“No, no, don’t tell me,” said the Djinn, still grinning. “Let me guess.”

Charles gritted his teeth, forcibly keeping his expression neutral. If a creature of pure magic could salivate, surely the Djinn would be drooling. Was this ‘his meals’ from the riddle? The creature didn’t eat, but he looked like he was about to feast all the same. On Charles’ desperation, perhaps? His ears grew hot with rage. This was life and death for Amelia, but for the Djinn…

“I don’t have time for your games,” said Charles evenly. “Tell me what this means.” He stalked forward and slammed the wrinkled paper against the glass wall of the enclosure so the Djinn could read it.

Several of the officers on the perimeter of the room shifted as if uncomfortable, hands gripping their elemental magic rifles more securely. Despite the high security, no one had specifically told Charles he couldn’t touch the Djinn’s walls. Then again… no one in their right mind ever would.

For better or for worse, Charles had abandoned his right mind approximately twenty hours and 2,000mg of caffeine ago.

“Your left third finger has a strip of lighter skin where you usually wear a ring,” mused the Djinn, completely ignoring the paper. “You’re married, and quite happily so. There’s a groove there, too. You rarely take it off.”

“Tell me…” Charles repeated.

“Law enforcement,” interrupted the Djinn. “You don’t let your back face the door, even if the threat is in here. And you carry yourself like they do.” He flicked his massive pewter-blue hand towards the officers lining the walls, lips curling with sick pleasure. “So self-righteous. So very proud to be wielding the sword of the state — as if the people in charge are worth blindly following. So very… embarrassing.”

The Djinn swirled around, reorienting himself so he was upside down, still smiling like a lunatic.

“Scar through your left eyebrow is cute. How’d you get that? Impressing a pretty girl?”

“Tell me what it means,” Charles snapped, his blood roaring in his ears and hands beginning to shake.

“Oooh,” purred the Djinn. “You did! How very heroic.” The Djinn righted himself then settled down, chin on his hands as if preparing for juicy gossip. “She’s gone, though,” he noted.

Charles’ nostrils flared, and the Djinn appeared to take it as permission to continue.

“You look like you’ve got two black eyes — not sleeping well, I see. And you’ve nicked yourself shaving just now. She likes a little scruff, doesn’t she? You’re not used to being clean-shaven.”

Charles felt like he was going to throw up. If he didn’t get answers soon, the Djinn was going to guess enough information to send him on a wild unicorn chase, and what would become of Amelia then?

“I’ll decode the whole riddle if you tell me all about her,” taunted the Djinn.

No. Never.

“The acrostic spells out LOTHIENNE,” said Charles coldly, painfully aware of the line he was walking as he both asked and didn’t ask about the Faengster of Valehaven. “Is the riddle a map? And how do I find where it leads?”

And there it was.

Just the faintest twitch of one eye. Hardly more than a flicker that would have been all too easy to dismiss as imaginary. Was Lothienne a sore subject for the Djinn? Seriously? The fae gangster who trafficked drugs and girls and… it seemed crazy. But he’d already gambled much to get this far.

Charles bet the rest of his chips.

He leaned forward, one forearm braced on the glass above him and voice lowered, knowing the Djinn wouldn’t be able to resist the allure of a secret.

“You’re not the only one who wants him gone,” he murmured.

It wasn’t information about his life or even Lothienne’s. Not technically. If the Djinn chose to draw conclusions, well… that was hardly Charles’ fault. The Djinn was a criminally insane creature of ancient magic. One sleep-deprived human illusionist couldn’t possibly trick him.

Which was exactly what Charles was betting on the Djinn believing. Internally, he apologized to the kind CO who’d warned him against playing this game.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “and we both win.”

“So what do they think you know?” asked Amelia, staring straight up at the bland white ceiling, and trying to find pictures in the barely-there texture.

She kept imagining trees — probably because she hadn’t seen anything organic in days, not to mention the fact that everything still looked faintly green like it had when she first arrived. It was weird. She felt like her eyes should have adjusted to the strange lighting by now.

Silence.

“Sorry, was that rude? Or… dangerous?”

She flushed. She couldn’t afford to alienate the only allies she’d made here in Hotel Hell, as Evrienne so affectionately called it.

It’d been two days since she’d woken here in this cell, and she hadn’t seen the blunt-eared fae or his dwarf henchmen in that time, just a few nurses — one dryad, one faun, and a shifter — who arrived at regular intervals to change her dressings, check her vitals, and make sure she was eating enough. She was mostly healed by now, though she still couldn’t break through that metallic haze to reach her dragon form. Her neck still ached at the injection site and her muscles were weak, but whether that was from whatever they’d stabbed her with or this unfamiliar bed, she couldn’t be sure.

Ironically, the care here was immaculate and reminded her forcibly of her last hospital stay. As if just being here wasn’t bad enough without her worst memories layered on top of it.

“What do you mean, Amelia?” asked Kalder slowly.

“Like…” Amelia grimaced. “The questions? They think I know things, but I don’t, I swear. And I’m kind of scared of what’s going to happen when they start asking again.”

Evrienne snorted. “They don’t want what’s in our brains, babe, they want what’s in our veins.”

“Poetic,” noted Kalder. “You’re good at crafts and arts, Evrienne — nooses and blood poetry. You’re a regular Renaissance woman.”

“Once there was an obnoxious troll, whose head was the shape of a popcorn bowl,” said Evrienne, voice dripping with disdain and a hint of affection.

Kaldar snorted. “I like it,” he said. “Embroider it on a pillow for me, won’t you?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s in our veins?’” asked Amelia, ignoring their banter as she was not about to give up on getting some shift-snared answers. Information was power, and so long as she knew what was happening, she wasn’t entirely helpless.

“It’s how they survive here in Sovra’an,” said Evrienne blandly.

Amelia swallowed thickly. They’d told her on her first day where they were and why the whole world was that sickly yellowish-green. It made sense, but it was hard to accept even now.

“Take our blood and pump it through those tubes on the walls,” continued the snarky werecat woman. “It’s not just a macabre design choice, though I might respect it more if it was. Being covered by blood protects you from the Rot, ya know? That’s why vampires are the least affected race — because of the blood. It’s like… this gross perversion of what the Blood Bearer did when he opened the Tarraven. But it’s stolen blood and mortal blood, so it’s not nearly as effective. They need new blood daily to keep the Rot from claiming this place and turning all of our hearts to stone.”

“Calcified organs, but sure,” replied Kalder.

“Whatever,” snorted Evrienne.

“Amelia,” said Kalder after a moment in a measured tone.

He said her name a lot, she’d noticed. Nearly every time he spoke to her. It was almost as if he was determined to make sure both she and Evrienne were called by their own names as much as possible.

“Are they not taking your blood?” he finished slowly.

Amelia blinked. “No? I mean… a bit, I guess. But like, in tubes. And only a few. It wouldn’t be enough to pump through the walls like Evrienne was saying.”

“No, that sounds like tests,” said Kalder. “They like to keep us healthy.”

Evrienne snorted. “‘Course they do. Can’t bleed a dead prisoner.”

Amelia opened her mouth to ask more questions, but was interrupted by the now-familiar sound of the door at the end of the hallway emitting a heavy click as it opened. She pushed herself into a sitting position, preferring to face her nurses upright now that she was strong enough. It felt both safer and more dignified that way.

But the person who swiped a key card and entered her cell was not one of her three nurses. It was the dwarf, Gunthalg, pushing an empty wheelchair.

“Come,” he said gruffly. “Lothienne has questions.”

It took fifteen agonizing hours to clear visitation with the highest-security prisoner at the Northwatch Detainment Facility. Even running at top speed (and lubricated by some carefully called-in favors), the bureaucracy moved like a beached whale.

Charles didn’t actually know anyone who’d met the prisoner — the one who had an entire building to himself and no less than a hundred officers assigned to his watch. It sounded like a lot, but according to a friend on the inside, this was just another example of the prison being painfully short-staffed.

Rotshard, if a hundred to one was considered short staffed…

“Ten minutes,” said the stony-faced correctional officer who met Charles and Captain Greyson at the front gates of Northwatch. “That’s as much as I can give you.”

Charles nodded gratefully, aware of all the extra work his visit was probably creating for this man. Not that he regretted it. He was past caring what he had to do to get Amelia back. And considering who he was about to meet, this was probably just the first in a long string of questionable decisions.

Captain Greyson waited at the gates, and Charles ventured into the facility on his own. He was frisked then passed through a metal detector and hex neutralizer. He was subjected to a polygraph test, administered by a pixie officer who double checked his answers with magic. Then a urine test for drugs and something that looked like thermal imaging but apparently checked for glamours.

“You do not tell him your name or anyone else’s,” said the stoic CO as he pressed a neatly folded stack of white cloth into Charles’ arms. “No details about your home, place of work, or family. Violations are punishable by up to six months for each offense.”

Charles nodded, then went into a small sterile-looking room to shower, shave, and dress in the plain white scrubs. The Ancient One was to be given no information about his life outside of these walls. So much as a strong scent or a worn shirtsleeve would offer insight that the prisoner could use to manipulate and psychologically torture. Charles would be arriving to the ninth level of Northwatch security as a blank slate of a man. The only thing he brought with him was a copy of the poem (which had gone through a dozen rounds of approval before it’d been cleared). This version had been typed up, sent to Northwatch via encrypted email, and printed by facility printers on charmed paper that would burn to ash if the prisoner so much as touched it.

“Do not attempt to mislead the prisoner,” said the officer as they ventured deeper into the facility. “He’s older and better at this than you’ll ever be. Don’t be a moron.”

Charles nodded and stopped as they neared a door. The officer scanned his badge, but the door didn’t open. Instead, a masculine voice came out of a speaker on the wall.

“The ravens of Fourth,” began the voice.

“Eat the ash of the flames,” finished the officer at Charles’ side.

Utter nonsense, so it was probably a password that changed every day.

