“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 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 Glock 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 wretch. 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 tomorrow night? 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. Ahh… 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, vice-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,” said Amelia 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’s 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 told him while she pulled up her photo gallery 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-bread 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 unsettling, 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 desperate 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,
under 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.

A Hoard of Tales: Episode 4

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 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 halfway up 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 desk 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?

A Hoard of Tales: Episode 3

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 the Crypticonsortium published, 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 illusioned 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. Serg 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, serg,” 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, you see, 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 Glock 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.”

A faun wearing scrubs and a fleece-lined hoodie scrolled on his phone with a bored expression. The monitors surrounding him beeped softly in concert, and the one-way glass in front of him depicted a rather dismal scene.

The woman on the cot in the small medical room wore a thin hospital gown but no blanket, and her shallow breaths puffed out of her nose in tiny frosted clouds. Her lips were blue from the cold, and her golden-blond hair lay tangled and lank on the paper sheet below her. Hands, feet, waist, and forehead were secured to the cot with wide leather straps, and scabbed-over incisions dotted her body every six inches from head to toe. She had an IV in her hand and a feeding tube in her nose.

The harshly lit room had no decorations, no flowers from loved ones, and no chair for visitors. Because this woman was not a patient.

She was a prisoner.

The door behind the faun banged open, and he swiveled in his office chair, raising an eyebrow at the newcomer. A burly minotaur edged in sideways, as if worried he wouldn’t fit through the door walking normally. He sat on the other chair in the observation room, which looked comically small under his girth, the pitiful plastic groaning slightly in protest. The minotaur ran his hands up and down his heavily muscled arms.

“Don’t know why you always gotta keep it so shift-snared cold in here,” he grumbled.

The faun rolled his eyes. “You know why, Bent. You’ve just gotta find reasons to complain.”

“Think you’ll turn the heat up once her implants heal?”

The faun sighed. “I don’t know, man. She’s dangerous. Higher-ups say it’s best to keep her cold. Keep her docile.”

The minotaur, Bent, snorted. “Her entire body is the size of my forearm.”

“First, your forearm is freaking huge, so that doesn’t mean much,” said the faun. “And second, she’s a kings-cursed dragon, you moron. She may not look like much now, but if she shifts, it’s over. For all of us.”

“Well, it ain’t over yet, Nick. The Boss wants to know when she’ll be ready for another extraction,” said Bent.

Nick snorted. “Tell the blasted fae to go suck a tire iron. How am I supposed to know?” His companion raised a single bovine eyebrow, to which the faun swore and tossed his phone on the control panel. “I was kidding, okay?” Nick snapped. He paused for a moment before adding quietly, “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Bent nodded, and the faun looked relieved. “Your secret’s safe with me, goat boy. But it’s been three days, and he’s getting impatient.”

“It’s my job to keep her alive,” said Nick. “And those extractions are brutal. I know he needs intel, but sucking her dry doesn’t exactly make my job any easier. A dead girl won’t do him any good.”

The minotaur raised his vast hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t hex the messenger. I’m just saying, whatever you’ve gotta do to get her ready, do it. Because you’ve got a day, maybe two, then you’ve gotta start ‘er all over again.”

“Oh joy,” replied the faun in a paper dry-tone, his sarcasm serving as a rather ineffective mask for his anxiety.

Bent stood, and his chair whined in relief. He walked back to the door and paused by the threshold. “Thirty-six hours, Nick. I can’t promise you any more than that.”

Nick nodded. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Bent nodded back and squeezed out the door.

Inside the medical room, the blonde woman shifted slightly on her paper sheet. She could hear… things. Vaguely, as if from deep under water. People? People said… words. Words made… stories. And stories — she swallowed and nearly choked on her own dry tongue — well, stories were important. Very important.

Maybe?

An empty part of her mind, where something significant had once been, ached like the loss of a limb. Like the loss of a loved one. She wished she knew what that empty bit was. Or rather, what it had been. Her forehead wrinkled from the effort of trying to remember. The empty part was like… like a smell from childhood, but one you couldn’t quite place.

She wasn’t just empty, though. She felt weak and cold. So very bitterly cold. But she couldn’t even shiver. Could hardly think. And — molten rot — she hurt. What was that pulsing source of acrid, metallic pain? Was it coming from inside her skin? She was… was…

Wait.

Who was she?

She was sure she’d had a name… before.

Inside the observation room, Nick noticed his charge stirring. He pressed a button to release a potent sedative into her IV — a dangerously strong combination of propofol, etomidate, and distilled naiad tears — then documented the time and dose in her chart. He double checked her heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation. All within normal limits.

He breathed a shallow sigh of relief. So long as he did his job well, he stayed in the Boss’s good graces. Which meant that right now, the soft steady beeping of the woman’s heart monitor was the most beautiful sound it the world.

These moments of semi-wakefulness were happening less frequently since her implant surgery two days ago. Which was great news for him. The more she rested, the quicker she’d heal, and the more she healed between extractions, the less his own life was on the line.

Lothienne is just a man; get a grip on yourself, Nick sternly reminded himself, picking up his phone again as a distraction from his churning stomach.

The lecture might have helped… if it had been true. Unfortunately, the fae mob boss of Valehaven could hardly be called “just a man.”