He wants to do this right. He’s called Angel, who will call Wild. His team will arrive soon with spelled silver handcuffs, and Quinn will greet them outside of the Lighthouse. Angel and Wild will interview Roderick the right way: in a musty interrogation room with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and chairs that creak every time you shift your weight. He will be offered stale cow’s blood when he complains of a dry throat. He will be forced to sit in the interrogation room for an hour at least, long enough for his confidence to wither away into nervousness.
Quinn wants all of that to happen—and it will—but first, Roderick is restrained in the storage room at the back of the bar, a heavy iron chain wrapped around him three times and sealed with a handy little symbol a witch taught Dominic centuries ago. Dominic has already closed the bar, sending his employees home with a little extra pay. Wild and Angel are at least thirty minutes away.
Quinn won’t touch Roderick, of course, and, at the moment, he truly believes this. He is bound by his oath to the Council, who installed him in his role at the Bureau two hundred years ago. The thought of his oath ceremony brings a sour taste to the back of his throat—an obligation that still stings, regardless of the fact that it was brought on by his own actions. However, his employment obligation doesn’t annoy him as much as the promise to adhere to the Bureau Code of Ethics. He doesn’t remember the Code verbatim, but there’s probably something in there about not torturing suspects for information.
Dominic, however, has sworn no such oath.
The dagger Dominic holds is old, fae-forged but witch-cursed. It is the only blade Dominic owns (and most likely the only blade this side of the Fae-Lands) that can pierce vampire flesh so deeply that it takes days to heal, as opposed to the two or so minutes a knife wound would typically take to heal. Dominic weighs it in his hand, rubbing a thumb over the smooth white jade hilt. The pommel is carved into the likeness of a horse, bridled with gold and rubies.
Its age is unknown, though Dominic has owned it for at least five centuries now. Even though it’s been sitting in a steamer trunk at the foot of his bed for the past hundred years, the blade is still shrewdly sharp, the steel gleaming thirstily with alchemical symbols in the low light of the room.
“What’s it to you,” Roderick is saying, “if I wanna fuck some witch behind the dumpster, it’s none of your business.”
“She wasn’t asking for it,” says Dominic, pressing the dagger to Roderick’s neck. A faint sizzle fills the air, along with the smell of burned flesh.
Roderick swallows but doesn’t seem to realize that the burn on his neck has turned red and raw. “Then why’d she follow me out there?” His tone is thick with condescension.
Dominic presses the dagger tighter against Roderick’s throat, pulling his head back by his hair and drawing a thin line across. Roderick begins to laugh, but the sound ends in a startled gurgle when he realizes that the cut not only hurts but is still bleeding.
“Roderick, right?” says Quinn. He grabs a chair from a stack in the corner and takes his time settling into it. He leans back and stretches his legs out, folding his hands across his stomach. “Tell me about yourself.”
Roderick is at a loss for words. This isn’t quite how interrogations go, in his experience.
“You work for Locke?” Quinn motions toward the scar on Roderick’s forearm, a gnarled pink mark caused by a witch’s curse. It is the physical manifestation of an employment contract between Roderick and Locke. The shape of the mark is not what matters—they all vary based on the individual. Dominic’s had been a horse, riderless but rearing back as if in battle, with a GL carved on its chest. Roderick’s is a snake, sliding around his wrist and then downward, circling the GL on the back of his hand.
“It’s not like I’m the only one in this room who knows Locke,” he sneers, glancing down at Dominic’s arm.
“Do you know Hazel Rosenbloom?”
Roderick is silent.
“Do you know anything about the murdered woman found earlier today? The woman who looks suspiciously like Hazel Rosenbloom, and yet, isn’t?”
A sizzle, a draw of the knife. Roderick chokes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Quinn frowns and leans forward, pointing toward the knife in Dominic’s hand. “How long has that dagger been sheathed?”
Dominic angles the blade, letting it catch the light, and considers the question. “A hundred years or so?”
“So it’s hungry.” Quinn raises his eyebrows and turns back to Roderick. “Did you know that about fae-forged blades? They get hungry if they sit for too long. Restless. There’s no telling what a hungry blade will do.”
Roderick’s gaze flickers between Quinn and Dominic, and then toward the blade, already tarnished with a thin coat of his blood. He swallows. “Look, I know something went down today, but it wasn’t Locke. It was Ozias.”
“Tell me about Ozias.”
“One of Locke’s crew, though not anymore. He has his own business.” Dominic slides the dagger against the side of Roderick’s neck. The wound oozes. “I—I—I don’t know what his game is. I don’t get involved with that side of things. Maybe drugs or something. I don’t know, okay?”
“And…?”
