Michaela’s shoulders itched. They always itched, but most of the time she could ignore it. The little pink note crumpled in her pocket annoyed her too much for words, too much for her to ignore the itch. Worst of all, the perp standing in front of her would take any twitch as a sign of weakness. She didn’t need another talk about excessive violence from the captain. She summoned all the willpower the Creator had blessed her with and focused on the cretin standing in front of her.

“Explain to me again why your fingerprints are on the gun we found next to the body?”

The perp, one Johnny Greco by name, narrowed his eyes, preparing his lies. “I might’a looked at a gun at a pawn shop last week. I dunno.”

“Why would you need a gun, Johnny?”

The perp shrugged, looking up and down the street. Michaela knew he worried about his reputation. Talking to a cop without being forced was a mortal sin for gangsters like the punk in front of her. Satisfied that no one was looking, he shrugged again and looked down at his diminutive inquisitor. “I work in a lot of dangerous neighborhoods. A man needs protection.”

“There are only two types of people you need protection from, Johnny: cops and crooks higher up on the food chain. You’re stupid if you’re gonna use a gun on either one. Why’d you need a gun, Johnny?”

“Y’know what, meter maid? I think we’re done talking.” With that, he turned his back on her and started to walk away. She moved. After a single step he stopped, his eyes opening wide as he looked down at her.

“How’d you do that?”

“Clean living, Johnny. Too much alcohol makes you slow. You weren’t too fast to begin with, Johnny. Now, I wasn’t done talking to you. Why’d you need a gun, Johnny?”

“You really think I’m going to talk to you, meter maid?”

“Yeah, I do, Johnny. I’m having a really bad day, and you don’t want to make it worse.” Warning delivered, Michaela shook her head in mock frustration, breaking eye contact in a calculated feint. He took the bait immediately, his fist coming up for a sucker punch. She let it connect. The moment his knuckles touched her face, she moved again, and his fist shot through where her head had been. She brought her left hand up, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. The hood spun around, trying to keep his shoulder from dislocating, and she slapped a cuff on his wrist. Proving his status as a cretin, he reached around with his free hand. She ratcheted the cuff down on his other wrist and pulled down, dropping him to his knees.

“John Greco, you are under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

***

Matt stood in a military ‘At Ease’ posture, his eyes fixed on the picture of the mayor behind the captain’s desk. He didn’t know what had upset Captain Hayes, but between Hayes’ elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, and general muscle tension, his annoyance was unmistakable. Trying to calm him seemed a bad idea. All Matt could do was make sure he didn’t become the target of the captain’s wrath. Acting like a piece of furniture seemed the safest route.

A door slammed in the squad room outside the captain’s office, and the captain’s muscles tensed further. Boot heels clacked across the floor, getting louder as the owner of the boots approached. He counted; the unknown person took nearly twice as many steps than when Matt traversed the same distance. Whoever approached was shorter than him. That wasn’t uncommon, Matt was very tall. The door slammed open, cheap blinds rattling as it hit the stops. The owner of the boots, still outside his field of vision, stepped into the room and slammed the door closed.

A petite hand reached out over the captain’s desk and dropped a wadded up piece of pink paper. Matt had seen similar papers strewn about the squad room when he arrived. The ones he could read had short notes scribbled on them, reminders to call someone or do something. This one bore a simple message, ‘Det. Miles, my office ASAP, Cpt. Hayes’.

As Matt digested the new information and what it might mean, the voice of an angel filled the captain’s office. There was no other way to describe it; every syllable held the call of brass, the ring of steel, the chime of bells. It took Matt a few moments to decipher the words from that pure, clear, beautiful voice.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Have a seat, Detective.”

“I prefer to stand.”

The captain’s lips twisted into a rueful smile; his response dry. “I didn’t ask. We might be here a while, and I don’t want you looming over me while we talk.”

“Oh, please. You’re nearly as tall as me sitting.”

“You have exceptional talent at looming. Sit.”

The owner of the beautiful voice sighed, a sound like wind in virgin forest. “Whatever.” One of the cheap office chairs gave the tiniest squeak, as if a child had perched on it. “Why isn’t Frankenstein sitting down?”

The captain’s voice took on the clipped tones of a parent dealing with a particularly frustrating child. “He doesn’t loom, and we haven’t been making small talk.”

