A customer named S. Thornhill purchased three beers and a cocktail from the Vintage Lounge last Tuesday.
Wild holds the receipt in his hand and sighs. The thin paper is slightly creased from his fingers, and he flattens it carefully on his desk. Wild searches the Bureau database for S. Thornhill, expecting it to come up with hundreds of names.
Instead, there are only three.
Wild looks over at Angel, whose eyes are drooping slightly as they flick through reports from the night before, looking for anyone who matches Ronan’s description. It took an hour to calm Kipp down the day before, and by the time Angel put out a bulletin looking for him, it was late in the evening. Angel had logged the receipt into evidence but then turned their attention back toward looking for Ronan.
With no information of where he would have gone after leaving the diner so suddenly, scouring all incoming reports is the logical next step in trying to find him. Of course, both Angel and Wild have the fear that their search will yield a match.
Better not to find him, if it means finding him in the morgue.
Wild is certain Angel stayed later than they said they would so that they could try a few location spells. He found the map crumpled in the bin this morning.
Wild yawns and turns back to the list. The first is a young man named Sebastian Thornhill, and he answers the phone almost immediately, which surprises Wild, who was expecting to get voicemail. Wild stutters over his introduction, ignoring Angel’s amused smirk, and asks Sebastian if he has ever been to the Vintage Lounge.
But Sebastian doesn’t drink alcohol and never goes to that side of town.
The second is Sage Thornhill, whose number is out of service. A more thorough check of the name brings up a death certificate.
The third, Susan Thornhill, doesn’t answer the phone. “Feel like heading over there?” he asks Angel, whose head is dropping so far forward that he’s surprised he doesn’t hear snoring coming from their direction.
Angel sits up with a jerk. “Yep,” they say, blinking around the office, surprised to find it so bright and so busy.
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Susan Thornhill lives on a dead-end street, though her house is only halfway down. The house is a newer build, cookie-cutter perfect with bland brown trim and a beige stucco exterior. The yard is a little overgrown, but the house is clearly lived in.
With the curtains drawn, Wild can see the living room, with its pink floral wallpaper and chintz loveseat. A cat lounges on the windowsill and stares disapprovingly as Angel knocks on the door.
When the door swings open to reveal an elderly fae with thin pointed ears and green waxy skin, Angel introduces them and asks for Susan Thornhill.
The fae looks up at them beneath dew-encrusted eyelashes and nods enthusiastically. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Ms. Thornhill’s house is warm compared to the cool October wind outside, and perhaps that is because it is essentially a greenhouse. Fitting for a Blodeuwedd cutting, whose life force is tied to the clusters of meadowsweet and broom flowers that fill the room.
Wild knows immediately that it would be nearly impossible for her to frequent the Vintage Lounge unless she could somehow transport her entire living room with her.
“I told you lot,” she is saying, rummaging around the kitchen for a tea kettle, “that something like this would happen.” They hear the sound of boiling water and a tea set being placed on a tray.
Angel sits down on the couch, surreptitiously pushing a leaf out of their face. The leaf seems even more interested and brushes against their cheek. Angel scowls and shifts to the middle of the loveseat, leaving Wild to take the armchair next to the window.
The cat jumps gracefully down from the windowsill and sits in front of Wild with its head cocked to the side as if taking its owner’s annoyance onto itself, as if to say, “Yes, she did tell you…”
When Ms. Thornhill comes back into the room, she places the tray down on the table and offers them each a biscuit, which they politely decline. Wild, because he is not fond of the crumbly biscuits flavored with dried cranberries. Angel, because they know better than to eat food given to them by an unknown fae.
Even when freely given, accepting and consuming food from the fae counts as a favor, which, among certain races, is viewed the same as a contractual obligation. The obligation could be as menial as saying “Thank you” or exchanging currency.
It could also be as monumental as swearing a lifetime of servitude. Wild remembers a mortal who wandered into a contract with one of his uncles, who requested the mortal’s right eye, which was promptly displayed on the mantle, next to a jar of teeth from previous contracts.
It’s one of the reasons fae so often go into the service industry: no one’s going to skip out on a check when the consequences are unknown. Better to just pay your bill and tip well.
Ms. Thornhill finally sits down and bites off a corner of her biscuit, chewing angrily.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” suggests Wild.
Ms. Thornhill looks accusingly at them as she talks, telling them about the rowdy neighbors who moved in at the end of the street. “I’ve got nothing against vampires,” she says, in a way that sounds as if she does indeed have something against vampires. “I have a little baobhan sith in my lineage, as it were.”
Wild highly doubts this, considering that baobhan sith and Blodeuwedd are from two vastly different lineages, the former a creature built of shadow and blood, the latter requiring a steady diet of humidity and sunlight.