“That’s it. That’s all I know, I swear.”
Dominic considers the dagger in his hand, then looks up at Quinn, a silent conversation flitting between their gazes. Then he turns and, in one smooth motion, sinks the dagger into Roderick’s shoulder.
Roderick screams, his arms straining against the iron chains holding him to the chair. Quinn moves swiftly, grabbing the back of Roderick’s head. He leans close and says in his ear, “The next time you want to fuck some witch in an alleyway, you better make damn sure she wants to do the same to you.” He pauses, spreading his lips to show his fangs. “And if you ever touch Harvest Rosenbloom again, I will kill you.”
Quinn tightens his grip on Roderick’s head, bringing his other hand up to pat Roderick on the cheek, before twisting his wrists. The movement causes Roderick’s neck to snap with a sickening crunch.
When Quinn looks up, Dominic is shaking his head. “Was that really necessary?”
“No,” he admits, looking down at Roderick slumped over in the chair. Then he grins. “But it felt good.”
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Agent Wild Neverbee curses under his breath and reaches for his phone, jabbing sleepily at the screen until his thumb finally taps the correct button, connecting the call. He listens for a few seconds, humming in response while glancing over at the figure sleeping peacefully next to him.
There is an unspoken rule against Bureau agents engaging in romantic relationships, but Ivo is a technician in the Magi-Tech lab and isn’t technically an agent. This is their third date, and Wild hadn’t anticipated it ending up here. One too many martinis sealed their fate.
It’s rare for fae to get drunk. It’s even rarer for them to get proper hangovers, too, and yet Wild can feel a small pinching pain right behind his left eye.
Ivo stirs and turns over to smile at Wild, his green cat-slit eyes sparkling in the moonlight. It highlights the stripes on his skin as well, dark bands that curve around his torso and arms. The smile settles into a sleepy contentment as he reaches out to caress Wild’s arm.
Wild absentmindedly pats Ivo’s hand and then shifts delicately away. “Yeah, I’ll be ready,” he says into the phone. When he hangs up, he looks down at Ivo with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Work.”
Ivo sits up and rubs his eyes with a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Three,” says Wild, already out of bed and rummaging through his closet for his suit. Not that it’s difficult: the majority of his wardrobe consists of suits, with only a small portion dedicated to more casual wear, including a pair of trainers and workout clothes. The only unusual thing in his closet is the full set of fae-forged armor and a broadsword—his inheritance that he begrudgingly brought with him when he left the Fae-Lands of his childhood. They gleam gold, despite the darkness of the room. The topaz and garnets spark like fire and remind him of the crisp smell of the forest as summer bows down to autumn.
He keeps the closet door angled to hide the armor and focuses on buttoning his shirt. He takes a glance over his shoulder and sees Ivo searching under the bed for his discarded sock. “You can stay. If you want,” he says, his voice more casual than he feels.
Ivo shakes his head with another yawn, tucking his long red hair behind his pointed ears. “No, it’s okay. I’ll get going.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Wild tries to hide his relief by focusing intently on tucking in his shirt. He gets along well enough with Ivo, but inviting him to stay at his apartment while he goes off to work is a level of domesticity that he isn’t prepared for yet. Ivo dresses quickly, slowed only by a few minutes when he can’t find his shoe. Wild finds it underneath the couch in the living room.
Angel’s car is already outside when he opens the door. Ivo stands on the stoop while Wild locks up and then turns to say goodbye.
Ivo bites his lower lip and nods. “I’ll see you later,” he says with a smirk and then presses a kiss to Wild’s cheek.
Wild runs a hand through his hair nervously, but he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “I’ll call you,” he says, squeezing Ivo’s hand before they part ways.
“Cute,” says Angel when Wild folds himself into their car. “So that’s why you left dinner earlier, huh? What’s his name?”
“Ivo,” he says, trying to pull the seat belt over his wings.
“Boyfriend?”
“Maybe.” He tugs at the seat belt, and it finally releases, allowing him to pull it across his chest and buckle it. “I like the hair, by the way.”
Angel had grown tired of the blue almost immediately and has since gone back to their natural black. “I like change.”
“Then you’re probably happy about this case. It seems to be changing faster than we can keep up. First, it was a missing person, then a murder, and what now? Assault, too?”
Angel nods, checking the side-view mirror before turning. “I didn’t get the full details. I was half-asleep when Quinn called. Something about Harvest and a vampire.”
“What do you think about her, by the way? She works with Herman normally, right?”
“Yeah, though she’s still a trainee.”
“Do you think Quinn fancies her?”
“Yes.” Angel’s answer is firm and quick. They roll their eyes in response to Wild’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, come on. It’s obvious. Why else would she even be involved in this case? Why are we being called out to an assault? A vampire attacked her. Why not call some uniforms and a medic team?”
