Chapter 3

Chapter3

One hundred and thirty-seven seconds was nothing in the grand scheme of life, not even a blip. However, I’d swear that in the one hundred and thirty-seven seconds that had passed between me delivering my status report and now, an entire ice age had manifested.

Maybe that glacial silence from Michael Fleischer, the director of the Vancouver chapter of the Maccabees, was actually shock, given she’d just learned I was the only person with any memory of the crime scene, and that we had no evidence and no body.

Or maybe the silence simply felt glacial because Michael—tapping her pen against the blotter on her desk at hummingbird speed—was also my mother. There was a chance I was oversensitive to her silences. Where others clocked a thoughtful pause, I saw a dangerous calculation.

Perhaps she was simply running through all the ramifications and implications of this crime, and the steely glint in her green eyes was not a visual cue that she was about to tear into me for this gong show.

Yeah, that was wishful thinking. With my luck, it’d be Michael calculating and tearing me apart at the same time. My mother was nothing if not efficient.

It didn’t matter that there was no way I could have foreseen any of this. Maccabees did not engage in excuses. We also did not assign blame, for example, on our exes for not being one hundred percent clear and precise that our victim’s corpse was at risk of being body snatched.

I was the lead on-site, and I should have done more to secure the scene.

Don’t lose the body. Procedure 101. My fellow operatives were going to have a field day when this got out.

I risked a glance at Darsh, the vampire Maccabee I’d brought with me to Michael’s office. He was the first member of the Spook Squad that I’d found when I got back to HQ, and with a possible Prime as our victim, he needed to be in this meeting. He was also my good friend who I desperately wanted here for moral support.

Or, at almost six feet to my five-foot-five, to hide behind, if necessary.

Darsh looked from Michael to me, widened his large brownish-gold eyes, which were ringed in dark liner, cocked his head sideways, and mimed being caught in a hangman’s noose.

I glared at him.

He winked and crossed one long leg over the other, the complicated buckles on his pants clinking softly. “Michael,” he drawled, “could you put me in charge of this case before you stroke out?”

I sat up ramrod straight, internally cursing my still rain-damp suit. The fabric was bunched in the most unfortunate places. “No way. I’m the only one with any memory of the crime scene. We’ll partner up.”

Co-leading wouldn’t earn me my coveted promotion to level three, but at this point, I wasn’t sure what would.

Darsh ran a hand over his cropped black faux fur sweater with a disarming casualness. “The victim wasn’t simply a vampire, she was a Prime. This is Spook Squad jurisdiction.” He pursed his lips into a mock pout. “Also, not to rub salt in an obviously fresh wound, but all of my bodies have an excellent track record of staying where I leave them.”

I was going to kill him.

“Since it’s all about you,” Michael said without heat.

He knotted his shoulder-length silky brown hair into a messy bun. “Obviously.”

I no longer braced myself when he snarked back at her. Mostly. I also no longer felt that sting of jealousy that he always got away with it.

Less mostly.

“How about some credit for figuring out Emily was a Prime and not a Red Flame?” I said. “Otherwise, this investigation would be headed down the wrong road and wasting valuable time.” I crossed my arms. “Michael. Come on. I take full responsibility for what happened, but I’m the only one who has any firsthand knowledge of the crime scene. It’s more expedient to allow me to at least co-lead.”

“Director Fleischer, my apologies.” Boyd Cranston, the level three operative who’d assigned me the case, poked his head in. He wasn’t unusually tall or thin, but when he moved, he left the impression that he was part human, part wacky-waving-inflatable-car-lot-tube-man.

Inwardly, I groaned. I’d hoped he wouldn’t catch wind of my return until after Michael verified I was still in charge.

Dawn Keller had called the Maccabees when she found Emily’s body, instead of the Trad (self-labeled Traditionals, or people without magic) cops, since according to the victim’s paperwork, she was Eishei Kodesh.

The level one operative who took the call passed it up the chain to a level three as per procedure, and Boyd was available. He’d reassigned the case to me, a level two. An atypical move.

