Quinn swallows back his retort and gives them both a cut nod.
Aunt Bea nods back and motions for Commissioner Rosenbloom to exit the booth. He listens to them leave, footsteps light against the linoleum tile of Tabitha’s Diner.
He waits for the jingle of the bell on the door before slumping backwards in the booth, palms braced against the chipped pink table, going over the exact phrasing of Aunt Bea’s warning. But it’s not just a warning, is it? It’s also a command, or at least, it feels that way. He wonders if it’s not just the violence that she objects to, but the reminder of his true nature that has her warning him away. His mistakes are an eternal shadow at his back. A lifetime of servitude wouldn’t change that.
A glass of blood is placed down in front of him, and he looks up at Ronan with a grateful expression.
“You look like you could use it,” says the werewolf with a grin. He slides into the booth across from Quinn.
Quinn takes a sip, feeling a momentary relief from his annoyance, a spicy warm feeling sliding down his throat and down to his belly. “How much of that did you hear?”
“All of it,” admits Ronan. Quinn isn’t surprised. As a werewolf, Ronan’s hearing is amplified, and he can easily hear a conversation from the manager’s office in the back. “For what it’s worth, Harvest has been pretty busy lately.”
“You don’t have to make excuses for her.” He takes another sip, then, after a beat, he knocks back the rest in one smooth movement.
“I’m not. I mean, I hardly ever see her myself and I live with her. It’s not even that she’s spending so much time with Dominic. She’s been working a lot, too.”
He nods. “Two of our agents are on maternity leave and at least three agents are on loan to other teams. For some reason, criminals just don’t seem to care that we’re understaffed.”
As much as Quinn is loath to admit it, it does seem like people are testing the limits of the law more and more these days. Even his own team is juggling several cases at once. Every time they get a confession or collect some piece of damning evidence, another file shows up on his desk, another phone call from Fitz comes through, another body is found under suspicious circumstances.
Ronan’s mouth quirks to the side in thought. “Maybe we should plan a night out? I could invite Hazel and you could get Angel and Wild. Meet at the Lighthouse for trivia?”
Quinn grimaces, readying his reply, only to be interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket. The name on the screen only intensifies his scowl.
“Wednesday at six,” says Ronan.
Quinn hits the green button to accept the call, saying quickly, “Fine, but no trivia,” and then into the phone, “Hello, Fitz, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
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Quinn scowls at the sun, shielding his eyes until he is standing under a tall tree. He nods hello towards Angel.
“The call came in a few hours ago,” says Angel, skipping over the pleasantries, which is one of the many reasons he likes working with them. No fuss. Straight to it. “Victim’s remains were found by the security guard, a demon who goes by the name of Victor Haskins.” Angel motions toward Victor, hunched over a cup of tea as he stares idly at one of the Garden’s residents, a bush with bright blue flowers that sway gently in the morning breeze.
Quinn has lived in Valkaria for twenty years but hasn’t visited the Grim Gardens before today. The lush green plant life reminds him of the Rosenbloom Estate, all bright colors and hot, humid air.
“Do you want to speak with Victor first, or see the crime scene?” asks Angel.
“Crime scene.”
“Right then.” Angel leads Quinn down the pebbled pathway and around the corner. They pass by Stella, the crime scene manager, who arrived shortly after the phone call came through. She has been steadily guiding Magi-Tech assistants as they collect samples and document the scene.
Stella wasn’t the first to arrive, though. That would have been a pair of uniformed Bureau officers, whose job is to cordon off the crime scene and detain any witnesses until agents can arrive. One such uniformed officer is standing next to Victor Haskins and another is posted by the entrance to the cordoned off area, checking badges and credentials of everyone who attempts to pass the yellow caution tape.
Quinn and Angel show their badges and don white cotton evidence gloves. Quinn can’t feel the magic in the gloves, but he knows Angel can—a soft tingle of mischief whose purpose is to prevent crime scene contamination while also protecting the wearer from any dangerous magical residue.
The crime scene is a circular plot of mulch edged with concrete pavers. A plaque is posted at the entrance to the plot, informing visitors of the specimen’s name and history. The Ashheim Rose bush stands tall in the center of the plot, its main stalk as thick as a tree trunk. The prickly branches spread out in groups of three and four, some as long as Quinn is tall, and are dotted with gently simmering buds of fire. The remains of an unidentified victim rest at the base of the plant.
“The Ashheim Rose,” says Angel, “was recently acquired by the curator. There was a whole fuss when it was unveiled, as it’s the first time the plant has been exhibited in the United States since its discovery in 1923.”
He takes in the plant only briefly, before narrowing his focus on the body. He can just make out a few tell-tale signs: the curve of a rib cage, the smooth dome of a skull, a few teeth-shaped protrusions. The figure is curled in a fetal position.
“The smoke smell comes from the plant naturally,” Angel continues, “so the guard didn’t notice the body until he was doing his rounds and made it here, to the north-east quadrant.”
“Do we have any leads as to the identity?” asks Quinn.
