The first thing Harvest feels when she wakes up is mortification.

Are you hungry? Goodness, how could she have said that to someone she barely knows? Intellectually, she understands that it was the compulsion speaking, and quite possibly the cocktails too, but it still doesn’t erase the heavy feeling in her chest when she thinks of last night.

And it is increasingly difficult to erase the memory of last night as she makes her way into the bathroom and removes the bandage on her neck. Roderick had been rougher than she realized, leaving her with twin punctures, swollen and bruised around the edges. Her head is still hurting as well, though, again, that’s probably just a regular hangover, considering the strength of Dominic’s cocktails. She pokes the soft skin around the wound experimentally and applies Burrows’s tincture, the three small drops instantly cooling the wounds to something not exactly pleasant but at least not entirely bothersome.

She finds Ronan in the kitchen when she makes her way out of the guest room, intent on making a pot of coffee. She almost forgets about the wound, but the soft hiss of a curse from Ronan is a reminder enough.

“That bad, uh?” she asks, glancing in the hallway mirror.

“It’s not bad,” he says reluctantly. “But it’s not good either.”

With a sigh, she decides it’s probably more inconspicuous to cover it up than to leave it bare, so she makes her way back to the bathroom. She’s just pressed a piece of medical tape to her neck when Ronan brings her a mug of coffee, and she sips it gratefully.

Ronan hovers in the doorway, watching her as she applies mascara. She looks at his reflection in the mirror. “What?”

Her voice is a little more impatient than she means to be. She softens her gaze, hoping Ronan will take her harsh tone for what it is: pain mixed with sleep deprivation.

“Can you do me a favor?”

She turns from his reflection to look him in the eye.

“Be careful,” he says.

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

Harvest arrives at the Bureau earlier than Quinn and decides to wait at her desk until their meeting time. She logs into her computer to answer the emails that have been steadily stacking up in her inbox, feeling the bandage on her neck pull at her skin with every tiny movement.

The morning sun fills the MPU office as her colleagues filter in through the elevators. She sees Herman, the top of his head shiny with sweat. She ducks down as he passes, burying her attention in the stack of papers on her desk. He makes his way into his office and closes the door.

With a small grunt of pain, she stands up and decides to begin her descent to the fourth floor. The elevator takes longer than normal, and she jabs at the down button while she checks the time on her phone. Her attention is still on her screen when the doors eventually slide open, and she almost collides with Wild. He smiles and steadies her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Quinn sent me to find you,” he says amiably.

She apologizes, even though she still has five minutes before their meeting time. “I’m sorry you had to go out of your way.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.”

His gaze strays everywhere but to the bandage on her neck. She knows the bruises are just peeking out around the edges. To fill the silence, she inquires about Wild’s night.

He tells her that the interview with Roderick went well into the morning with very few answers to show for their work. Harvest can feel Wild’s annoyance just as much as she can see it when she blinks quickly to see his aura—a particular shade of golden light that is reminiscent of the sunlight filtered through orange leaves, but, at the moment, it is darkened as if a cloud has passed over.

The frustration is understandable: they are almost twenty-four hours into a murder investigation, and they don’t even know who their victim is. This may be Harvest’s first murder investigation, but she knows that identity is crucial if they are to save this case from the “Open-Unsolved” section of the Archives.

The elevator doors slide open onto the fourth floor, and Harvest follows Wild to the far corner, where three desks have been shoved together awkwardly but effectively. Angel is there, hunched over a leather-bound book. Angel doesn’t look up when Harvest and Wild approach.

Quinn is perched on the edge of his desk, but he straightens when he sees Harvest. He nods hello as he motions for her to follow him down the hall to a meeting room. It’s a more informal space than the interrogation rooms or the conference spaces, with a couch and two chairs. A dusty potted plant sits in the corner. Harvest takes a seat on the couch, glancing out of the window as she crosses her ankles, her hands folded in her lap.

It’s another dreary day, a cold autumn wind scuffling dead leaves across the sidewalk below. She’s dressed to match the weather, too, with black jeans and a gray shirt with a herringbone blazer. Her Aunt Bea always tells her that gray makes her look too pale, sickly, but somehow it doesn’t feel appropriate to wear any other color.

She’s not sure what he wants to chat about and why they can’t talk at his desk, but when he speaks, she’s somehow not surprised. Somewhere, in the back of her head, she remembers the low burning of his anger from last night. That was a mere simmer of something slipping through.

“Last night should not have happened,” he says. A muscle in his jaw clenches.

“I know it was stupid, but it’s not my fault he attacked me.” She avoids his gaze by looking out of the window again. A storm cloud is rolling in from the coast, and she blinks a few times as she watches the slate gray cloud move swiftly toward them.

“True, but if you’re going to be following criminals into dark alleyways, you need proper self-defense training,” he says, not unkindly, anger burned away quickly. “Roderick should be behind bars for what he did.” Quinn shakes his head and looks away, trying to find the right words to continue.