Boyd loped across the office and grasped me by the upper arm. “Fleischer should have reported to me directly. I’m so sorry that she troubled you. I’ll handle this.” His fake concern over Michael’s well-being combined with his ingratiating smile and weaselly voice turned my stomach.

I pulled free.

“There’s nothing to handle, Boyd,” the director said mildly. “I’m reassigning the case.”

Darsh and I leaned forward, waiting for the object of the sentence, but Michael did not elaborate.

Boyd crossed his arms, an ungainly maneuver where one arm came up first and then the other flopped over it. “You can’t. I’m the ranking operative who took the call.”

Michael leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “Everyone is so helpful today, reminding me how chain of command works.” She broke out a smile reminiscent of one that Bruce, the shark in Finding Nemo, wore—before he went for blood.

I hastily looked over at the wall of living green bamboo reeds so as not to meet her eyes. Darsh, meantime, had gotten very interested in his sparkly blue nail polish.

Boyd, the idiot, continued sulking and looking directly at her. He could have only learned that Mason and Rachel had their memories wiped, but that was more than sufficient to make this case interesting enough that he wanted it back. “I figured the last time you let your daughter have a hand in running a case that it was a one-off, but if you continue to play favorites, I’ll⁠—”

Oh no, he didn’t. I half rose out of my seat.

Darsh caught my arm and nodded at Michael.

Her expression right now would universally be described as predatory.

Boyd finally had the good sense to look abashed.

Michael gestured for him to continue. “Please describe what, exactly, you’ll do.”

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

“That’s right. And you know why? Not because I can assign a case to any operative of my choosing, but because you lost any rights to this investigation the second you sent Aviva to that spa to handle this on her own. You assumed it was some rich housewife who’d been murdered, and you couldn’t be bothered to handle it personally. Did you make your tee off? So annoying how work gets in the way of a good golf game.”

Glaring at me, Boyd opened his mouth, but Michael held up a hand.

“No,” she said. “Operative Fleischer did not rat you out. I’ve worked with you long enough to know why she was sent alone. Understand this, Operative Cranston, if I want to make a goldfish the lead on this investigation over you, I will, and you won’t say one word about it. Are we clear?”

Boyd bobbed his head, beads of sweat dotting his receding hairline. “Yes, Director.”

“Go.”

He bolted.

Michael stood up and followed him. “You two, stay put.” She left her office, calling out for her assistant, Louis, before closing the door, leaving Darsh and me alone.

Darsh snickered. “Goldfish.”

I grabbed a pen and chucked it at his chest. “You’re an ass.”

He caught it before impact and lightly tossed it back on Michael’s desk. “I could say that there’s no such thing as friendship when it comes to snagging lead, puiul meu, but I’m doing this precisely out of friendship.”

He used a Romani term of endearment that roughly translated to “baby chick,” which I normally thought was sweet, but I wasn’t feeling the affection back for him right now.

“Your motives better be good or I’ll tar and feather you,” I said dryly.

“Promises, promises.” He smirked, but then all the amused sparkle left his eyes. “Given what happened in the first hour of this investigation, it isn’t going to lead anywhere good. You’re not strong enough to handle any blowback.” He cut off my protest. “Not from a lack of operative experience, but because you aren’t a vampire. I’m a lot harder to kill than you are, Avi.”

I twisted my hands in my lap. “Shit, Darsh, they’re staking people out there. I don’t want you to be a target either.”

He stretched his jewelry-free hands out in front of him. Vamp magic interfered with the demon-killing magic cocktail stored in the rings, so undead operatives were exempt from wearing them. Besides, they could kill demons without an extra magic assist. “Despite my incredibly supple skin, I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

I had no doubt. Darsh’s age was unknown, but he was old, he was smart, and he was a survivor.

He was also one of the palest people I’d ever met. Vamps kept whatever skin tone they’d had in life, but Darsh hadn’t liked going out in the sun when he was human. (Wrinkles and freckles? Ugh!) Vampires who’d been Eishei Kodesh had some measure of protection from the sun’s rays and could stay awake during the day—unlike undead who’d been Trad—but Darsh still stuck to the shadows.