“None as of yet,” answers Angel. “But perhaps we could get some DNA—”
“Unlikely,” interrupts someone standing behind Quinn. He turns to see Hudson, one of the pathologists who works closely with the Bureau. Quinn has worked with Hudson only once before, on the same case that brought him to the Rosenbloom Estate for Christmas. Hudson’s fae-shifter heritage is primarily seen in his tapered ears and high cheekbones, but Quinn knows from Wild that Hudson is more specifically a cù-sìth, a fae whose second-form is that of a dog. His hearing and eyesight are far superior to that of a human, or even a typical dog, making him a perceptive pathologist. Still, Quinn knows for all of his natural abilities, Hudson is both a stickler for procedure and annoyingly vague in his conclusions.
Not that the alternative is any better. Quinn used to date Hudson’s boss, Dr. Burrows, and since they’ve broken things off, she’s been assigning other pathologists to help on Quinn’s cases. He’s not offended—not really. He understands needing time away from a former lover, time to reestablish boundaries, both around her heart and around her professional persona. He wonders vaguely if that’s what Harvest is doing—why she’s been avoiding him. Then again, they were never lovers.
Angel’s scowl deepens as Hudson enters the crime scene, though it’s more to do with the person and not the answer. Quinn wasn’t in the office during Christmas, but he heard that Angel and Hudson didn’t quite get along. Different work ethics, Wild told him with a smirk.
“How long until we get the cause of death?” asks Quinn.
“Depends on when we get the body back to the morgue,” replies Hudson.
“And what about the time of death?”
Angel answers, as Hudson is already kneeling down to look at the body. “Gardens were closed at seven last night. There was one security guard on the night shift, but she had already left by the time Victor found our victim. So it can be reasonably assumed the victim died sometime between seven yesterday evening and five this morning, when the guards switched.”
“If the victim was killed here,” adds Hudson.
Quinn almost smirks at the annoyed look that crosses Angel’s face. “Have we contacted the overnight guard yet?” he asks.
Angel tears their attention away from Hudson and his unhelpful muttering. “Wild is getting her info from the Garden manager.”
“Could it be a staff member?” he asks, arms akimbo as he looks down at the victim.
“Maybe,” answers Angel. “Wild is getting a head count too.”
“I don’t think it was a staff member,” says a thin voice to Quinn’s right.
He turns to see the security guard standing hesitantly by the caution tape. “Why’s that?”
“Because we were all trained to handle exposure to the plant. If it was a staff member, they would have pushed their panic button, altering the authorities to an emergency.” Victor pauses to point toward the small black device he wears clipped to his lanyard. “And anyway, all staff must sign in at the front desk and there wasn’t anyone else logged in when I got here. Just Emily, who left as soon as I got in.”
“Is there any other way in or out of the Gardens?” asks Angel.
Victor nods. “There’s the emergency exit out the back—there’s an alarm on that one at all times—and a loading dock attached to the welcome center. The alarm will sound on that one if anyone uses it after hours. And the staff door on the side of the welcome center can only be opened with a badge.”
“No CCTV?” asks Angel, glancing around for hidden cameras.
“Just along the entrances and the loading dock. But no cameras inside the Gardens. The plants give off all sorts of magical signatures that can mess with the signals. Sometimes, even our cell phones don’t work. That’s why we have the panic button. It’s a spell. One-time use, but quite effective.”
Quinn glances at Angel, sure that they are thinking the same thing. Alarms can be disabled. Log books can be ignored. Employees can be coerced. Neither of them say these out loud, however.
“Could it be a visitor? Maybe someone who hid at closing time?” suggests Angel.
Victor seems hesitant to admit this, and ends up giving them a combination shrug and nod, an awkward movement that highlights the shaking of his hands.
“Mr. Haskins, do you mind going over your morning a bit more with my colleague?” asks Quinn.
“Of course,” he says, giving Angel a tight smile. “Anything to help.”
Quinn watches as Angel guides Victor back to the park bench, hearing Angel’s voice as they quietly ask him if he would like another cup of tea. Angel is an efficient agent, but hasn’t always been the best at dealing with people. In recent months, he’s noticed a softening of Angel’s personality—at least when it comes to interviewing suspects and witnesses, and he wonders if they’ve been taking pointers from Wild, whose gentle and serene aura almost always calms people. Regardless, Angel is becoming a better agent with each new case, and he wonders when they will move on. Find a team of their own to lead. He suddenly feels as if he’s on borrowed time—with his team, with Harvest, with this city.
He shoves his hands in his pockets just as much as he shoves this annoyingly sentimental feeling away before it can take too strong a hold on him. He turns back, watching as Hudson gently lifts what was probably once an arm.
“Anything?” asks Quinn, head cocked to the side.
Hudson sits back on his heels. “I think the obvious assumption is that someone touched the plant and didn’t let go until they were engulfed in flames.”
“And the not obvious assumption?”
“The body isn’t completely burned. There is still some muscle tissue and even some skin and hair, here,” He points to the skull. “We could probably get a partial imprint of the teeth. But what I’m really curious about is this.” He points to the curved dome of the skull. “I’d have to get it all cleaned up a bit, but that almost looks like blunt force trauma.”
“How sure are you?”
“My eyesight is decent enough, but I can never be sure.”
“Percentage?”
“Eighty.”
“So, murder?”
“Most likely.” Hudson stands and looks down at the body. “This is gonna be a tough one.”
“You don’t say.”