— 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.”