At that, the doors opened, and they continued deeper into the block. Was it his imagination, or were the hallways getting brighter and brighter as they ventured deeper into the prison? Truly, it was excessive — almost as if no one wanted to risk a single shadow marring the smooth gray floors lest the prisoner find a place for his secrets to fester.

Superstitious? Perhaps. But Charles worked in a place where no one was allowed to say the word “quiet” on a slow day lest six robberies, four DWIs, and a shooting happen simultaneously.

They passed two more doors. One with a palm pad and another that scanned the officer’s irises. Each door took them in a sharply different direction, and by now Charles was well and truly lost. Lifeblood help him if he needed to make a quick escape.

Which… was probably the point.

The officer stopped walking abruptly in the middle of the hallway, so Charles did too. He was beyond antsy to keep going. Every minute he wasted was a minute that Tarraven knew what was happening to Amelia.

“Kevrinhart?” the officer asked under his breath — almost inaudibly — as if the prisoner really did have eyes and ears everywhere.

Charles nodded sharply but said nothing. They had not exchanged names thus far, and he’d assumed it was part of the prison’s strict security.

“Half of the guys in this place are here because you put ‘em behind bars,” the officer said.

Charles already knew that. He’d called in every favor he’d ever earned to be standing here right now, many of which had to do with filling the cells of Northwatch so those monsters would be off the streets.

“This isn’t… protocol, to discuss,” continued the officer quietly. “But those other guys are nothing compared to him. Whatever you’re picturing, it’s worse. I know you’re not here on a social call because no one ever is, and I don’t want to know.”

Charles nodded slowly, feeling both unsettled and confused. Why…

The CO spoke one last time as he resumed walking. “You took down the guy who assaulted my niece. You’re a hero to my family. Just… live to see another day, okay?”

Charles swallowed. He intended to do exactly that, if only to rescue his wife and bring her home with him where she belonged.

The final door between Charles and his quarry was flanked by twelve armed correctional officers. Knowing what he was about to face, he knew those guns wouldn’t shoot bullets. Military-grade elemental magic was his best guess, and he honestly hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

Four officers had to scan their credentials simultaneously to request the doors be unlocked, and Charles noticed a window set high in the wall where two men sat. They reached forward on their control panel at the same time, and the magically reinforced titanium doors opened with a heavy, ominous click.

The CO who had escorted Charles to the cell nodded at the door gravely, and Charles entered.

He pretended he wasn’t afraid as the doors shut behind him. He imagined the paper between his hands wasn’t already wrinkling with sweat. He’d fought vampires while disarmed. He’d gone toe to toe with a mountain troll who was high on fentanyl. He’d even faced Amelia’s dragon shifter father to ask for her hand in marriage. This should have been nothing.

Then again, none of them were creatures nearly as old as time itself, made of pure magic, and capable of creating a plague that had killed an entire realm and nearly all of the people inside it. If it hadn’t been for the Blood Bearer…

Charles shook his head slightly. Now was not the time to get distracted.

The prisoner’s cell was a room within a room — a clear, enchanted glass box. Just as brightly lit as the rest of the facility, the twelve-by-twelve enclosure in the middle of the larger white room was disturbing in its simplicity. There should have been more, he thought, even if only for the illusion of protection. Thankfully, several dozen officers ringed the room, each holding guns like the men outside had, and all wearing masks. To protect themselves from giving anything away, he’d assume. Nerves of steel, every last one of them.

And inside the box…

“You’re desperate,” said the creature.

How did you know, Charles wanted to reply. He said nothing. He could not afford to be desperate. Not here. Not while facing this thing.

“No one ever comes unless they’re truly desperate,” purred the monster.

He uncoiled like a snake rising from a box, and Charles swallowed hard at the sheer size of him — twelve-by-twelve had not been a generous enclosure.

The pewter-blue form towered above him, part man and part smoke, shirtless and vast, like he’d been chiseled from a mountain. His massive arms were manacled with gold cuffs, and his sharp features curled with amusement.

“I’m here for information,” Charles said coldly, refusing to be intimidated.

And the Djinn of Sovra’an — the maker of the Rot — grinned.

As a dragon shifter, Amelia had always healed much faster than any human.

Once while camping as a kid, she and Lucy had climbed to the top of a ragged hill overlooking a river. The hill was made of slick shale-like shards over vast, loose mounds of sand. The rocks in the river below had been jagged, turning the cold water white as it crashed against them.

And Amelia’s sparkly purple tennis shoes had not been intended for hiking.

She could still remember the way Lucy’s voice had sounded as she screamed, reaching one tiny, desperate hand down to catch her falling sister. She’d been too late and too small. Amelia had landed among those jagged river stones and twisted as the current battered her little body against them like a rag doll. Her father heard the girls screaming and came running. He dove in and plucked her out, carrying her to safety on the bank by the willows. She’d been a sopping bloody mess.

But by the time they arrived at camp just a short walk later, her wounds were scabbed over neatly and her bruises were the sickly yellow of nearly healed damage. Her mother had lost her mind, but after a quick wash with a full pack of baby wipes to remove the crusted blood, she’d relaxed. Amelia was fine, and both girls made it out unscathed — but for a stern talking-to by their parents about staying near camp. By morning, Amelia was practically new.

This time it wasn’t enough.

When Amelia came to, thin cotton was plastered to her body with cold sweat. She was freezing, and the shiver that wracked her body made her whimper with pain.

Her eyes fluttered open. Ever… so… slowly.

They felt gritty and worn out from the tears she’d cried as the blunt-eared fae asked her over and over again to give him details about an organization she’d never even heard of. Darkness colored the edges of her vision, and what she could see was harsh and tinted that same sickly greenish color from earlier. Where was she?

Her arm spasmed as she clawed back to awareness. She looked down at it, surprised to find herself clean and tucked in under neatly made flannel sheets. Not a trace of the blood she’d expected, and her forearm was carefully bandaged where the knife had pinned her to the chair.

The deep purple bruises, though…

“Good morning,” came a gentle voice from her left. “Hangin’ in there?”

Amelia jerked and winced as her alarm jostled her battered body. Merciful Tarraven, why did it hurt to breathe?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said that same soft, masculine voice. “Pinky promise.”

“Who…” Amelia coughed and gasped softly as it made her head pound. She tried again. “Who are you? Where are you?” She cast her eyes around at the room. It was impeccably clean and almost resembled a miniature hospital room on three sides. The fourth was steel bars that led out into a plain white hallway.

“The name’s Kalder,” continued the voice, “and I’m your neighbor to the left. Evrienne is to your right, but she’s not the welcoming basket type. More likely to weave the fibers into a noose. Handy little craft, that.”

“Shut up, Kal,” snapped a throaty female voice. Kalder appeared to be correct — it did sound like it came from Amelia’s other side. “New girl’s still trying to decide if she’s having a nightmare or just woke up in the worst hotel ever. I’ll save you some time, babe — it’s the hotel. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Sheets are nice, though.”

“So,” said the male voice after a moment of silence. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering, eyes welling with tears as she spoke.

“Amelia.”

“Amelia,” repeated Kalder gently. “I won’t lie; I hate that you’re here. But it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Naughty stories that she ought not to…

Amelia’s brow furrowed as she considered what he’d said. Who was this lunatic, and what incriminating information did he think she had? She blinked hard, willing the hazy crust of drug-induced sleep to clear on its own. She still couldn’t move her arms or legs, and the damp wad in her mouth was sickening.

But the man was still watching her.

Stories.

Of course she had stories; she was a librarian for Tarraven’s sake! Even without her Hoard, she knew more stories than most people would know what to do with. But nothing dangerous. Charles was careful to never share information that could put her safety at risk. She didn’t know anything about the Valehaven underworld that wasn’t fit for public record.

Unless… not Charles?

The man from the library.

But he didn’t seem like part of the underworld. He seemed like an unfortunate soul who needed a shower, a hot meal, and a recovery meeting — in that order. Besides, he hadn’t told her anything, not even his own name. Sure, he’d given her a bunch of paper snippets glued together like a serial killer’s arts and crafts project. They included some names and maybe an unsettling poem that didn’t make any sense, but only if she’d assembled it correctly, and she still couldn’t prove that she had.

Whatever this man thought she knew — she didn’t. He was terribly, horribly mistaken.

The man stepped out of the proverbial shadows, and Amelia shrank back slightly, her instincts screaming “DANGER DANGER DANGER” in flashing neon lights. Her dragon-form snapped and hissed against whatever devilry was holding her back. She prodded gently at that metallic sensation again and felt a whine slip out of the back of her throat. Whatever they’d stabbed into her neck was as effective as it was painful. There would be no shifting and no dragon fire until she figured out what this was and how to fix it.

And that — not being able to protect herself like she’d always done — was far more frightening than the man before her.

Because aside from her current predicament and his creepy choice of words, there wasn’t much to implicate the speaker as a threat. He seemed… normal. Good-looking, but not in a dazzling supervillain way. More like a clean-cut accountant with angular features, dark hair, and a neat but reasonably priced haircut. He was tall and lean and wore his slim-cut jeans and dark gray T-shirt well, though he certainly didn’t fill out the sleeves in a way that would suggest he could snap her like a twig. That was comforting. Kind of.

By far the strangest part of his appearance was the small finch that rode on his shoulder — yellow-breasted with tan and white speckled wings. A weird animal companion for a villain, she couldn’t help but note. She’d have expected a fluffy white cat. Or a snake.

Amelia’s hazy gaze flicked over the man’s features one more time, desperately looking for a hint of just who had taken…

There.

It was the eyes. The shimmery silver of faerie irises could be camouflaged by color contacts the same way Amelia’s luminescent amber ones could, but there was always a faint ring of light around the edges. She’d bet her first-edition copy of Ber’ramus the Bard that this man’s eyes weren’t naturally brown like they now appeared. To confirm her hypothesis, her eyes darted to his ears to check for sharp tapers. She breathed in sharply through her nose before she could stop herself.

His ears were blunted. But not like a human or shifter with a smooth rounded curve. Someone had cut off the tips to form brutal squares. They were scarred over with tight red skin that didn’t look fresh, but still seemed terribly painful.