Harvest already knows what he’s thinking. “But he won’t be, will he? Even if I press charges, cases like this are rarely taken seriously.”

“You’re a Bureau employee, which holds weight.” Quinn’s voice is gentle, and he moves a little closer to her. “He bit you without your consent. That’s against the law.”

“But things like this happen all the time, don’t they?” she says with a scowl.

He scoffs, but not at her. “Yeah, some nonsense about the evolutionary imperative. Asking for consent goes against a vampire’s basic instincts. It’s rubbish.”

“Is compulsion always like that? So…” She searches for the word. “Invasive?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you have no qualms invading a young woman’s mind if it means you get answers quicker?”

The muscle in his jaw clenches again with an unvoiced retort. “Sometimes compulsion is necessary,” he says, evenly, annoyingly enigmatic, and final.

She raises her eyebrows to show that she clearly isn’t convinced, but allows him to steer the conversation back toward last night, as he asks her how she’s feeling.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“I’m utterly mortified about what I said to Dominic,” she admits.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Quinn says plainly. “Dominic understands.”

She nods. “Where did you two go last night, by the way?”

Perhaps her second-sight is evolving because, although she can’t see the shift in his energy, she feels it, despite the fact that his expression hasn’t faltered. When he speaks, she’s certain he’s lying, though to what extent, she’s not sure. “We were keeping an eye on the suspect until backup could arrive.”

She wonders if he’s protecting her or himself. “If I press charges, will he serve time?”

“Probably not as much as he should.” He leans so that his arm is resting against the back of the couch, a lock of his bronze hair falling casually across his forehead. He ignores it, his brow creased. “But it would be a start. He has several charges and complaints in his file and no witnesses who are willing to speak on the record. If he begins to escalate, your statement could help us convict him later on.”

“Okay,” she says. “What do you need me to do?”

“Detective Fitz will take your statement. She’s familiar with Roderick’s criminal history. In the meantime…” He pulls a lanyard out of his pocket. “I have this for you.”

“The transfer went through?” She slips the badge over her head.

“It’s temporary, though. When this case is closed, you’re back under Herman.”

She grimaces at the unfortunate wording, but when she looks down at her lanyard, which is black instead of the neon yellow that characterizes her status as a trainee, she smiles.

The picture isn’t flattering (it was taken from her personnel file and her hair suffers from a most unfortunate pixie cut that happened just after she broke up with Ezra the first time), but even that doesn’t dampen the sense of accomplishment. While there may still be some grumblings of favoritism from her colleagues, she did pass her agent exam last month and she’s qualified to be a full agent.

With a knock, Wild pokes his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt. We got some results from Magi-Tech.”

Harvest and Quinn make their way back to the triangle of desks, where Wild has posted a copy of the results on the whiteboard. Quinn offers his seat to Harvest and leans against the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest. Angel swivels their chair around to listen to Wild.

“Magi-Techs tested some samples from the rugs in the bedroom and living room. They found a very distinctive portal residue on both,” he reads. “However, there were some anomalies that made the technician reluctant to classify it as demon, but the report does suggest that someone entered the living room via a portal and then walked straight into the bedroom.”

“How did they get past the wards, though?” asks Harvest, pen poised over a small notebook she keeps in the inside pocket of her suit jacket. “They should have extended beyond the door and far into the living room. The portal shouldn’t have opened.”

“They think the portal was cast by a demon stronger than your wards, or maybe two demons working in tandem,” he says.

Harvest frowns but doesn’t comment.

“Two intruders would be more likely,” Quinn points out. “Demons that powerful are rare.”

“So we’re operating under the assumption that the goal was to fake Hazel’s death, correct?” asks Wild.

“I think that’s what it was meant to look like,” says Angel. “Harvest and Quinn were asking questions about Hazel. Ozias doesn’t need the Bureau sniffing around. If Hazel’s dead, we’ll stop looking. Case closed.”

“Either way,” continues Wild, “there was no evidence that Ezra had touched the body, besides one fingerprint, which matches up with his statement of what happened. And we can rule out Hazel, as well as Locke and Ozias, as they’re not demons.”

“I guess that’s something,” mumbles Angel.

“What about the victim?” asks Quinn. “I know the illusion complicates things, but were they able to do any testing on their blood? If we can isolate the magic they carry, it might help us narrow down our search.”

“Burrows was supposed to do that this morning. I’ll follow up,” says Angel.

Harvest taps her pen against her notebook in thought. “Can illusions affect the blood though?”

“They can,” says Angel, pulling a book from the stack on their desk and flipping through to find a particular section. “According to Hyde, a medieval scholar who wrote a lot about illusion spells. Their Treatise on the Making Of and Applying Illusions is still considered the best resource on illusory spell work.” They angle the book toward Harvest so she can read the paragraph.

“Fallacia maleficia,” mumbles Harvest.

Quinn grimaces at her pronunciation but doesn’t correct her.

“If illusions are cast correctly,” continues Angel, “and last long enough, they might seep in through the skin, tainting the blood. But it would take weeks of exposure to get that far. Most illusions are pretty short-term these days, and there’s certainly no need to apply one to your whole body. Illusions work better and look more realistic if they only change a few key features.”