“Doesn’t loom? He’s a mountain! How does a mountain not loom in an office the size of a walk-in closet?”

“Inspector Franklin, it appears the detective is intimidated by you. Please, have a seat.”

Matt knew when to take an invitation as an order. Gingerly, he settled himself onto a chair opposite the detective. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of…

Beauty. Perfection. An angelic visage gazed at him and found him wanting. Features too even to be real stared back at him, formed of skin like milk framed by broad curls of jet. Lips the color of carnation petals moved, and her voice filled the room again. “Captain, why is the creepy scarecrow staring at me?”

“Because, unlike the rest of us, Inspector Franklin hasn’t learned to ignore your looks and focus on your scintillating personality. Inspector George Matthew Franklin, I’d like you to meet Detective Michaela Miles. Miles, this is Inspector Franklin. Be nice; you’ll be working with him for the foreseeable future.”

Detective Miles’ speaking voice was nothing next to her shouting voice. Matt dimly registered the blinds rattling again as the woman jumped to her feet, palms slapping onto the captain’s desk. “What? Since when? I don’t work with partners! You don’t need to partner him with me! Whose brilliant idea was this?”

Matt looked on in fascination as the captain studiously ignored the detective until she ran down. When she stood in glowering silence, he spoke. Matt was so shocked he missed the first thing the captain said. For all her shouting, slapping, and jumping, the detective’s muscles remained completely relaxed. Her pupils, when she turned to him, hadn’t dilated. Her breathing stayed regular, and her heartbeat so quiet he couldn’t hear it at all.

She was faking the whole tantrum.

The captain was still talking. It sounded like he was trying to bury the tantrum with words, and it seemed to be working. “The Harrisburg PD was very impressed with the help Inspector Franklin provided. In addition, the Mayor himself has asked me to have him work with one of my best detectives.”

“And you picked me why?”

“Despite your best efforts, you seem to have made more arrests than any two other detectives combined. In addition, your arrests have the highest conviction rate of any of my officers.” The captain shook his head as if disbelieving his own words. “If you could stop beating up the suspects, you’d be the perfect detective.”

“What, no mention of my scintillating personality now?”

The captain didn’t miss a beat. “Fine. If you stop beating up the suspects and learned that insubordination isn’t a job requirement, you’d be the perfect detective.”

Detective Miles sat back down, perched on the edge of the seat like a cat ready to spring. Her words were wary, but her voice returned to conversational volume. “So the Mayor wants Frank to follow me around. Is there a reason? Other than annoying me, I mean?”

Matt heard the captain’s temper wearing thin. He judged it time to intervene, “If I may, Captain Hayes?” At a nod from the captain, Matt continued, “Detective Miles, I understand your concern. I assume you are familiar with the work of Doctor Abraham Franklin?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Ah! That explains things. Doctor Franklin is, among other things, an expert in the field of forensic science. He has pioneered multiple new ways of detecting and matching fingerprints, no less than three separate techniques for determining if a speaker is lying, and most recently has developed a waterproof camera that can take multiple photographs without the need for a bulky flash. In addition, he has refined a multitude of scientific techniques for separating fact from fiction in criminal and medical proceedings. I’m sure you can see where any or all of these might be useful in your line of work?”

Detective Miles shrugged. “If you say so. How does all that relate to you?”

“An excellent question, focusing immediately on the most relevant fact. I understand how you’ve come to be so successful. Doctor Franklin is my father, and he has trained me in all of his techniques.”

Detective Miles shook her head, not even trying to hide her condescension. “So I’m supposed to babysit Frank. If he works out, I’m obsolete. If he doesn’t, I’ve wasted my time. Is that about it?”

Brilliant, I meet an angel, and within minutes I’ve convinced her I’m an incompetent out to steal her job. Nice going, Wonder Boy.

“C’mon, Frank. I’ve got a case load to take care of. Welcome to the Philadelphia Police Department.”

***

Michaela pulled on her overcoat. Settling it in place gave her an excuse to scratch her back. If only Mike had gotten the whole piece of marble. Not his fault, it split before they delivered her to him. Not his fault, but her back still itched. Once she had the overcoat’s belt firmly tied in front of her, she turned to the beanpole standing beside her desk. He just stared at her.