The man’s expression darkened. He’d seen her looking.

“Awful, isn’t it?” he asked conversationally, his smooth baritone voice sounding far too rich and dark for this bland, sterile room. The man began examining his nails as he continued. “But that’s not a story you’ve earned, little dragon. I’ll be the one asking the questions, if you don’t mind.” He looked back up and pinned her with a stern gaze.

She hadn’t asked anything, of course. Even if she’d been able to, she wouldn’t have. She’d read this scene before and she wasn’t stupid.

The man strolled forward and leaned down, hands on the armrests just in front of her bound wrists. He loomed over Amelia, examining her for a moment that felt like forever with intelligent, calculating eyes. She felt as if he were trying to pry secrets out of her head through sheer force of will. For a moment, she almost wondered if he could.

The man abruptly reached forward with one long-fingered hand and tore the putrid rag out of her mouth. Amelia gasped, choked on her own spit, and proceeded to cough violently.

A dwarf she hadn’t noticed earlier stepped forward, taking the rag from the man and offering him a lemon-scented wet wipe. The fae man wiped his fingers and dropped the towelette into the dwarf’s waiting hand, all without taking his eyes from Amelia.

“I am not a hard man, little dragon,” said the fae. “I merely protect my… assets. Surely you can understand.”

He waited like she was supposed to respond.

“I…” she began, not knowing what she even was supposed to say. Rotshard, her voice sounded terrible.

“Gunthalg,” said the fae man, disgust coloring his tone for the first time. “Get our guest a drink. She’s parched.”

Gunthalg reappeared a moment later with a plastic bottle of water. Halfheartedly, Amelia hoped they might unbind her wrists so she could hold it herself. She was offered no such dignity. The dwarf held the bottle to her lips and Amelia drank, dribbling some of the liquid down her chin in the process.

“Very good,” said the fae man. “Now let’s begin. How much do you know about Serinus and who told you?”

“I…” began Amelia again. “Nothing,” she finished honestly. “I don’t know anything.”

The man waited, eyes narrowing dangerously. Amelia wracked her brains, still feeling hazy from whatever they’d used to knock her out. “Serinus” did sound familiar, but she couldn’t have said why. And with how much she read, it truly could have been from any number of things.

“Some weirdo came to my library yesterday,” she continued, desperately hoping she could explain that it wasn’t what it looked like — assuming they’d been spied on like the mute man from the library seemed to fear. “Or… the day before? I don’t know what time it is. Or what day it is.”

The man continued to stare at her silently.

“He gave me a bag of really unhinged notes, but I don’t think any of them said Serinus. I don’t even know what they meant, I swear. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

The man looked at Amelia for another handful of breaths with an unreadable expression. He certainly didn’t seem angry. Maybe… maybe he believed her?

He produced a knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and stabbed the golden blade directly into Amelia’s arm, pinning her even more firmly to the chair.

Amelia screamed.

The fae remained expressionless, then leaned in close when she stopped for breath and murmured gently into her ear, “I said, who told you?”

Charles sat on a hard metal chair in interrogation room #4, which he’d claimed for his own, watching the security footage from Gellivar’s Family Market again, and again, and again. He practically had it memorized by now, but willed himself to notice something new all the same.

The black minivan pulls in, looking for all the worlds like some suburban family grabbing dinner. They wait. Then Amelia’s exiting the store. Her honey-colored waves bounce as she walks, and her yellow cardigan stands out against the drab blacks and grays of the parking lot. Two figures exit the black minivan, both wearing dark gray hoodies and gloves — a minotaur and someone else who looks slender enough to be either a tall human woman or a short fae man. Amelia loads two bags of groceries into the passenger seat of her blue pickup, then turns and looks for a cart corral. The two dark figures slip casually around the back of a silver car. Marching towards the cart corral, Amelia stops and looks around, clearly suspicious. Noticing a unicorn-raccoon she says something, looks around again, returns her cart, reaches up to her ear… and smiles.

Charles tapped the laptop’s space bar, pausing the video. Even in the low-quality security footage, he knew that dazzling smile. Something was happening in her book and she’d guessed it from the start. She was smug that she’d been right. What he wouldn’t give now to guess what came next the way his wife always seemed to in her stories.

Charles knew there was no way to know. No way to protect her. But…

“Just keep her until I get there,” he murmured, hoping the Blood Bearer, the maker of worlds and creator of portals, wasn’t too busy maintaining the universe to listen. “Help me find her,” he begged.

It’d been a long time since he asked for anything. Ever since that day two years ago… it’d been hard to think about blood. Let alone speak to the god of it.

His eyes began to burn with emotion and lack of sleep, and he rubbed them with the thumb and pointer finger of one weary hand, then tapped the space bar again.

Amelia turns, the minotaur grabs her, the slender figure stabs her in the neck with a syringe… and she’s gone.

The door to the interrogation room opened and Charles was not surprised to see Samuel there with a plastic bag of what smelled like food. His cropped dark blonde hair was a mess and his blue eyes looked tired. He was wearing a fresh shirt, but didn’t appear to have showered. Samuel kicked the door shut, then a gas station burrito and an off-brand energy drink were unceremoniously slammed on the table in front of Charles, making his papers flutter. It was… kind of food.

“Eat,” commanded the other man, glaring at Charles like he’d committed some grave sin. “Millie’s going to have my hide if I let you starve before we find her.”

“It’s been forty-six hours, Smirk,” whispered Charles, afraid to say it any louder. As if that’d make it more real.

Samuel’s eyes softened. “I know,” he said. “And we’re doing all we can. She wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, and you can’t look at all if you collapse. You’re already not sleeping. Eat.”

Charles nodded numbly and peeled back the paper-backed foil. He was hungry enough that it didn’t smell entirely awful, even if his stomach was still queasy with fear.

They were indeed doing everything they could.

He’d discovered the abduction site easily, as the girl from the library had said something about Amelia making curry and Gellivar’s was the only grocery store in Upper Valehaven that stocked her preferred brand of curry paste. They’d marked off the crime scene, issued a BOLO for the black minivan, and sent beat cops to establish a perimeter. They reviewed the security footage from the grocery store and the library, then they conducted dozens of interviews; no one recognized the minotaur or the slender figure. One woman had seen the abduction happen, but she’d been with her young children and couldn’t have done anything about it. She’d called the police to report it shortly after Charles had arrived at the station. Gellivar’s parking lot had been scoured for evidence and Charles had even sent a team to fingerprint his own home — just in case. The Crypticonsortium was informed, and Amelia’s cheerily grinning picture was currently on blast throughout Valehaven. Her phone was either broken or dead, because they couldn’t get a trace of it. So far lab results were coming back useless, and the department was stretching thin.

Samuel sat on the chair across from him and pulled out his phone as Charles worked on his food, peering over the top of it to make sure his friend kept eating.

The VPD couldn’t use all their resources on one case indefinitely while crime continued throughout the rest of the city. He knew that, but…

“Hospitals in Lower Valehaven are feeling the strain as an unseasonably aggressive chest cold ravages the young and old,” said the carefully curated voice of a news anchor from inside Samuel’s phone. “Folks, please be sure to wash your hands, and avoid public places if you’re feeling unwell. Next week the…”

Samuel closed his news app, tossed his phone on the paper-strewn table, and shook his head. “Just more on the cold,” he said. “But they’re still running her picture at the bottom of the screen so people should be on the lookout.”

Charles nodded silently as he finished his burrito and cracked open the energy drink. He raised it to his lips when a paper on the table caught his eye. Samuel’s phone had knocked over a haphazard pile of reports, and a previously dismissed manila envelope was spilling across the rest of the mess.

They were printouts of the clues Amelia had assembled the day before she was taken. Naturally he’d already considered it might be connected, but he hadn’t known how to decipher…

“Now the djinn takes his meals with a sick, sly delight.”

He was standing with the papers in his hand before he realized he’d come to a decision. This was insane. Beyond reckless. There was good reason no one had even considered it.

He didn’t care.

“Chuckles?” asked Samuel, standing and grabbing the abandoned drink before it could spill on the files.

But Charles was already running, the doorway behind him flung wide as he charged down the hall to the chief’s office. He burst inside without knocking, and the stern gray woman looked up from her computer, raising one severe eyebrow.

“Kevrinhart. What’ve you got?”

“I need the Governor on the phone,” Charles gasped. “He’s got to clear visitation with the warden at Northwatch. I don’t know where she is, but I think I know who can help me. And you’re not gonna like it.”

“Millie?” called Charles, squinting suspiciously as he stepped into the darkened entryway of their home after his shift. He couldn’t smell food cooking, and the house had the distinctly empty air of a place that ought to be inhabited.

Charles dropped his backpack to the floor, flipped on a light, and walked down the hallway to where a calendar featuring photos from the settings of various classical novels hung on the wall next to a mail sorting caddy and a small chalkboard.

The chalkboard read, “Love you most, Chuck,” in Amelia’s handwriting, though “Chuck” had been scribbled out and replaced with his own messier handwriting saying “Millie.” Underneath that, it read “nice try” in a smaller version of Amelia’s elegant penmanship.

No fresh notes on the chalkboard. Charles’ eyes raked across the calendar next. Maybe she had an event at the library tonight. That would explain her absence, and if she did, she’d have written it down here — as much for her own benefit as for his.

September 18th. The day was blank. Nothing at all was written in the little white square. Apparently, it was supposed to be a normal weekday.

Charles’ brow furrowed. Pulling out his phone, he called Millie. It went straight to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Amelia Kevrinhart. You know what to do!” chirped his wife’s cheerful voice.

Beeeeeep!

“Hey, Mill. It’s Chuck. Ahh… call me. I love you.”

He hung up, shot her a text, and tried calling her again. Next, he opened their location sharing app and tapped on Amelia’s little red icon.

“User offline,” the app unhelpfully informed him.

“Rotshard,” he spat.

Then he called the library. The girl working at the front desk seemed confused.

“Mrs. Kevrinhart? No, she left like… two hours ago, I think? Said something about curry for dinner. I don’t know. Sorry.”