“Took you long enough to respond to my complaint. Worse than a pack of wolves, they are—urinating in my front yard. On everything within a mile radius, frankly. I have a seedling to nurture,” she says, setting her teacup down with enough force to splash the pale brown liquid over the sides. She looks over at a framed photograph on the side table. “I can’t raise my little Theodora in this kind of environment.” She picks up the photograph and hands it to Angel, who is sitting closest.
Angel makes an appropriate fawning comment about how adorable Theodora is before purposefully handing the photo to Wild.
Little Theodora is not quite so little. She stands in front of the house, a few feet taller than the front door, her bark skin dark against the leafy visage of her mother. Wild smiles politely and agrees that, yes, one cannot raise such a sweet child in such an environment.
“Just the other night, there was a whole to-do about something or other. The blonde witch and the vampire were out in the middle of the street, yelling at each other. And don’t get me started about that other witch. Far too young to be hanging out with men like that. You know,” she says, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a stage whisper, “I caught her snooping through my mail a while back.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“We’re very sorry you’ve had to deal with such a disruption,” says Wild, setting his teacup down. He pulls a photo of Amy from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Is this the person you saw going through your mail?”
Susan confirms with a hearty nod.
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“It looks like no one is home,” says Wild, as they stand outside Number 1313. The sky overhead is bright blue, but the wind is still cold, and Wild tucks his wings closer to himself, covering his shoulders against the frigid air.
The house sits at the end of the road with a chain link fence around it. It looks far older than its companions and much older than Ms. Thornhill’s newly constructed home across the street.
“Hmm, maybe,” says Angel, peering at the number on the door frame. “But don’t you feel unusually willing to walk by without looking?”
“Illusion?”
“I think so.”
“Can you…?”
Angel shakes their head. “Too big. I’m not strong enough to do that by myself. Maybe if Harvest was here.”
But Wild knows that Harvest and Quinn are miles away—Harvest perhaps even further if Wild understands what Quinn had told him earlier.
Wild looks up at the cloudless sky, feeling the wind brush against his wings. “I bet they didn’t bother to extend the illusion on top of the house.”
Angel’s eyes brighten as they rummage in their bag. Angel finds their illusion loupe and holds it up to their eye, adjusting the focusing ring as they observe the house. “You’re right. It looks like the illusion extends to just above the highest peak of the roof, where that attic window is.”
“I’m going to take a look.” Wild extends his wings, but before he can take off, Angel places a hand on his arm.
“Wait. I won’t be able to see you once you land on the roof.” Angel rustles around in the bottom of their bag, handing Wild scraps of paper and a tube of lip balm, before they find a small metal coin. On one side, the Bureau crest is carved into the silver, and on the other side is an imprint of an ear. Wild accepts the coin gratefully, slipping it into his back pocket.
The coins are a part of the standard-issue Bureau kits, much like Wild’s necklace, but are rarely used these days in favor of smartphones which have a much broader range. The coins, however, are quieter and smaller than a phone, with a very sensitive trigger.
Depending on the strength of the coin, the user doesn’t even need to make any sound: a strong enough thought will transport itself through the magic and reverberate against the corresponding coin, which Angel holds in their hand.
“If you need backup, let me know,” Angel says. They rummage around in their bag again until they pull out a small glass vial. The vial is filled with crushed salt and dried herbs, though Wild isn’t sure of the specific names. He begins to ask what it is when Angel very quickly and expertly plucks a hair from Wild’s head.
He makes a short bark of protest, rubbing his head with a scowl.
Angel places his strand of hair in the vial, sealing the cork by circling their finger around it three times, whispering the word “Apretado,” until a thin gold line appears around the cork like a string. The magic sinks into the cork, sealing the vial shut.
“Keep this in your pocket,” Angel says, placing it in the inside pocket of Wild’s jacket.
“Thanks, Dad,” he says playfully. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“I know. I just…” Angel looks over at the house again. “Be safe. Let me know if you need backup.”
He nods. “Will do.” With a deep breath, he extends his wings. They look like they fell from the trees behind him—paper-thin reds and browns and deep, golden oranges—and then, a second later, he is airborne. He looks down at Angel, who is peering up at him with a hand over their brow, leaves scattering around their feet.
Now that he is above the illusion, he can see what it is hiding. The house is certainly not as derelict as it was made to appear. It’s a modern square with rust-colored bricks and reclaimed wood details, topped by a sloping roof. The windows are tall and look almost more like frames, displaying the interior as if it were a painting. There are two cars and a motorcycle parked in the driveway.