“He asked us to bring the cuffs. Presumably, he needs us to bring in a suspect. I’m sure there’s some relevance to the murder.”
Angel makes a vague hum and focuses on driving for a few seconds. Then they say, “I still think a few uniforms could have done this.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Of using Bureau resources to help out a girl because you have a crush on her? Definitely not.”
“What about the medical examiner?” Wild looks at Angel’s profile, lined in red by the stoplight they are waiting at. “Isn’t he sleeping with her?”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind that so much. At least she moves our cases to the top of her list.”
Wild laughs and looks out of the window, letting silence fall between them. This time in the morning, there is little traffic, and soon Angel pulls into a parking space by the Lighthouse. The headlights frame Quinn as he stands on the sidewalk, hands on his hips. He raises a hand at them in greeting before turning back to Harvest and another man.
Wild recognizes the other person as Ronan Kelly, the manager of Tabitha’s Diner. Earlier, he read through the statement Ronan gave when Hazel first went missing. Ronan was never a suspect, but Wild was struck by the familiarity with which he spoke of Hazel, and he wondered idly if there was more than friendship between them.
Harvest looks pale and tired, her neck covered with a large square of gauze. Ronan’s arm is around her shoulders, and he’s nodding quickly to something Quinn is saying, rubbing his scruffy chin with his free hand.
“Be sure she gets plenty of rest,” Wild hears Quinn say when he exits the car. “She’s probably dehydrated. Though that could be because of the rum.” He scowls in Dominic’s direction.
Dominic shrugs. “Again, it’s a bar.”
Quinn narrows his eyes but turns back to Harvest. She looks dead on her feet, her shoulders hunched over as she leans against Ronan. “Are you sure you’re up for coming in tomorrow?”
“Of course,” she says with a frown. “I’m really okay now. I could use some food, though.” She looks up at Ronan, who nods and tugs her closer to him as they walk away.
Wild watches Ronan lead Harvest to his car. He places his hand on the back of her head as he guides her into the seat. She brushes his hand away and says something sharp to him that makes him grin. Whatever he says in response makes her laugh, and she sinks back into the passenger seat, eyes already half closed.
“Right,” says Wild, holding up the silver cuffs. “So where’s our bad guy?”
----------------------------------------
The clock in Meeting Room Number Four is five minutes fast, and Wild frowns at his watch.
Roderick looks a bit worse for wear, bleary-eyed with blood stains on his shirt and dirty fingernails. It took three hours for the blood from his shoulder to clot. Same for the cuts on his throat. It will be another few days before they start to fade into a scar. “He was in a bar fight,” Quinn told him. Wild shared a look with Angel that said neither of them believed Quinn.
Not that it matters. Odds are, Roderick deserved it.
Angel and Wild left Roderick in the interrogation room, slowly awakening from his spinal cord being severed (“He fell down the stairs out back”), while they printed up a list of prior offenses linked to him. The list sits in front of him now, reminding him of the five or so other robberies and assault charges they could ask him about tonight.
“We’ve got all night,” says Wild. His wings are hanging down, and it takes some concentration to keep them there rather than letting them flicker in annoyance. The pain behind his right eye is persistent, pulsing against his temple. He crosses his arms and leans back, though his wings prevent him from using the backrest. “Someone was murdered.” He nods toward the picture of Hazel’s face, pale and waxy, with a slackness to it that is more than mere sleep. He is careful not to make any assumptions about the identity of their victim or lead Roderick in any way. “We already know you’ve been employed by Locke. Tell us about Ozias. Have you ever worked for him?”
Roderick looks down at the picture with a smirk. “They’re sisters, aren’t they? The witch from earlier and this one?”
“Why do you think that?”
Roderick is silent.
“Tell me about Ozias.”
“I don’t know anyone with that name.” Roderick looks up and smiles. His eyes look jaundiced in this light, and his hair is thin and greasy, covering his forehead. He brushes a few errant strands out of his eyes, his hands bound together by silver cuffs meant to dampen his strength.
The ticking of the clock fills the space.
Roderick is staring at the photo of Hazel with a lopsided smile, his canine teeth sharp. His eyes greedily drink her in. “It’s too bad she’s dead. I’d fuck her in a heartbeat.”
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Quinn watches from a room down the hall, frowning at the fuzzy black-and-white image of Roderick leering at Hazel’s photo. He looks hungry, and Quinn wishes he could do more than snap his neck.
Again, he regrets the gold ring on his pinky finger; he regrets the oath that scarred his throat as he spoke it out loud in front of the seven members of The Council.