“Right now I’m investigating a murder. My primary suspect is a young man by the name of Johnny Greco, a small-time thug with delusions of mediocrity. We have the murder weapon, a cheap revolver purchased by Mr. Greco from a pawn shop on Broad Street. We have three witnesses who have Mr. Greco leaving the scene of the crime. Two others insist that they saw someone else leave, a young woman in a, quote, ‘big fancy dress, like Southern girls used to wear.’ If we went to trial right now, the defense attorney would no doubt blame it on our mystery woman. We need to find her or something linking Greco to the crime beyond a shadow of a doubt. Are you evening listening to me, Frank?”

Inspector Franklin looked down at her, a study in attentive, attractive motionlessness. After a half second, he nodded, slowly and deliberately. When he spoke, his voice was a subtle mismatch to his body. Where his body was big, powerful, and filled her field of vision, his voice was soft and deep, yet so soothing she had to pay attention or she would miss half of his words. “Yes, Detective. Pardon, but why are you calling me Frank?”

Michaela thought about it. From the moment she heard his name, he was Frank. Not George; he wasn’t a knight in shining armor. Not Matthew, he wasn’t a saint or a tax collector. He wouldn’t understand either of those reasons. She shrugged, the motion making her shoulders twitch. “Franklin makes me think of a short fat guy. Frankenstein is a little harsh, even for me. Frank fits you.”

“Friends call me Matt.”

She rolled her eyes at him, “Right, Frank. You ready to go? I don’t have all day.”

“Has the scene of the crime been cordoned off?”

“Of course.”

“Do we have time to examine the scene?”

“I was about to go try scaring the criminal element into giving more information.”

Matt cocked his head, inquiring. “Does that work?”

“Not often, but it’s really fun. Do you think you can get something from the scene?”

“I am almost certain I can.”

He was like a mastiff puppy, she decided. Big, ungainly, likely to make a mess of things, but desperately eager to help. Cute, too, like most puppies were.

Cute? Where did that come from? Mike, when next we meet, we’re going to have a conversation about genitalia and where they do and do not belong.

Still, sometimes puppies could find things when they dug around.

“Let’s go check out the scene.”

***

Matt followed the diminutive detective through the streets of Philadelphia. Normally he had to slow down so others could keep up, but today he had no such problem. In fact, he found himself jogging now and then to avoid falling behind Michaela. He still couldn’t hear her heart beating, could barely hear her breathing. She was very athletic. Her boot heels striking the ground were metronomic in regularity, startling in intensity.

Since she was navigating, Matt had time to observe more than he normally did. The city was old. Not as old as the cities in Europe, but old enough for most of the row houses to look worn, for most of the buildings to have frayed edges. The neighborhoods were clearly delineated, as was the center of town. When she led him past Independence Mall, he noted scaffoldings and construction equipment. The Bicentennial was in under a decade, and without major restoration, the old buildings would be an eyesore rather than a source of civic pride.

Matt blinked. They’d walked from City Hall to Independence Mall already, and Detective Miles showed no signs of slowing down. “Pardon, Detective Miles, but are we heading directly to the crime scene?”

“No, Frank. I was enjoying our conversation so much I decided to take the long way around.”

Matt let another few steps pass while he pondered her reply. Pure sarcasm, he decided. Her deadpan delivery made it a little hard to tell. His attention focused on her. She never looked around, but she hunched a bit in her overcoat, as if she could feel his gaze on her back. Then again, it was possible she was hunching to avoid interacting with the people they passed on the street. Even with her cheap weather-beaten trench coat, a ratty moth-eaten fedora, and a pair of cheap sunglasses covering her eyes, she still drew looks. Some of that was, no doubt, the rapid fire impact of her boot heels on the sidewalk. Most of it was…

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Aunt Ophilia would laugh at him, he was certain. She had warned him about going into the ‘big city,’ and to avoid the ‘wanton ways of wicked women’. She had laughed when she said it, but she warned him, nonetheless. Now here he was, staring at the back of a woman who ought to look a ragamuffin, wishing there were some way he could match strides with her. Not possible without looking like a complete fool. At just under seven feet tall, he towered over most people. He judged Detective Miles to be four foot ten inches tall, increased by another three inches by the heels of her boots.

He realized he was mooning over her when she spun, nodded at a building, and said, “Okay, Frank. We’re here.”