“Right, thanks,” said Charles, hanging up the phone.

Not at home. Not at the library. He doubted she’d have gone to her sister’s all the way in Lower Valehaven without at least shooting him a text, but just to be sure, he called Lucy.

“Hello?” came Lucy’s muffled voice when she picked up the phone, followed by some clatter and a high-pitched shriek from one of her many children.

“Hey, Lu,” said Charles, exhaling a slow, measured breath to tame his nerves. There was no reason to panic. He’d probably just forgotten about whatever had Amelia out late tonight. “Have you heard from Mill?”

The clattering stopped. “No. Why?” said Lucy.

“She’s just, uh… she’s not home yet. She’s always home at this time on weeknights. It’s weird. I was wondering if you two had plans.”

“Nope! No plans over here. Have you tried the library?”

“Yeah. They said she left work two hours ago.”

“Really? That is weird. She’s always been a bit of a homebody. Where else would she even go?”

A leaden lump was swelling in Charles’ throat, and he had to swallow hard before responding. “I don’t know.”

A crash sounded on Lucy’s end of the line, and a toddler began to cry. “Sorry. I gotta go, but please let me know when you figure it out, okay? I’ll worry all night if you don’t.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Lu. Talk later.”

The line went dead, and Charles’ stomach churned with fear. This was not like Amelia at all, and he’d seen too many things in his years solving crimes to assume the best for a missing person. In spite of himself, his brain rattled off statistics for a recently kidnapped woman…

The first three hours were the most dangerous. Assault. Violence. Abuse. If the kidnapper had murder in mind, it would almost certainly happen within that window. And if she wasn’t being harmed somewhere in Valehaven, she could be hundreds of miles away by now.

Time was already running out.

Grabbing his keys, Charles ran back out the front door. His SUV roared to life, and he blatantly ignored the posted speed limit signs all the way to the station.

“Kerris,” he barked at his phone.

“Yes, Charles?” replied the robotic voice of the cellular assistant.

“Call Smirk.”

“Of course! Calling Smirk.”

The phone rang twice before Samuel picked up.

“Yo,” drawled the curse-breaker.

“Millie’s missing,” spat Charles without preamble. “Meet me at the station. Now.”

“I’m sorry,” said the pinch-faced dryad who was working the armory front desk. “I really can’t allow access to weaponry unless you’re on the clock or have a filed missing persons case. And you can’t file a report until she’s been gone for at least twenty-four hours. It’s not personal; it’s just policy, Detective.”

“I don’t care what policy says!” snarled Charles. “And I’m not asking you anything. I’m telling you to authorize the resources, because I’m going, damn it.” The dryad shrunk in on herself like a tortoise retreating into its shell, but Charles didn’t back down.

When she replied, her voice came out squeaky. “It’s just that you’re over your allotted hours for the pay period and no overtime has been approved, so, per policy, I can’t clear access to department resources without being complicit in rule breaking.”

Rot these stupid dryads and their obsessive adherence to rules. You’d think they’d all be free-loving hippies, but noooo. If their natural homes in the forests of Sovra’an had given the creatures anything, it was gigantic sticks directly up their…

Doors behind Charles banged open, and Samuel dashed in.

“I got it cleared with Greyson,” he gasped, shoving a wrinkled paper at the dryad woman. It looked like he’d held it in a fist all the way here. “Open the doors, Sylvara.”

The dryad took an inordinately long time reading the note from the police chief before nodding primly. “It seems everything is in order… now.” She shot Charles a sour look, then unlocked the armory.

Charles and Samuel tumbled inside and suited up in record time. In the back of his mind, Charles swore he could hear an imaginary clock ticking away as he slammed a loaded magazine into his Velsk and strapped charmed smoke bombs to his duty belt.

Tick… tock… tick… tock… tick…

Every second he wasted was eating away at what little time Amelia had left. If she’d been kidnapped like he feared, she could be dying right now.

Across realms in a Rot-scarred world, Amelia slowly came to consciousness.

Whimpering with pain, she shifted and winced. The tightly wrapped duct tape on her skin pulled at the little hairs on her arms, and the damp fabric wadded in her mouth was foul.

Her lungs burned, and she wrinkled her nose.

Was that terrible tang just a scent on the air? No, it was more than a stench. She could feel it in her teeth. In her muscles. In her bones.

Amelia strained to open her eyes. Everything was blurry, and the harsh light had an odd yellowish-green cast. Like it was trying to be sterile, but had caught a nasty cold. The mid-sized room was clean and mostly bare, with linoleum flooring and no windows. The light gray walls were laced back and forth with neat crisscrossing red lines, like a web.

Or a cage.

Every inch of her body hurt — especially her neck — and the metal chair below her was freezing cold. She strained against the tape on her wrists, ankles, and waist, but found herself oddly weak.

Cautiously, she reached for her dragon-form and was met with a sickening, metallic haze that nearly made her retch. Before she could prod further at the unpleasant sensation, a man spoke. Amelia’s head snapped to the right as she tried to see him, heart racing with fear.

“Good evening, little dragon,” purred a mild baritone voice. “I hear you’re full of naughty, naughty stories that you ought not to have.”

“Well, that was a bust,” complained Smirk around a bite of shawarma. “I know it would’ve been crazy to nail ‘im on our first shot, but I was definitely expecting to find more than a pixie daycare and a bike shop.”

Charles raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Yeah, you definitely seem broken up about it.”

“I was hungry!” said Samuel. “If we weren’t gonna get the rotter, we might as well get lunch while we’re here. I don’t make it down to Faeclectic every day, and I’m tired of freezer meals.”

“It’s ‘o eight hundred,” said Charles flatly. “Also, whose fault is that?”

“Yours!” retorted Samuel. “I never learned to cook because you and Millie keep feeding me homemade meals once a week. I never got desperate enough to figure it out on my own. You’ve crippled me, Chuck. You and your wife. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “That’ll teach me to be generous,” he snorted.

“I should hope so,” replied Samuel sagely. “It’s a bad look.”

“But you’re still coming over this weekend? Even though it’s a bad look that’s stunted your growth and turned you into an eternal man-child?”

“Of course I am. I’m bad at cooking, but I’m not an idiot.”

“You sure about that?” laughed Charles. “Because the tahini sauce on your cheek would beg to differ.” Samuel grumbled under his breath and grabbed the crumpled-up napkin that Charles tossed at him, scrubbing at his cheek. “Come on,” Charles continued. “Chief is gonna want an update, and I’d rather give it to her after she eats.”

Samuel smirked. “What? Don’t fancy being a wolf’s dessert?”

“No,” said Charles shortly. “Surprisingly, I’d rather live to see another day.”

“That’ll be seventy-six dollars and forty-three cents,” said the teenage cashier, smiling tightly as Amelia brandished her debit card.

The boy’s throat bobbed uncomfortably as he swallowed. Pretending she hadn’t noticed, Amelia tapped her card against the reader, then typed her PIN number into the squishy gray keys: 1, 2, 1, 1 — the day of her first date with Charles, which made it easy to remember. They’d eaten tacos and taken a sunset walk around the Faewick Gardens. At the gazebo, he’d given her a palm-sized book of Sovra’anian legends and stolen a rather lengthy kiss.

That day was one of her favorite stories.

The young cashier shuffled awkwardly while they waited for the transaction to be approved, then he handed her a receipt and winced when their fingers brushed. Amelia ran significantly hotter than humans, but not hot enough to burn. Charles, who had magic but was decidedly human, wouldn’t have survived otherwise. She raised one eyebrow. Clearly, this boy didn’t have much experience with supernaturals. A new resident of Valehaven, perhaps?

Supernaturals had come out into the open over fifty years ago, so nearly three times this kid’s entire lifespan. But if someone was new to a fae sanctuary city like Valehaven, then creatures like vampires, wizards, and shifters suddenly went from abstract textbook stuff to being the very real lady with hot hands and glowy eyes at the grocery store. It had to be jarring. This kid was clearly trying, though, so Amelia couldn’t bring herself to be offended.

“New to Valehaven?” she asked as she loaded her bagged groceries back into her cart.

The boy coughed — a wet sound that probably meant he should be home with some soup — then chuckled sheepishly. “Uh, yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Grew up in St. Evans over in North Emelina. My dad got a new job with some city contractors, so… here we are.”

Amelia perked up. “City contractors?” she asked. “For the new PACT Initiative?”

She’d been following the news story about the proposed Paranormal Alliance for Coexistence and Trust (and the accompanying Crypticonsortium drama) for months now. It wasn’t exactly riveting stuff, but the prospect of improving supernatural/human relations was tantalizing. Supernaturals were far stronger, of course, but globally, humans outnumbered them a hundred to one. Anything that soothed relations and kept people friendly was a good thing in Amelia’s books. Wars might make for good plot points in books, but she didn’t actually want to live through one.

The boy blinked. “Uh… yeah? That sounds right.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know the details.”

“That’s okay. Your father is doing important work,” said Amelia, smiling warmly at the boy.

The boy cracked the smallest of genuine smiles in return, and the vampire in gym clothes behind Amelia cleared his throat pointedly.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said. “Look at me holding up the line! My bad.”

The vampire raised an eyebrow and shook his head, setting his magazine and caffeinated-bottle of pre-workout blood on the conveyor belt.

Amelia grimaced apologetically, then bustled out of the store and crossed the parking lot to her ‘76 powder-blue pickup, loading her groceries quickly into the passenger seat. She slammed the door, straightened up, and glanced around, squinting for the cart return. Ah, there it was. Down the row to the left. Returning grocery carts was the very backbone of a civilized society. It ranked right under books, but well above small talk.

There was a strange scuffling sound behind her as she walked, and Amelia paused, peering around with a furrowed brow. She saw only cars, shopping carts, and a single small unicorn-raccoon, poking at an empty burger wrapper with its squat, glossy horn. Still, she couldn’t dismiss the unsettling feeling of being watched. But looking around again — and seeing no danger — she decided she was being silly. It was just past five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. The sky was bright, and there was no better self-defense than her dragon-form.