My hilarity died.

Darsh was staring out the window with a melancholic expression, like he was a bird who was supposed to fly south, except he’d lost his way and wasn’t sure how to get back on the right path. He lapsed into this mood sometimes, but I hadn’t seen it in a while and had hoped he’d mourned its cause and moved on.

The first time Ezra and Darsh met, my ex revealed that Darsh was the only vamp to escape punishment from the Maccabees by striking a deal to become an operative. All details of that long-ago negotiation had been lost in an earthquake in a far-off city, and neither Sachie nor I had ever heard a whisper of that story before.

I wondered now if that was the reason for these moods he lapsed into. Part of me wanted to ask, to get him to talk to me, but it didn’t feel fair, given the secrets I kept from him.

Since Michael hadn’t returned yet, I kicked off my heels and flexed my feet against her plush light gray area rug, while I massaged one of the thousand knots out of my neck. If only I hadn’t left the scene to phone Ezra.

I pressed my thumb into a large knot and winced. It wouldn’t have made the situation any better. I would have lost my memory as well, and the body would still be missing.

I’d questioned Rachel, Mason, and Dawn while I waited for Maccabee healers to arrive. The operatives didn’t remember being at Thermae, or how they got to the café. They’d seen the familiar mural on the side of the café’s building and assumed they were there for a coffee run.

Dawn Keller didn’t remember anything about her first client of the day and had to be sedated when she learned her spa was the site of a murder. I’d left right after one of our healers phoned Dawn’s husband to come stay with her in the safe house she was being taken to. Until this was wrapped up, she’d remain under our protection.

I didn’t mention the Prime angle or go into details of the crime, but Rachel was super pissed off when I told her about the memory loss. Her anger was healthy, compared to Mason’s silence. Nothing I said, not even a self-deprecating comment, roused him to answer. He looked defeated, which broke my heart—and stiffened my resolve.

This man’s illustrious career wasn’t going to be stained in its final months by a perp getting one over on him. That wouldn’t be the end of his story.

I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair, waiting for the director to return. Why hadn’t whoever tampered with their memories affected mine? Had they been targeted while they were in the alley and the memory loss didn’t extend as far as the changing room where I was?

Obsessing over everything was driving me crazy, so I pulled up my phone and flicked through my news feed. “Check it out. News of a robbery in our fair city has gone viral.” I leaned over to share the screen, nudging my friend to look away from the window.

It took Darsh a second to come back from wherever his head had gone, but he read the breaking news banner. “Stolen artifacts = supernatural sticky fingers?” He rolled his eyes. “Catchy.”

I played the video. The coverage started out less inflammatory than I expected. A number of allegedly powerful artifacts were stolen from a local gallery hosting an exhibit called The Supernatural: Debunked. This exhibit showed how magic was appropriated by profiteers—by debunking certain historical magic figures and revealing that they were Trad con artists.

“That actually sounds cool,” I said. “I’d see that.”

According to the curator who was interviewed in the clip, Eishei Kodesh experts certified that the artifacts didn’t contain any magic, the items’ reputations notwithstanding, so there was nothing for the general public to fear. Sadly, she went on to say that while these con artists were Trads, they ran these scams at the behest of more powerful Eishei Kodesh who wanted to push the lie of magic dominance.

I sighed.

“Aaaand there it is,” Darsh said. “The anti-magic agenda. Saw it coming a mile away.”

I frowned in his direction. “No, you didn’t.”

“Please.” He closed his eyes as though resting them against the harsh strain of the, like, ten seconds of blue light he’d absorbed. “My people are storytellers. I know how to spot the tells.”

An ominous feeling settled over me. What tells had he spotted during our friendship about the stories I’d told—the lies I’d told—to keep Cherry Bomb secret?

He blinked his eyes open and motioned at my phone. “Play the rest of the report. See how right I am.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted that. Every time today I’d thought that it couldn’t get worse, it had, and spectacularly. In spite of my better judgment, though, I pressed play. We’d see, Mr. Master Storyteller.