Even with her sunglasses on, she was distractingly pretty. Matt blinked and looked at the building to break eye contact with her. It was a three-storey converted row house. A rope cordoned off the small doorway that would typically lead to the back yard. Another blocked the main doorway. He looked down at the detective, who stared up at him, expectantly. “By your leave?”

“By your leave? What are we, in a play all of a sudden? Get to it.”

Matt pulled a small tape recorder out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket and began his investigation.

“Alley door to the left of the main entrance is badly damaged. Cracks in the wood are old, significantly weathered. Detective, has this door been moved at all?”

“Nope.”

“This does not appear to be the method of egress or entry.” Matt thanked providence for that. Going through most row house doors in Philadelphia forced him to stoop through the entire entryway, but that would be nothing compared to squeezing himself through one of the tiny alleys. “Front door appears to have been forced some time ago. How long ago did you say the crime was committed?”

“I didn’t.”

Matt shrugged. “Front door has been forced, but the scratch marks are faded.”

Matt pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and slipped them over his hands. “Entering the house through the front door.”

The front door was unlocked, and the entryway was a typical Philadelphia row house antechamber. After navigating the tiny room and both doors, Matt stopped to take in the dusty, disheveled interior. “Tracks in the entryway have been obscured, presumably by police activity. Detective Miles has been here before.”

“How do you know that, Frank?”

Matt squatted down, careful not to touch the walls or floor with anything but the balls of his feet. Pointing at a distinctive toe and heel pattern, he tapped one of her feet. When she lifted it, the same pattern stood out clearly in the dust.

“How do you know it’s not someone with the same shoes as me?”

“Another woman with your shoe size is possible, if unlikely. Another woman with your shoe size and penchant for high heeled boots visiting a crime scene pushes the limits of credulity. However, you do have a point.” He spoke into the recorder again, “It is possible another woman passed through here wearing Detective Miles’ shoes. Wait!”

When he spoke, Detective Miles froze, one foot inches above the ground. Matt filed it away as yet another feat of casual athleticism. He had a more important clue to ponder.

“Detective Miles, how many female police officers are there on the force?”

“Including me, excluding meter maids?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have an exact count, but not too many. A handful. Why?”

“Please hold still. Your shoes are an excellent visual size reference.” With that, Matt pulled a small camera from his suit jacket pocket and snapped a few photos. When he was done, he looked about, but there weren’t any other recognizable prints.

“There is a footprint just under your right foot. I would estimate three to four shoe sizes larger than yours, but still petite enough to be female. Additionally, there is no tread, nor is there a heel. At a guess, I would say the footwear in question is a soft soled slipper of some kind.”

“Yeah. Not too many cops wearing dainty moccasins. Looks like the witness was right. There was a woman here.” The detective bit off a curse as she lifted her foot and leaned over to look at the footprint she’d narrowly avoided scuffing. She carefully stepped past the mark on the floor, squeezing past Matt to do so. As she brushed past him, static electricity crackled between them in the dusty air.

Her gaze pinned him. Their eyes locked. His words died unsaid, his mouth hanging open silently as cinnamon eyes pinned him in place. Michaela’s words washed over him, sounds refusing to merge into meaning.

“Your eyes are two different colors.”

Matt stared, awestruck by the perfection of Michaela’s features. He knew he ought to say something, knew there was something he ought to be doing. He couldn’t bring himself to look away. He couldn’t even bring himself to care about looking away. After a few moments frozen in that position, Detective Miles turned, shaking her head in apparent disgust. Her words were laced with impatience as she pointed up the stairs.

“Crime scene’s up there, Wonder Boy.”

***

Michaela watched Matt duck walk up the steps, stopping every few steps to photograph the floor. He ought to look ridiculous. He was lanky, his head, hands, and feet too big for his body. Her earlier comparison to a mastiff puppy still fit his look, but the way he carried himself was something else.

Every move he made was precise, planned out before he made it and executed quickly and carefully. The combination of his ungainly cute appearance and his precise, careful behavior unsettled her. Her gut clenched as she watched him make his way to the top of the staircase.

She had no idea what had caused the crackling discharge of electricity when she slid past him. It had coursed through her, setting all her nerve ends tingling. Worse than that, it started a fluttering between her legs. That sensation was getting worse the longer she watched him make his way up the stairs.