“Paranoid much?” she mumbled to herself under her breath.

Amelia hitched her purse higher on her shoulder and double-tapped her earbud to restart her audiobook, shoving the cart back into the corral with her other hand.

“…never would have asked you if I’d realized you’d put yourself in danger to do it! I want the kingdom safe, but I… I need you safe more,” declared the book’s narrator. He shifted his voice for the next character, softening it and raising the pitch. “And I would have come anyway, Nerrum! You seem to be under the false impression that I’m simply waiting to act at your every beck and call — you impossible, pigheaded, wonderful fool!”

Amelia smiled. The enemies-to-lovers kiss was about to happen; she could feel it in her bones. She started to turn on her heel and head back to the truck when something cold and damp pressed against her mouth while a large hand squeezed her upper arm in a painful, vise-like grip. She squirmed, her fingers tingling and her bones blazing as she instinctively reached for her dragon.

Thirty seconds. If she could just hold on for thirty seconds, this guy would be toast… but before she could shift, something bitterly cold and agonizing pierced her neck.

Amelia gasped and inhaled some of the cold fabric against her mouth. Her abdomen heaved, scrambling for oxygen, but the rag (or whatever it was) pressed against her face was too tight. She could barely breathe, and the pain in her neck spread through her body at an alarming rate.

She was only here because she needed chicken thighs and curry paste for dinner. What was even…

The world tipped precariously to the left, and the colors of the parking lot swirled — fading to a murky, dirty gray.

Amelia slumped, and massive arms caught her. She was jostled as the hulking figure unceremoniously slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

She was awake, but barely. She could feel her dragon-form just under the surface, scrabbling to emerge, but she couldn’t… couldn’t reach it. Snippets of urgent conversation battered her ears, adding a layer of sickening confusion to the ache in her body.

“…in the van…”

“Go, go!”

The slam of a car door.

Someone was shouting from very far away. They seemed upset.

“Back to…”

Squealing tires.

“…sure this is…”

“…not an idiot…know what I’m…”

“Fine. Make the call.”

Silence for a moment, then…

“Boss? We got her.”

Charles stepped in the front door and dropped his bag to the ground with a thump. He locked the door behind him and leaned against the wall for a moment as he let out a long, ragged breath. Then he wearily tossed his keys into a bowl on the bookshelf.

Three more missing people this week, and the beat cops kept complaining that EMS support was spotty. Apparently, some kind of chest cold in Lower Valehaven was keeping them tied up with house calls for oxygen.

He looked up as a clatter came from the kitchen. “Millie?” he called.

“Hi! I’m here. Hello. One sec!”

Charles chuckled and sat down on the entryway bench to take off his boots. He could smell the distinctive scents of lemon cleaner mingled with taco meat. Amelia must have mopped before starting dinner, and he wasn’t about to risk the wrath of a dragon whose lair had just been messed up by his dirty work boots. He dropped them to the ground one at a time and groaned a little at the way his feet ached.

At thirty-six, Charles wasn’t an old man, but he could definitely feel soreness after a long day in a way that he hadn’t ten years ago. Walking across the living room, he peeked into the kitchen to see his wife simultaneously trying to stir taco meat, chop vegetables, and juggle her phone on her shoulder.

He walked in and gently took the knife out of her hand, lest she lose a finger or two, pressing a light kiss to her warm forehead as he did. He put the knife down to wash his hands, then set to chopping tomatoes and lettuce so that Amelia could better focus on stirring and talking.

“Lu?” he mouthed silently. Amelia nodded. She was on the phone with her sister, Lucy. “Tell her hi for me,” he whispered.

Amelia smiled. “Chuck says hello. Also, have you tried using beef tallow for that? I’m not the biggest fan, but Kelly swears that it cleared up her skin.”

Charles finished chopping the lettuce and tomatoes, half-listening to his wife chattering with her sister while he did. She had a soothing voice — bright and soft.

He popped a slice of tomato into his mouth and grimaced slightly. Was it him, or had produce been tasting more… bland lately? He would have expected this from winter tomatoes, but it was early September now. They should have been just right.

“All right, go feed your babies,” Amelia said to Lucy. “Love you. Talk later.”

She hung up, a small smile on her lips, but a misty wistfulness clouding her eyes. Charles knew better than to mention it. If she needed to talk, she’d come to him, but forcing it out of her was a recipe for disaster. And she’d been doing so well — staying so strong — for months now. Instead, Charles offered her a small smile and squeezed her shoulder before turning away so Amelia could covertly wipe her eyes.

They had sat down for dinner and were assembling tacos when Amelia gasped. Charles looked around. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His eyes scanned the exits of the room instinctively.

“I just remembered something!” cried his wife. “I had the weirdest guy come into the library today. One sec, let me show you.”

She dropped her taco onto her plate, stood up from the table, and hurried away. A few shreds of lettuce that had escaped their tortilla prison lay limply on the tablecloth — liberation foiled by their lack of legs. Charles brushed them back onto Amelia’s plate while he waited for her to return. When she bustled back in, she clutched a large plastic zipper bag stuffed with what looked like a second plastic grocery bag.

He expected her to open it, but she plopped it on the table and picked up her phone instead. She pulled up her photo gallery as she told him about a rather unsettling character who’d come into the library that morning. He’d been shifty and secretive, refusing to speak and… looking for Charles?

“Then he put the rest of the notes in this bag, threw it on the desk, and ran away,” said Amelia. “It was the weirdest thing! I sorted through them, and I think I’ve figured out what it was supposed to say, though. Here. What do you think?”

She offered Charles her phone, which he took with interest. A moment later, he felt his jaw drop. His fork boldly followed suit, diving to the plate like an elite swimmer. The tinkle of silver on ceramic seemed to echo through the kitchen. There was no way. There was absolutely no king’s cursed way…

He looked up sharply at Amelia. “Millie, did you catch this guy’s name?”

“What? No. Not unless it’s one of the names on the notes. Like I said, he wouldn’t talk.” She shrugged. “Weird, right?”

Charles chuckled long and loud, then set down Amelia’s phone, stood up, and swept his wife up in his arms, spinning her around. Amelia let out a little shriek of surprise.

“No, Millie, that’s not weird at all. Not if this is what I think it is. And you are brilliant! Utterly brilliant.” He kissed her lips firmly, then pulled her into a bone-crushing hug.

“Chuck, what the heck is going on?” Her voice came out muffled against his shirt collar.

“Mill, you’ve just given me the first solid lead I’ve had in over six years! That’s what’s going on!” Charles grinned triumphantly and punched the air.

“Solid lead for what?” she asked. “And what is LOTHIENNE?”

Charles shook his head firmly as he pulled out his own phone. “Best keep that name to yourself, love.”

“What? Why?” she asked, forehead furrowing.

Charles stopped scrolling through his contacts and pinned her with his eyes, willing her to understand even if he couldn’t say why. “I’m serious, baby. You’ve got to forget you ever heard that name. I’m thrilled that you got me a lead, but none of this would be worth it if you got hurt. Just… lie low. Okay? Don’t talk about it. Don’t research it. Nothing. This isn’t small potatoes like that siren bust yesterday. Just know that this guy is bad news, and you might have helped me finally get my hands on him. Tracking this guy has been like…” He shook his head. “Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.”

Imagining the analogy caused a trail of illusory smoke to trickle out between Charles’ knuckles. He clenched his fist, cutting off the illusion. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Millie. I just need you safe. More than anything in the world, I need you to be okay.”

Amelia nodded, looking at him with complete and utter trust in her amber eyes. “Yeah, okay. I get it. Serious case and all that. I’ll be careful. And you know me… I can take care of myself.” She smiled with a mischievous quirk to her lips. Indeed, she could; it was the only thing that let Charles sleep at night.

Turning back to his phone, he finished pulling up Samuel’s contact and dialed. Four lethargic rings sounded as Charles drummed his fingers impatiently against his thigh.

“Hey beautiful,” drawled the voice on the other end of the line.

“Suit up, Smirk. Millie just got the craziest lead on the Faengster. And all those missing persons cases? I think they’re connected.”

Samuel paced through the bullpen in a haphazard pattern that resembled a runaway ping-pong ball, dodging chairs and desks at the last moment before collision. He seemed to be attempting to cover every square inch of the room in the most chaotic pattern possible. People ducked out of his way, grumbling and swearing, as he prowled.

In direct contrast, Charles lounged in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk, tossing a small, yellow dragon plushie in the air before catching it, again and again and again. The dragon’s left wing was embroidered to say, “Happy Birthday, Chuck! Love, Millie.” Next to the words was a tiny red heart with a 22 carefully stitched inside — Charles’ badge number.

Amelia had come down to the station with him so they could record her statement about how she’d come across the evidence, and when they were done, she’d taken the car home to go to bed. It was late now; she’d probably been asleep for hours. Night shift officers kept the station lively, but they stayed out of Charles and Samuel’s way. The detectives were thinking. Ignore their eccentricities, if you please.

Charles and Samuel had gone over the mysterious bag of notes with a fine-toothed comb, then turned in both the notes and the grocery bag to evidence before settling in for a long, hard think. Fingerprints were being run at the moment, and tomorrow they’d collect the security footage from the library, but right now there wasn’t much else they could do. That was alright. There was more than enough to muse on to keep them busy for hours.

It turned out that Charles’ hunch about the names on the notes had been correct. They didn’t account for every open missing persons case in Valehaven, but they connected to a slew of disappearances over the past thirty-six months that had no leads and seemed to have no motive. The people had just… vanished. Other than that, there was nothing about the missing people that seemed to be related. Those on the list covered every imaginable demographic — old and young, male and female, human and fae, professionals, deadbeats, model citizens, and criminals. Having a lead now, after so long in the dark, was intoxicating.

“Lord of the broken hears mermaids sing,” mused Samuel. “Can’t be the warehouses down by the river unless he’s moved recently. We went over every square inch of that place not all that long ago.”

“Nah,” said Charles. “I don’t think it’s the warehouses. Too many people coming and going down there to be discreet, but not enough to hide in the hubbub. What about an eastern restaurant? You know, the djinn takes his meals?”