Not that he had much choice in the matter.
He twists the ring around his finger, feeling the metal rub against the burn it had imprinted on his skin as soon as he decided to snap Roderick’s neck—an unfortunate side-effect of the magic inside the ring that holds him to his oath.
Then again, what would he do if he wasn’t shackled to his badge? Would he have killed Roderick earlier, in the cramped, dusty storeroom behind the bar? Would he have taken the dagger from Dominic’s hand and wielded it himself?
Maybe.
Quite possibly.
“We could get him on assault, at least,” says Agent Fitzgerald.
Although she is the most senior agent in SCD, she doesn’t need to be here, in the viewing room with Quinn. She had been in the office pouring over security camera footage from a string of bank robberies, when she glanced up to see Roderick being led to the interrogation room, his shoulders hunched and his shirt covered in blood splatter.
She knows Roderick from an assault case she worked on a year ago. Quinn remembers the case well because it hadn’t gone to trial. The victim refused to press charges and eventually changed her statement, claiming it was an accidental fall that led to her fractured wrist and black eye.
It’s obvious that the case still bothers Fitzgerald.
“Would your witch press charges?” she asks, her expression bright with an enthusiasm Quinn knows well. Quinn may resent his oath to the Bureau, but he does appreciate the satisfaction of a closed case with the right person behind bars.
“She’s not my witch,” he says under his breath, annoyed as much by Fitzgerald’s assumption as he is by the small jolt of pleasure that Harvest could be his anything.
He likes working with her, he realizes. He wonders why she’s wasting her time in Herman’s office. He knows Herman has her relegated to cross-referencing alibis and making photocopies. Her trainee probationary period must be nearly over, and she should have taken the agent’s exam by now.
He wonders if she would be interested in working for Serious Crimes. SDS, he corrects himself. He wants her for his team. Her talents are more suitable for Missing Persons (he stands by his sniffer dog analogy), but she could do just as well tracking murderers. She’s already proven herself useful. He wonders how long it would have taken them to discover the illusion without her.
Fitzgerald is still waiting for an answer. “She might,” he says. “She’ll be here in…” He looks at his watch. “Four hours.”
“I envy you. Have you gotten any sleep tonight? You look fresh as a daisy.”
He smirks, his tapered canines just visible. “I’m happy to share my secret with you anytime, Fitz.”
A clearing of a throat interrupts their conversation and they both turn around to look at the doorway, where Commissioner Rosenbloom stands. Quinn squares his shoulders and folds his arms across his chest, sure that he’s the reason for the Commissioner’s visit.
“A word,” she confirms, nodding toward Quinn.
Fitz takes her cue. “Let me know when your witch gets here and we can take her statement,” she says, before leaving with a nod of goodbye.
Commissioner Rosenbloom makes her way into the room, hands casually shoved in her pockets. Quinn makes a conscious effort not to shift his feet away from her.
“Agent Quinn,” she says with a polite smile. She angles her head toward his ring.
“How’s the burn?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Fine. It’ll heal in no time.”
Her responding smile is tight, incredulity written in her expression. “How long has it been since the last breach of your contract?”
He shrugs again and leans his head to the side, as if searching for the memory even though he will never forget it. “Hundred years or so,” he says casually. And I hope Dominic appreciates it, he adds to himself.
“What was the excuse then? Helping a friend out of a bad business deal.”
“I don’t think I phrased it quite like that.”
“No, I imagine you spun a more diplomatic story than the reality. Ever the politician.”
“I’ve never been a politician,” he says with a grin, “but I was once, very briefly, an advisor to an emperor.”
“You were also a soldier once. And yet, you’ve never been good at taking orders.”
His jaw clenches and unclenches. “Are you here to remind me of the terms of my agreement or take a trip down memory lane?” he asks, his annoyance slipping through, just enough for Commissioner Rosenbloom to give him a small shake of her head, a clear admonishment of his tone.
“I’m here to ask why you engaged in violence while working with my niece.”
“That’s not why you’re here,” he says, throwing in his most polite smile to soften the insolence. “You want to make sure that I don’t do anything that will hurt Harvest.” He pauses, but when she remains silent, he continues. “I’ve been an agent for two hundred years and never once in that time, have I knowingly put another agent in danger. I’m not about to start now.”
“I hope that remains true,” she says, as she turns to leave.
“Or what?” he chances.
She stops but doesn’t turn around to look at him. “Or I’ll tell Harvest a little story about who used to own that ring of yours,” she says quietly.
Quinn doesn’t have many secrets, nor does he feel fear much these days. But the askance look she gives him over her shoulder as she walks away unravels a feeling in his chest that feels a little too close to fear for comfort.