I am going to dangle Mike over a pit.

Matt reached the top of the stairs and straightened up. He looked down to where she still stared up at him, and their eyes met again.

A pit with storms in.

Matt’s soft voice drifted down from the upper storey. “People are less careful on stairs. They often leave evidence of passage when they otherwise would not. I’ve photographed everything that remains. Come on up.”

Impatience propelled her up the first three steps in a single bound. That set her back to itching again. She tromped up the rest with irrational vengeance occupying her mind. She didn’t notice what Matt was doing until she ran into him at the top of the steps. He rocked slightly, one arm reaching around her to steady her. She didn’t need him to keep her from falling down the steps. She needed him to stop making her twitch.

Ignoring the tiny static sparks jumping from his arm to her back, Matt sniffed the dry, hot air in the upper floor of the row house. He peered back and forth, inhaling short, sharp breaths through his nose as he did so. After a few moments he turned to the back bedroom, the scene of the crime. He took one step that direction, let her go, and inhaled deeply.

“How bloody is the crime scene?”

“Not very bloody at all. The bullet lodged in the vic’s spine, missed the arteries. A bit of splatter from the entry is about it.”

“That’s odd. There’s something here… What was the cause of death?”

“I dunno. Lead poisoning? Suffocation from lack of breathing? Broken heart?”

Matt turned to her with a quelling look. “Did you even read the coroner’s report?”

She couldn’t help it; he was so cute when he was trying to look severe. A goofy grin forced its way onto her face.

A pit with flaming tombs. Flaming Tombs, Mike.

“Yeah. Guy was shot. .22 caliber bullet. He fell down. He died.”

The beginnings of a grin spoiled Matt’s glower. “Were there puncture wounds on the body?”

“No knife marks mentioned.”

“I didn’t ask about knife wounds. I was thinking bite marks.”

Michaela blinked. This wasn’t going any direction she had expected. “Nope, no bite marks. Why are you looking for bite marks, Frank?”

“There is a faint but distinct odor of brimstone in this room. While commonly misidentified as sulfur, a discerning nose can tell the difference. Dogs, for instance, know immediately, and react with near universal aggression when confronted with something smelling of brimstone.”

Michaela frowned at him. He was implying things, but she’d been wrong about people before. She really didn’t like the idea of being an experimental subject, so she chose her words carefully. “You’re the last person I expected to be talking about myths, Frank.”

“Why?”

“You’re a scientist. Near enough, anyhow. I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

Michaela watched, fascinated, as Matt’s mouth moved into full on lecture mode while his body kept moving around the room, hands carefully snapping shots of the floor. “A scientist believes in the evidence of their senses directly or at one remove, through measuring devices. I’ve seen evidence of things most people refer to as ‘supernatural’ with my own eyes. I’ve also seen my father’s recorded measurements and read his books on the subject. While I take his research with a healthy dose of skepticism, my personal experience keeps me from discounting it completely.”

“Personal experience?”

“It is a private matter.”

Her gut clenched. I need some new pits. She heard the Chinese had some lovely ones. One filled with snakes. “Oh, no. You don’t get to weasel out of this that easy, Frank. You tell me we’re going to go on a snipe hunt for things that go bump in the night, you’re going to tell me how you got up close and personal with the supernatural.”

“Ah…”

“Oh, did you have dreams about them?”

A warning note entered his voice, which Michaela gleefully ignored. “Detective Miles…”

“Oh, was it a special dream, the kind big boys have?”

“If you simply must know, my godparents—my ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’—are not human.”

“Not human. What are they then?”

“Aunt Ophilia is a Fae. Uncle Micah is a Golem.”

All the humor drained out of her in a flash. “Aunt Ophilia.”

“Yes. Well, she’s actually just a close friend of my father’s, but I grew up calling her ‘aunt.’ Do you know her?”

“Yes.”

“You seem upset.” Matt actually sounded concerned about her. That was a tone she hadn’t heard for years. Centuries even.

Michaela clamped down on her suspicions. It wasn’t Matt’s fault who his father hung around with. She’d known some young Italian officers who were quite nice and law abiding, despite their family connections to the Mafia. When she was sure her voice would be even, she spoke again. “A bit. I just found out my would-be partner has some very questionable associations.”