“Maybe there’s one next to an aquarium or something?” asked Samuel.

“Yes!” Charles slammed his hand onto his desk in agreement, and a passing brownie receptionist nearly dropped her coffee in surprise. She shot Charles a reproving glare, which he responded to with a chuckle and a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he muttered. Turning back to Samuel, he said, “There’s a place just east of Dreamweaver’s that Millie loves. And the Playhouse has this new siren show. Maybe he’s nearby.”

Samuel climbed directly over a desk in order to reach his own desk faster and pulled his phone off its charging cable.

“Remember what it’s called?” he asked. “And are you hungry?”

Charles shrugged. “No, but I should remember. Its takeout menu is on my fridge.”

“No matter. Eastern restaurants near me,” Samuel mumbled under his breath as he searched his phone for the place.

Amelia blinked and reread the note.

Are you Detective Charlie Kevrinhart’s wife?

Nope. It was just as weird and uncomfortable the second time through. She cleared her throat delicately.

“It’s, uh… Charles, not Charlie,” said Amelia. “But yes, I am.”

She was growing more and more unsettled by this exchange, and backed up as subtly as she could from the disturbing stranger. Her hip bumped into the other side of the wraparound desk. She was trapped.

The man waved away her comment and tapped his finger demandingly on the word “detective.”

“Is he a detective?” Amelia clarified.

The man nodded, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Yes,” said Amelia slowly. “He is. Do you need the police, sir? I can call the station for you. I have a direct line.”

The man’s eyes bulged, and he shook his head frantically, making what was clearly an “are you insane, of course not” type of gesture.

“Well then, what do you need?” Amelia asked.

The man went back to frantically shuffling through his notes. Amelia flexed her hands as she waited. Her fingertips felt hot — hot enough to burn — and her nail beds tingled painfully. Her body sensed danger and was preparing to shift. She held it in check, though. She hadn’t shifted unintentionally since… but that didn’t matter now.

Legally, Amelia had every right to shift into her dragon form when faced with mortal danger or serious harm to self or others. The Supernaturals’ Health in Facing Terror (or SHIFT) act ensured that. Still, she didn’t want to be the cause of unnecessary damage or paperwork.

Her dragon form was small, about the size of a well-bred horse, with a 36-foot wingspan and bones built like a bird’s to help with flight. That alone was enough to scare away most opponents, but where her true danger lay was her fire. It burned at temperatures that could melt copper and left behind a sticky, chemical-type residue that made industrial bleach seem like fresh mountain spring water. Even once her short-lived flames were used up, the aftermath was devastating for anything in her wake.

Amelia glanced around her beloved library. The last thing she wanted to do was destroy Valehaven’s access to all these wonderful stories. Hiring a dragon shifter as a librarian had raised a few eyebrows within the city council. But between FAE (Fair Access to Employment) laws, her master’s degree in library science, and her unparalleled love of stories, picking Amelia had essentially been a no-brainer for the library board. Still, she was all too aware of the risk her dragon form posed to this magnificent place.

The strange, mute man before her was disturbing, but so far he’d made no move to harm her. She would watch. Wait. She wasn’t about to make any rash decisions.

The man triumphantly pulled out his next note. Amelia took a couple of deep breaths, cooling her fingertips, before reaching for the paper. The stench of stale alcohol mingled with that faint flowery scent tickled her nose again, and she wrinkled it slightly to hold back a sneeze.

I have information for Detective Charlie Kevrinhart, the note read.

“Like a tip?” Amelia asked. “Why didn’t you bring it down to the station?” She set the note next to the others he’d given her and examined the rough-looking man with narrowed eyes.

The man made shushing gestures and glanced shiftily around yet again. When he looked back at Amelia, his brown eyes were watery and more desperate than anything she had ever seen. She was sure in that moment that a mud-soaked puppy lying starving and abandoned at the bottom of a dumpster could not have looked more pitiful or more in need of her help.

“Okay, okay,” she said quickly, using her most gentle tone of voice and making placating motions with her hands. “Not the police station. We’ll stay right here. You and me.”

The man’s sigh of relief gusted out from his chest, and his eyes looked like he was about to break down in tears. He silently mouthed “thank you” through dry, chapped lips.

“Did you want to tell me, then have me tell Detective Kevrinhart?” Amelia asked.

The man nodded eagerly.

Oooookay then, Amelia thought. She was actually pretty sure that this wasn’t okay in the slightest, but she didn’t know what else to do.

She expected the man to offer her bits and pieces, note by note, and was surprised when instead, he pulled out a plastic grocery bag from his other pocket, stuffed the remaining, ransom-style notes into the crumpled sack, threw them on the desk before her, and ran out of the library like death itself was hot on his heels.

“Wait, sir!” cried Amelia. “I didn’t get your…” The door slammed shut. “Name.”

Sighing, she went to the cleaning closet and grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves. She didn’t know if Charles would be able to get prints off the bag, but she knew better than to carry it around in her bare hands. Glancing at her watch, Amelia noted that she still had plenty of time before she needed to set up for the book signing later.

Glancing at the bag in her hands, she chewed her lip. The allure of this bizarre story unfolding in real-time was strong… too strong. And the man had wanted her to see the notes before passing them on. Couldn’t hurt to take a peek, right?

A few minutes later, Amelia knelt in an empty resource room in front of a whiteboard and a pencil case full of small magnets arranged neatly on the floor. The whiteboard was stained from years of use but would serve her purpose well enough. She had turned off the fan to ensure no paper scraps went flying and then dumped out the bag of notes on the floor. Dozens of papers like the ones she’d been shown before littered the grayish-blue nylon carpet. There wasn’t a single handwritten word in the lot. Just letters from other books or magazines, snipped out and pasted to form scraps of the mute man’s secrets.

Amelia got to work.

Assembling the notes, it turned out, was something of a puzzle, but one made of bits of story. She very much doubted the man knew about her propensity for tales, so it was an enormous stroke of luck that he’d brought them to her. Each paper held only half of an idea. It made for messy work that included many guesses, but eventually Amelia had what she thought was the only logical way for these bits to fit together.

She sat back on her heels and examined her work.

Lord of the Broken hears mermaids sing,

‘neath ice-cold waters where magics cling. 

One of the lost can still faintly recall; 

count all the names up on the wall. 

Twisting mirrors distort what the heart perceives, 

and offers no comfort to the one who grieves. 

Hellish Rot festers, but within they’re alive, 

for blood laces the walls of those trying to survive. 

I know more than one way to the upside down, 

but it’s dripping with Rot that leaks through the town. 

Each painful choice will cling to your chest; 

down, down, down you must travel to follow this quest. 

New glamour shots capture what eyes cannot see, 

and contract prisoners long to be free. 

Now the djinn takes his meals with a sick, sly delight; 

on the darkest of days there’s a sliver of light. 

Ever part of the problem; I can’t endure it much longer. 

Tick tock snuıɹǝs ʇɟɐɹ sʞɐǝq — now you must be stronger.

Amelia furrowed her eyebrows. “Well, that’s creepy as hell,” she mumbled to herself. Or at least… it was if she’d assembled it right?

She thought this was the correct order, but “beaks raft serinus” was upside down, which couldn’t be right. But that paper had words on either side of the upside-down riddle that were positioned right-side-up, so it looked wrong no matter which way she laid it.

The multiple mentions of “Rot” left her feeling rather queasy, as they would for any resident of Valehaven.

But we’re safe here, she reminded herself.

The disease that plagued Sovra’an couldn’t make it through the Tarraven Portal, and there was no other way to the dying realm that existed just out of reach, folded over this one like a scrap of space-time-paper. Those lines of the poem had to be some kind of sick metaphor, right along with blood lacing the walls. Ew.

Still considering the puzzle, Amelia sucked in her cheeks to think and let them out with a sound like a gum bubble popping. Scanning from top to bottom, she noted the extra-large letters that started each couplet — L-O-T-H-I-E-N-N-E. A place maybe? Or the title of an organization? Charles definitely hadn’t told her any work stories about a person named Lothienne; she would have remembered if he had. Of course, it could just be a stylistic choice and not mean anything at all.

As for the rest of the notes… she glanced around. There were the three notes the man had shown her before (which she’d tried to fit into the riddle just in case, but they didn’t seem to work). The rest didn’t seem to be bits of the puzzle either, but names. Maybe the ones mentioned in the fourth line? She counted. Eighty-seven names, first and last, just pasted there in the middle of the paper like it was supposed to mean something.

“One of the lost can still faintly recall,” she mused out loud. Then she shrugged. She didn’t know what it all meant, but she hoped that Charles would.

Standing on a chair so she could fit it all in one shot, Amelia took several pictures of her work on her phone. Then she scooped the papers back up into their grocery bag, placed that bag in a second plastic zipper bag from the mommy-and-me painting supplies caddie, and peeled off her gloves. She returned her magnets and whiteboard to their supply closet, then headed back out to the front desk to lock the bag safely in a drawer.

She was… delighted and frustrated all at once. Like how a cliffhanger made her feel at the end of a book in a series that wasn’t done being written. But worse, because while she could stalk her favorite authors’ websites and find out when their next books were coming out, she had no way to find the creepy note-stranger and demand further answers.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that even if she could, she wouldn’t. She was a reader of adventurous tales, not the subject of them. Besides, if she got herself tangled up in whatever dangerous scheme had that man so scared, Charles would have her hide. Solving the riddle itself was excitement enough, she decided.

Now, she was sure there was something she was supposed to…

Amelia glanced at her watch and swore. She had only twenty minutes to set up for the book signing! She checked her phone and groaned. The stupid thing was on silent for some reason, and she’d missed her alarm. Soon the notes were forgotten as Amelia raced to set up for her local author, who’d be arriving at the library any minute.

The next morning when Amelia woke, Charles was already gone, which wasn’t unusual. On workdays he rose long before the sun to clock in at the station. Crime apparently never slept? Rude.

Amelia yawned and stretched, lying spread-eagle for a moment and trying to claim every square inch of their large bed with her small frame. Then she scooted to the edge and picked up her phone.