“Are you any closer to breaking it?” asks Quinn.

Angel shakes their head. “I have some ideas I want to try out. I’ll head over to the morgue in a bit, though.”

Quinn nods. “Good. We’ll meet you over there. Wild, can you follow up on the portal? You said there were some anomalies. If there’s someone else out there who can cast portals that look like demon portals, I want to know.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he says. “I’ll head over to Magi-Tech right now.”

“Say hello to a certain redhead from me,” mumbles Angel.

Wild’s cheeks turn pink as he shoots Angel a scowl before sauntering away, wings fluttering.

“What was that about?” asks Quinn, distractedly, eyes still trained on the whiteboard.

“The fae in Magi-Tech? Ivo, right?” guesses Harvest.

Angel confirms with a nod, a smirk playing on their lips.

Harvest nods approvingly and shifts to turn toward Angel. “He’s cute. I think he knows my Aunt.”

Angel closes their book and arches an eyebrow in surprise. “The Commissioner?”

“Oh, no, the other one. Aunt Trixie’s wife, Aunt Bea. She’s fae.”

“That sounds fascinating. You must know a lot about fae magic—” begins Angel. The two are now turned toward each other, joined together through a mutual interest in the mischief that irrevocably binds them together despite their differences. The conversation dissolves into musings on the differences between fae and witch magic, with a few forays into fae culture.

Or what little of it Harvest knows. She has never visited her fae relatives. Though, from Aunt Trixie’s stories, she’s not sure she wants to.

“Don’t you have an illusion to break?” interjects Quinn, back still turned to Angel and Harvest. She hadn’t been aware that he was paying attention to their conversation.

“Yes, sir,” says Angel mildly.

“I would like to go to the morgue with Angel,” says Harvest. “I would love to see their process for picking apart the illusion.”

Quinn finally glances back at her, “Soon. I want you to talk to Fitz first.”

For a moment, Harvest forgot the bandage on her neck and piercing headache, but the pain rushes back into her consciousness, along with the overwhelming sense of embarrassment and the ever-present weight of guilt. To Angel’s credit, they don’t even glance down at Harvest’s neck. Instead, Angel gathers their research and says goodbye.

“I know what you’re doing, by the way,” says Quinn with a smirk.

“What do you mean?”

He nods toward the elevator, where the doors have just closed. “Angel respects knowledge. And rules. You’ll get far with them if you emphasize that.”

“I’m not trying to manipulate them into liking me.”

He shrugs. “No, but you want them to like you. And you figured out a way to do that pretty quickly, it seems.”

“I wasn’t…I’m not…” Harvest scowls. Rotten to the core. “Fitz is waiting for us.”

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

The flash of the camera is startling and Harvest blinks against the bright blooms of light. The bite mark on her neck is still bruised and raw, thrown into stark relief on the computer screen as the image loads.

The technician documenting her injury is blissfully indifferent. Fitz is just as professional as she takes Harvest’s statement, but there is a glint in her eye. Harvest recognizes the look; she saw it in Quinn’s eye yesterday at her home (crime scene, she reminds herself), and she saw it earlier, in Angel’s eyes as they talked about illusions.

Harvest idly wonders if she will earn that look—the disinterested but keen observation of a highly-trained Bureau agent. It’s a particular sort of frankness tempered by efficiency and Harvest hasn’t yet been able to hone it. She knows she has the habit of showing her thoughts as soon as they come, her eyes forever readable.

Not that she’s particularly interested in losing that quality altogether. She recognizes that her ability to show empathy at the drop of a hat will be useful when dealing with grieving families or even anxious suspects.

But Quinn’s words from earlier fill her with a chill. She doesn’t want to think about the fact that her empathy can so quickly turn into manipulation.

She hates that word, to be honest. It’s a word Ezra loved to use against her, when they argued or when she asked him for something he didn’t want to give. “You’re being manipulative.” It was always well-aimed, activated at just the right moment to inflict the most amount of guilt.

She doesn’t want to think that Ezra is right about her.

She glances at Quinn and worries that he might be, though

When her statement against Roderick is complete, Harvest reads it through before signing her name at the bottom. Fitz seems confident that Harvest will only have to recount her statement in a private testimony and is so grateful that Harvest is willing to go on the record that she hands her a business card. “I know you’re still a trainee. Feel free to reach out when you’re ready to go full-time. I’m sure I can make room for you on the team.”

Harvest accepts the business card with a smile and slides it into the back of her notebook.

The smile doesn’t last long.

She hoped that Quinn would break the news about her temporary transfer to Herman, but, instead, she has to do it herself. Herman takes one look at the form and gives her a scowl that turns his cheeks red. “Sure, go off and play agent for a bit. You’re a trainee, and you’ll still be a trainee when this little jaunt in Serious Crimes ends.”

Quinn is standing behind her, and he makes sure to give Herman his widest and most amiable smile as they leave his office.