“Aunt Ophilia? I know she looks bohemian, but she’s really quite nice. Now if you’re done telling me my family is riff raff, can we please talk about the murderer here?”

She shook her head. Matt’s family shouldn’t be affecting her that much. No one else’s did. “No. Yeah. We can do that. Just took me by surprise, you looking all mild mannered, and being related to… Um…”

“Riff raff?”

“Not what I was going to say. You’re right, though. Let’s find out who this chick is. What can you tell me about her?”

“Well, she wore soft-soled slippers, a wide bottomed skirt or dress, possibly a hoop skirt, and a parasol.”

“I get the slippers and dress, but how did you get the parasol?”

Matt pointed into a shadowed corner, where the distinctive shape of a fluffy umbrella was picked out in the dust on the floor. She wouldn’t have even noticed it had he not pointed it out to her. Suddenly she felt like a complete ass for criticizing his family ties.

“Good catch, Frank. Anything else we should know about our Southern Belle?” At the word ‘Belle,’ Michaela’s instincts shouted at her, and she almost didn’t hear Matt’s next words.

“Yes. She’s a demon.”

“A demon?” Her instincts screamed at her now; if he stopped talking the name would come to her. Of course, he took her question as a prompt to lecture her.

“Yes. According to my father’s notes, there are two types of extraplanar manifestations. One is summoned entities, who inhabit a form created by their summoner. Their physical power is based on the material their body is crafted from, amplified by the faith and belief of their summoner. Another type of manifestation is an actual visitation by an extraplanar entity. Those vary in power based on the native power of the entity. Within each category there are a variety of types; my father believes the types are based on the entity’s realm of origin.”

“Frank?”

“Yes, Detective Miles?”

“Shut up, please.”

“I was just trying to help.” Now he sounded hurt. Which upset her more than she wanted to admit. A really deep pit.

“I know, but I think I know who you’re talking about, I just can’t remember.” A cry of frustration forced its way past her lips, and she pressed her clenched fists against her temples. “Frank, what was I just saying?”

“Shut up, please?”

“Yeah, no. Before that.”

Matt’s voice took on the singsong notes of recitation, “‘Frank.’, ‘A demon?’, ‘Good Catch, Frank. Anything else we should know about our Southern Belle?’, ‘I get…’”

Memory finally clicked, “Belle! That’s it! Now I remember. I am so going to whip her damned ass.”

“You know the demon in question?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

“You are friends with her?”

The condemnation in Matt’s voice snapped her out of her rush at remembering who she was looking for. “No. Oh, no, no, no. She’s an old adversary, you might say. However, all that’s beside the point. I’m almost certain I know where she is.”

Now the predatory impulse she felt was mirrored by the grin on his face. “Shall we go ask her some questions?”

“Let’s.”

Matt froze in place, a worried look furrowing his brow. “Do you think there might be violence?”

“I can only hope so.”

Sudden certainty firmed his features. “Ah. We’ll need stop at my apartment then. It’s on the way.”

***

Matt stared at the storefront below his apartment. Detective Miles’ stifled chuckles sounded from his right. He wasn’t sure why, but this was something he wanted her to understand.

“This is how I knew this apartment was the right one.”

“A storefront somebody turned into a shrine to a guy wearing his underwear on the outside?”

Matt refused to rise to the bait. Instead he looked through the host of red-caped heroes for the image he knew was there. The store owner rearranged the storefront every day, but some items were there no matter what. After a few moments searching he found what he was looking for, an old black and white image. A man in a bodysuit and cape struck a heroic pose; arms akimbo, barrel chest thrust out, staring into the middle distance.

“There.”

“Didn’t he commit suicide?”

Matt frowned. This wasn’t going the way he’d envisioned. Then again, he hadn’t done much envisioning. “The actor did. Not really my point.”

“What was, then?” She actually sounded curious, rather than dismissive. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts, rather than blurting out the first thing that came to mind. When he’d sorted things out in his head, he spoke, his voice unintentionally reverential.

“My father is a great believer in the power of myth and heroes on the human psyche. He feels this is especially true of children. When I was growing up, he didn’t allow me any television, radio, or books of fiction. The exception to his rule was these stories of heroism.” Matt waved a hand, indicating the storefront shrine to a hero with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men.