Four messages.

There was a text from her boss asking her to run a background check on the new morph who’d volunteered to do story hour. Made sense. It was super fun having morphs read books to kids, as they could physically change their vocal cords and create distinct voices for every character. They didn’t want to unwittingly bring a creep around children, though, and Amelia made a mental note to see to it first thing when she arrived at the library. It shouldn’t be too hard to get a background check. She knew a guy. In fact, she was married to the guy.

The next was a text alert for an ebook sale, which she starred for later perusal. (She needed more books like she needed a tear in her wing, buuuut… it didn’t hurt to look. Right?)

There was a message from her sister, Lucy, asking if she had Mom’s recipe for “stuff,” which was actually less vague than an outsider would assume. Yes, she did have Mom’s recipe for “stuff.” Do you want a photocopy, or will a list of ingredients suffice?

Finally, she opened Charles’ “Good morning, beautiful” text, and felt her cheek quirk in a soft smile. He’d punctuated it with a yellow heart and dragon emoji. He sent her a text like this every day that he wasn’t with her for morning tea and coffee. And seven years of marriage later, it still made her feel all warm down to her toes.

Amelia stretched again with a groan, then padded out to the kitchen to make herself some tea. She set the electric kettle to 195 degrees Fahrenheit — the perfect temperature for the black tea with bergamot she was craving. Then she ventured into the bathroom and turned on the shower to its very hottest setting. The water could have blistered a human, but was only just warm enough for Amelia’s liking. Charles had a second water heater installed two winters ago and shut off the temperature safety feature on both of them so Amelia could bask in a near-boiling deluge whenever she felt chilly. Call her crazy, but she was convinced that the second water heater was the most romantic gift ever.

By the time she’d dried herself and dressed in a pair of faded jeans, ballet flats, button-up shirt, and cardigan, her tea was ready and her phone was chiming to usher her out the door.

Amelia had dozens of alarms set on her phone that went off at all hours of the day (much to Charles’ dismay). They were a necessary evil, unfortunately. She’d long since learned that she couldn’t be trusted to arrive anywhere on time if she was distracted by a new book or a podcast, as was all too often the case.

She took a hearty swig of scorching tea, grabbed her purse and keys, and hurried out the door.

Four hours later, Amelia teetered precariously on the highest step of a spindly spiral staircase to re-shelve a wayward mystery novel.

So far this morning she’d run a background check on their morph story time reader, overseen a mommy-and-me painting class, and helped a faerie woman access family history records from the interdimensional FaeFam database. She had a book signing to set up for later for a local author and was currently taking advantage of a lull in the day’s activities to get some books returned to their homes.

A soft tinkling noise up front told her that someone had arrived and wanted her attention at the front desk. So she climbed down quickly and brushed off the front of her blue cardigan before hurrying to help the patron.

“Welcome to the Valehaven Public Library. Can I help you find anything?”

The man standing by the front desk quickly dropped the brass nameplate he’d been holding. Its clatter was muffled by papers scattered across the desk.

Amelia Kevrinhart, Senior Librarian

That was her nameplate. Amelia’s brow furrowed. The man glanced around the room before leaning in close. His balding head was sweaty, and his breath came out in labored gasps. Curiosity — and just a touch of apprehension — tickled Amelia’s spine.

“Sir, are you alright? Do you need me to call someone?”

Her eyes roved over his attire, which was extremely worse for wear. He had several days’ stubble on his chin in a way that screamed neglect rather than style. Charles had a bit of scruff too, but he kept it neat and intentional. This unfortunate soul just looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week. Looked and smelled. The overpowering scents of stale smoke and alcohol lingered on him in a way that rarely boded well for anyone on a bright Tuesday morning. Amelia’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

See? She thought to herself sternly. This is why you can’t ever again. Not even one.

There was more, though. Beneath the rough odor, Amelia smelled something… flowery. It was cloyingly sweet. Almost sickly. That saccharine scent seemed familiar, but was hard to make out without taking a deeper whiff. Which Amelia was not about to do. Her sharp dragon senses were already overpowered by the smell of a desperate man drowning his sorrows.

The man peeked over his shoulder again and stuffed his hands in his suspiciously bulging pockets. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t speak.

Amelia cleared her throat and smiled gently. “Is there a book I can help you find? Or a resource? If you’re not quite sure what you’re looking for, perhaps you could tell me your situation, and I’d be happy to let you know what’s available.”

The man opened his mouth and moved his lips for a moment. No sound came out. He tried again and nearly choked on the effort. He ran a hand through his oily hair and looked at Amelia with a pleading gaze. His rich brown eyes seemed like they might have been warm and inviting… once. Now they were just desperate.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Amelia, grimacing slightly from embarrassment. Perhaps the man could not talk? Or couldn’t hear her? She felt rude, but also wasn’t sure how she was supposed to help him if she didn’t know what he needed. “Could you… maybe write it down?”

To her surprise, the man nodded eagerly. Almost as if he’d been waiting for her to make that exact suggestion. Amelia reached for a pad of sticky notes and a pen, but the man waved her off. He pulled a wad of crumpled notes from his bulging pocket and shuffled through them as if looking for a specific one. When he found it, he let out a breath of relief, then checked over his shoulder again as if afraid they were being watched. Spooked by his wild behavior, Amelia looked around too. There was no one. The man pushed the note across the table to her and gestured eagerly for her to pick it up and read.

Amelia did so and was surprised to find that it was a sheet of college-ruled paper, hastily torn out of a notebook, and covered with dozens of other tiny bits of paper, cut out and glued to the front in haphazard lines. Each piece had a letter that was a different color and font from the others. Together, the pieces formed words. It resembled how Amelia would have imagined an old-timey ransom note from a 99¢ detective novel.

Are you Amelia Kevrinhart, it read.

Amelia glanced up at the man and nodded slowly. “Yes, I am. Please, sir, I’d love to help, but…”

The man looked relieved and waved away her concern. Then he sifted through his notes again and slammed another one onto the desk before her. It too was made up of cut-out letters glued to a page. Amelia’s throat tightened, and her hands grew hot as she read.

Are you Detective Charlie Kevrinhart’s wife?

Amelia Kevrinhart reached into the four hundred degree oven and pulled out a sizzling pan of herb-roasted potatoes with her bare hands… and didn’t flinch.

She did gasp, but not from pain. The audiobook she’d been consuming on double speed had just hit a major plot twist, and her luminescent amber eyes grew to the size of dinner plates with excitement.

Amelia, you see, was a dragon shifter. Which explains not one, but two things.

First, the heat of the oven meant nothing to her. She’d pushed up the sleeves of her pale pink cardigan before reaching in, but only so she wouldn’t singe her cuffs. Her bare skin was not affected by the blistering temperatures.

Second, like all dragons, Amelia kept a hoard.

Some dragons hoard jewels, and others hoard swords. Back in the old days — before they’d learned what an implant of gold could do — many dragons hoarded golden treasure. That was out of fashion now, though, and the new “it” thing was hoarding various computer systems and cutting-edge software.

Amelia was different. She didn’t hoard stuff.

She hoarded stories.

If you visited her home in the suburbs of Valehaven and saw the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books on every wall, you could be forgiven for assuming she hoarded books. But what Amelia truly collected were the intangible tales that lived between those pages. Untouchable, but every bit as real to her.

Amelia had seen what physical hoards could do to a dragon. The way they bred greed and malice in the hearts of her older family members and turned them into shells of themselves. She didn’t want that — had never wanted that — and she’d already experienced quite enough loss in her life, thank you very much. So while she’d be sad if something terrible ever happened to her books, she wouldn’t be ruined by the loss the way another dragon might.

Traditionalists found her “imaginary” hoard strange, but Amelia didn’t care. She loved her stories, and when she shared them with her husband, Charles, he brought them to life with his illusions — which made her love them all the more.

When she wasn’t sharing stories with Charles, she shared them with their city. Amelia worked at the Valehaven Public Library and had an arsenal of cardigans to prove it. As if to match the vibe of cardigans, her human form was that of a soft, bookish woman with bright blond hair that fell in short, loose waves around her face. Her reflective, liquid-amber eyes were the most dragonish part of her human form, and they were framed with tiny crinkles that she’d earned prematurely from copying the expressions that book characters made while she read.

The front door clicked and creaked. Amelia smiled. She double-tapped her earbud to pause her book and rushed to the front door — to the only man who would ever make her happy to pause a book in the middle of a jaw-dropping development.

“Chuck!” she cried before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him breathlessly.

“Hey Millie,” replied her husband against her lips. He slid an arm around her waist, and his tone turned sly. “You’ll never guess what I brought home for you.”

Amelia pulled back, eyes wide and hands resting on Charles’ chest. “Another story?!”

Charles grinned and bopped her nose. “You betcha, baby. Today we got the Sweetheart Siren, and you’ll never guess who it ended up being.”

Amelia squealed and punched the air with delight. Charles laughed. She wanted to hear the tale right away, but he insisted he needed a shower. So while he cleaned up, Amelia devoured another chapter of her audiobook.

Apparently, the protagonist had known about his father’s evil schemes all along, and had only been pretending to be mad in order to glean information and bring down the wicked king’s empire from within! Stellar stuff.

Charles emerged from his shower, wearing loose black sweatpants and a snug gray t-shirt that was darker in spots across his shoulders from the wetness of his dripping brown hair.

“Whodunit?” he asked, and Amelia beamed. The question was a small thing, but it showed her he genuinely cared about her and the things she found exciting. (Even if those things were fictional stories in fantasy worlds that didn’t really exist.)

Amelia set plates and forks on the table, then brought over two steaming cast-iron pans — one with steak, and the other with potatoes. “Turns out Prince Nerrum knew about the conspiracy the whole time and was actually just pretending to be crazy, but never mind that now. I want to hear your story!”

Charles smiled and began heaping food onto his plate. “Right,” he said, “well, you know how the Sweetheart Siren has been running that drug ring in Lower Valehaven down by the Mirror Ports?”