Wild gently lands on the roof, hands gripped on the metal as he lowers himself down the incline. He briefly wishes he had asked Angel to perform an invisibility illusion on him, but decides to risk taking a peek through the window anyway.
The room is empty, and, luckily—perhaps because it is on the second floor or perhaps because the house was illusioned so well—the window isn’t locked. Wild slowly slides it upward and very nimbly folds himself through the opening, wings tucked to avoid bumping the top of the window frame.
He steps down quietly, his footfalls cushioned by the rug on the floor. The door is open, and he can hear voices wafting up the stairs—the rough rumblings of two or three different masculine voices and at least one feminine voice.
“I don’t know nothing,” says one of the masculine voices, and Wild registers the accent as Roderick. He doesn’t recognize the other voices, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he recognized their names and faces. He pulls the coin out of his pocket and whispers against the side with the ear, knowing that his words will echo against the matching coin in Angel’s hand. “Roderick here. Possibly Ozias and maybe Hazel too.”
Slipping the coin back into his pocket, he takes slow, deliberate steps out onto the landing outside of the room. Before he exits, he glances down and sees a phone on the dresser. He taps the screen, and a picture of the moon comes up, covered by frantic notifications from Kipp. He pulls the coin out again. “Ronan is here too.”
At the top of the stairs, he pauses, listening for the voices and trying to gauge where they are coming from. From where he’s standing, he can see a corner of brushed brass that he thinks is a stove. The voices are coming from the opposite side, where an archway leads into a living room.
“What are you even doing here, Nico?” asks one of the masculine voices. “I thought you were out of the business. What excuse did you use a century ago? Irreconcilable differences?”
“Dominic is allowed to change his mind,” says another male voice. “He’s here to talk business. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Grayson, I—”
There is the sickening crunch of bones being broken and a grunt. Wild inches down the stairs, holding out the coin and hoping that the conversation is being picked up and passed back to Angel outside. He pauses next to the entryway of the room but doesn’t dare take a peek. He presses his back against the wall and listens.
There is a choked groan, followed by the sound of someone spitting.
“I see you are as willing to use violence as you were a century ago, Grayson.” Wild is fairly certain this is Dominic. Or Nico, as Locke insists on calling him.
“You may have grown a heart and joined the animals, Nico, but some of us still live in respectable society,” replies Locke.
A chuckle. “Grayson, why are you even here? How did you find the place?” Ozias, perhaps?
“A little rat told me where to find you,” Locke replies smugly. “I came for her.”
“I’m not going back,” says Hazel.
“I’d be happy to convince her,” suggests Roderick. There is a scuffle, boots making a heavy sound on the floor, and an alarmed cry from Hazel.
“You stay the fuck away from her,” says Ronan. His voice sounds almost more like a growl.
There is another intake of breath from Hazel as Roderick says “I’ll do whatever the fuck—” His voice is suddenly stopped with a thunk and a choked gargle, the unmistakable sound of a sharp object being sunk into muscle. A body falls to the floor.
“Dammit, Dominic, there’s blood everywhere now. We just had this carpet cleaned, for fuck’s sake.” Ozias, again. Wild is certain of it, now.
“This is getting tedious,” says Dominic. “Are we talking business or not?”
“Sure,” says Locke. “Give me the stone fruit and the knives you took from me, and I’ll be out of your hair. You can keep the rat.” There is a deep thud, and Wild imagines this is Locke pushing Roderick’s body away from him with his shoe.
“I think you’ll find those are mine,” says Ozias. “I commissioned the products. You didn’t even think it would work until Hazel demonstrated the portal.”
There is silence for a second, and Wild isn’t sure what’s happening. And then Hazel’s voice says “Don’t touch me,” louder and more insistent than before, with a slight panic in the back of her throat. There is a slap and Wild hopes Hazel left a mark on Locke’s face. Wild is sure he deserves it.
There is a low growl, and Wild wonders how much of Ronan’s second-form is willing to show itself right now, despite the bright, clear sun outside. It sounds like Roderick is dead or at least injured enough to be unconscious. Wild hopes that Angel has called for backup and is working on dismantling the illusion.
Then, he hears the unmistakable metallic click of a gun.
In one quick, smooth movement, he holds his badge out and swings around to face the room.
He takes in the scene quickly: Ronan is standing next to Hazel, poised to run. Ozias is gripping Hazel’s upper arm possessively. Locke has a gun pointed at Hazel. Dominic is standing off to the side, his hand reaching behind him to shield a weapon—probably the weapon he used to stab Roderick in the chest, who is crumpled on the floor, turning the ornate rug a deep crimson.
“Bureau,” Wild announces, “please lower your weapons and—”
The gun goes off.