“Deprived childhood.” Michaela’s voice sounded genuinely sympathetic. “My… My father didn’t let me have much play time either.”

“Actually, I didn’t consider myself deprived. I still don’t, although I’m sorry for you if you feel yours was.” Michaela tossed one shoulder in a Gallic shrug, and Matt continued. “I loved those shows. I only got to watch and listen to the older ones. Sometimes I didn’t have enough time to listen to the whole show. Just the beginning. I’d fall asleep listening to them. My father…”

Matt didn’t realize he’d trailed off until his thigh crackled where Michaela poked him. “Yeah? Your father what?”

“It’s how I knew he really cared for me. When I was young, my mother died in a car accident. I nearly died myself. After that, my life was very regimented, but even when I disappointed him he never even hinted that he would take my one treat away. He even left it running after I’d gone to sleep, so I could listen if I woke up. I can’t count how many times I heard those lines.”

Michaela’s voice was feminine, but otherwise perfect for the lines. “Faster than a speeding bullet.”

Matt smiled down at her. “More powerful than a locomotive.”

She looked up at him, smirking as she craned her neck. “Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

Her eyes changed as he watched, sliding from green through grey and back to cinnamon brown. “Look, up in the sky! It’s a bird, it’s a plane.”

Matt’s voice was a whisper, and he was unsurprised to hear her voice chorus along with him, “Fighting a never-ending battle for Truth, Justice, and the American way.”

She grinned up at him, but this time the grin held no mockery, only comradely good humor. “It’s corny. Way too corny for me. It suits you.”

Matt kept talking, trying to keep the conversation going. Anything to keep her talking. “It didn’t always have that ‘American way’ part, you know.”

“Yeah, I knew that. I mean, it isn’t my obsession, but I’m old enough to remember when it was on television and the radio.” She closed down, her eyes sliding back to grey. He said the first thing that came to mind.

“What is?”

“What is what?”

“Your obsession.”

Her grin returned. Her eyes were still guarded, but now her playfulness had returned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I did ask.”

“Not the time, Wonder Boy. Get upstairs and get whatever we came for. I’ll wait out here.”

***

Michaela stared at the memorabilia collection while she waited for Matt to return, her mind racing. She had to find a way to keep Wonder Boy safe when she confronted Belle. Her train of thought went off the rails. She had no idea why she was trying to protect her mastiff puppy. He was a grown man. He was her partner, on paper at least.

Belle was way more than he could handle. In his terms, she was a manifested incarnate spirit. No one had summoned her. She had whatever powers were native to her. She had the powers of a Lord of Hell at her command. A spineless, weak Lord of Hell, but that was still enough to eat an academic like candy. Michaela had to find a way to get Matt out of the line of fire.

She stopped herself again. A pit. A deep pit full of burning tombs and storms and snakes and razor blades. Bystanders hadn’t been her concern for… Ever, really. She worked alone, or occasionally as commander of a force of soldiers, but she wasn’t the person anyone called when someone needed protecting. She was a ‘go get the bad guys’ sort, not a bodyguard. She certainly wasn’t going to start now.

So, if her job was to go get the bad guys, why wasn’t she going to get the bad guys? Why was she standing in front of a comic book store, staring at a dozen variations on the theme of a man who could fly?

Great, now her shoulders itched.

She stared up at the image that had replaced her kind. When she realized why she was waiting, her eyes slid closed, and a groan slipped free of her lips. A pit, Mike. A pit! She was showing off. She was trying to impress him, and taking Belle down would be impressive. Impressive enough that Sammie’s nightclub might wind up needing some serious remodeling, and impressive enough that one Frankenstein would wind up a stain on the floor if he didn’t run.

That was it. It was time to end this ‘partner’ farce and get back to what she did best. Taking down bad guys. She turned to go and ran straight into a suit jacket covering abs of steel. She was so surprised she bounced back, rather than pushing past him. She gave Matt a once over. He had added a bowler and walking stick to his ensemble, but that was it.

“You’re ready to go then?”

His voice was as deep and soft as ever, like warm felt caressing her ears. “Yes, Detective Miles. Whenever you’re ready.”

Now he would follow her, even if she tried to lose him. With those giraffe legs of his, she probably wouldn’t be able to. Her shoulders started itching again.