“Of course,” replied Amelia, who kept up to date on every article published by the Crypticonsortium – the political powerhouse that ruled Valehaven – as well as every work story her husband would share. There were some that he wasn’t willing to share, but only ever for good reason. Sometimes detective work required confidentiality. Other times it was too grisly for Amelia to stomach.

“Based on the leads we got, how would you describe the Siren?” asked Charles.

“Hmmm,” said Amelia, tapping her fork against her lip while she thought. “I’d say average height, but very curvy. Late-thirties. Red hair and redder lips. Super sultry.”

As she spoke, an illusion of her exact description materialized in front of them. The woman blinked heavily lidded eyes and glanced around the room as if bored. Her chest moved with illusory breath, and her hair even shifted slightly from the overhead fan. The only thing Charles couldn’t replicate were the sounds she would have made if she’d been real. Still, she looked so lifelike that had Amelia not been so used to her husband’s magic, she probably would have screamed from fright. Instead, she just nodded at the figure. “Yeah, like that,” she said, “but maybe a little more wily-looking in the eyes. She is a drug lord, after all.”

“Is she now?” asked Charles, face stoic, though his eyes sparkled mischievously.

Sweet, sweet portals. Those were the words of a man about to reveal a plot twist!

“Well, isn’t she?!” demanded Amelia.

“I wouldn’t exactly call the Siren a ‘she.’ Picture them a little more like… this.”

The bombshell of a woman before them expanded and distorted until standing before them was an absolute walrus of a man.

“What?!” gasped Amelia. “But you said even the Siren’s employees described them the way I did!”

“They did,” agreed Charles. “And turns out this guy’s one heck of a siren. They knew he wasn’t like that at all, but he made them so desperate for his approval that they were willing to describe him like this, even under oath. In fact, I think a few of the inner circle even started to believe it. Sarge expects those ones to plead magical insanity in court.”

“No!” gasped Amelia. “Tell me everything.” She rested her chin on her hands and stared at her husband with wide, expectant eyes. Her dinner lay utterly forgotten.

Charles chuckled and popped a large bite of steak into his mouth before obliging. He told his tale between bites of food, and wove an illusion while he talked, illustrating the story in exquisite detail for Amelia.

She almost felt like she was right there next to him as the sting went down, and adrenaline tickled her stomach in the most delightful way. In return, she was the perfect audience — gasping and groaning and laughing at all the right moments. There had likely never been a man whose wife was so genuinely interested in how his day had gone.

Later that night, Amelia reviewed her stories in her mind as she brushed her teeth and dressed in her blue donut pajamas — both the audiobook she’d listened to and the story Charles brought home. She had an excellent memory, but she didn’t want to miss a single detail, so she thought them both through very carefully before tucking them away in her Hoard and padding down the hallway from the bathroom to their bedroom.

She gritted her teeth as she passed the unremarkable second door on the left in the hallway.

Don’t look at it. Don’t think about it. Don’t dwell on what’s behind that locked door.

When she arrived at her own bedroom, Amelia breathed a sigh of relief and peeled her fingers from the fists they’d been trapped in. Glancing down, she noticed eight little half-moons of white imprinted into the palms of her hands from her nails. The back of her throat burned with grief, and she wished for something — the wrong thing — to ease the ache.

Maybe just one…

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s just a door, and it can’t hurt you.”

That was a stupid thing to say. She knew it was just a door… and it hurt her all the same.

Not tonight, though. She could do this. She could be strong enough.

Amelia forced herself to step into her own bedroom and noticed the dark, lumpy mass of her husband shifting slightly as he breathed deeply. She’d taken a while to get ready, and he’d clearly dozed off after his long day. His phone was still glowing softly in one of his hands, a word puzzle pinging to tell him it was his turn to lay a tile.

Amelia gently dislodged the phone from his hand and plugged it in. Then she double-checked her morning alarms, turned on the fan for white noise, and snuggled under the covers. Next to her, Charles’ snores faded for a moment as he reached out an arm to pull her in close.

“Love you, Mill,” he mumbled before lapsing into snores yet again.

Amelia yawned and felt her mouth twitch in a soft, sad smile. “I love you too, Chuck,” she replied, even though he couldn’t hear her.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she was soon fast asleep.

— Seven Weeks Earlier —

Detective Charles Kevrinhart of the Valehaven Police Department stepped into the armory at the end of a grueling, fourteen-hour shift to the sound of scattered applause and catcalls from his squad.

“Eyyy, lover boy! Heard you brought down the Sweetheart Siren with one of her own tricks! Very classy.”

“I heard she was wily as a dryad and twice as hot.”

“Pity she couldn’t lure you to shave that sorry excuse for a beard, Chuckles. It’s an embarrassment.”

Charles waved off the cheers and ribbing with one tired hand, but couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across his face. He’d been tracking this particular criminal for nearly four months and was thrilled to have finally made the arrest.

“He, actually,” said Charles’ partner, Samuel McClemmons, as he stepped into the armory behind him. “And no. Turns out the Sweetheart Siren is a fat, old, hairy dude. So unless you’re into that kind of thing, Putter…”

Samuel smirked, and Charles snorted a laugh. Which was fitting, as they were known in the department by the monikers of Smirk and Chuckles. The pair were a dynamic duo and the golden boys of the Valehaven police force — decorated hotshots who kept crime in check and ensured gray hairs on their captain’s head remained abundant. They claimed the silver streaks gave her a dignified air; their werewolf captain counterclaimed they were gigantic pains in her backside. She grudgingly admitted that they were worth their keep, though, as Charles was an accomplished illusionist, and Samuel was a level seven curse breaker. Between the two of them, they could build up a sting and tear down a criminal like nobody’s business.

The officer who’d asked about the Siren’s physique smacked his forehead at Smirk’s declaration, while a light-haired faun to his right held out a hand expectantly.

“Told you it’d be a dude, Putter,” the faun said. “Siren magic has nothing to do with looking like a dame, and you know it. Pay up.”

“I know, I know, but would it kill ‘em to bring in something pretty to look at once in a while?” Putter swore under his breath and pulled out his wallet, offering the winner of the bet a crisp fifty-dollar bill. The faun pocketed it with a self-congratulatory smile.

“You want pretty, go be pretty yourself!” huffed a dwarf in tactical armor, and catcalls sounded throughout the room once more. The dwarf, Hasdrin, continued in a mock-serious tone, “I can get you a mirror if you wanna make kissy faces at it.”

A tall woman with cropped white hair, pointed ears, and smooth brown skin slammed a magazine into her handgun and shook her head. “Absolute children, the lot of you.” Her faint accent was neither Cohllian nor Fae, but had subtle traces of both.

Putter swatted at the dwarf and shot the woman a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Sarge,” he mumbled.

The night elf sergeant just rolled her eyes and began disassembling a rifle for cleaning.

The dwarf’s suggestion had been gross, but not unfounded. Putter was a morph, and could make his own appearance look like, well… like anything. Anything organic, that is. He’d earned his name by forever getting assigned to stakeouts while in disguise, and spending hundreds of hours on the job simply puttering about, waiting for his target to make an appearance.

Charles and Samuel walked over to their lockers, receiving a few celebratory claps on the shoulders as they went, and began stripping off their department-issued gear. Their duty belts held an eclectic assortment of tools — an array that only law enforcement officers from one of the fae sanctuary cities would find useful. Steel cuffs for humans and iron cuffs for fae, a 9mm Velsk with elemental magic resistant bullets, a taser, glamour ray, military grade pepper spray, hobgoblin repellent, and an assortment of charmed smoke bombs that could slow minor curses or reveal recently cast hexes. Charles removed his body cam with magic-sensing infrared and docked it on the charger in the port with his badge number on it. Next came his cross-realm radio that could transmit all the way to Sovra’an (if his location in Valehaven overlapped with that of the person he was trying to contact in the Fae realm). Then he shrugged out of his bulletproof vest and removed the bracers that protected him from magical mental manipulation.

He sniffed his sweaty T-shirt and grimaced. Great kings, he stank like a bridge troll.

“Yo, Chuckles,” called one of the men. “We’re going to Merlin’s for a drink after shift. Buy you a round to celebrate?”

Charles glanced over his shoulder while he pulled a wadded-up flannel out of his locker and tugged it on over his undershirt. He ran a hand through his dirty brown hair and down his scruffy jaw. “Nah. Thanks, man. I’ve gotta hot date.”

“Lookin’ a little rough for a hot date, brother.”

Charles grinned and shook his head. Luckily, his “date” would not be perturbed by his disheveled state. She might wrinkle her cute little button nose, but she’d run into his arms and kiss him soundly all the same.

Charles leaned over to Samuel. “She’s making steak and potatoes tonight,” he said under his breath. “Told me to tell you that you’re welcome to stop by for a bite.”

Smirk rolled his eyes and stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Tell your wife to stop mothering me, Chuck. She’s gonna give herself an ulcer the way she fusses.”

“Ahhh, she just knows I’d be a disaster without her. She probably thinks we’re enough alike that you’re hovering on your deathbed even now.”

Samuel smirked. “I’m not dead yet. Though if I do keel over, I’ll be sure to haunt you first and give you the good news. Tonight I’m drinking a beer and going to sleep. Tell Millie thanks for me, though. I’ll stop by on Sunday if the invitation’s still open.”

“It always is, Smirk. You know that.”

“That I do,” said Samuel, tapping his fist on his friend’s shoulder before closing his locker with a slam and walking out the door into the cool evening air.

Charles quickly packed his own bag and hurried into the parking lot, feeling tired, sore, and more than ready to be home. His day had been fulfilling, but the best part was still yet to come. He had a steak to eat and a dragon to kiss.

As he drove home, windows down and a melodic house mix streaming via Bluetooth through the speakers of his SUV, Charles breathed in deep and slow, savoring the scents of the city that was his home.

Little did he know that across town a hunted man was on the run, with a list of names, a bag of letters, and three words that supported his fragile hopes like a fading portal feebly winking on its last shift…

“Detective Charlie Kevrinhart.”