Chapter 4

There are three primary reasons I work out.

Reason one: the strength of some mythics' magical abilities is directly tied to their physical condition. The more you hit the gym, the better you can wield your power. I had no idea if I fell into that category, but neither did I have confirmation that I didn't, so I was on board either way. I'd upped my training regime to six days a week—cardio, weightlifting, yoga, plyometrics, swimming, aerobics, you name it. If it made your muscles burn and your lungs heave, I tried it.

After Blythe departed the interrogation room, the robustly bearded agent who'd escorted me here dropped off the street clothes I'd been wearing when I was arrested. He also handed a small fabric bundle to Lienna, then left.

Lienna pulled a key from her satchel and stepped warily toward me.

"I'm taking these off." She pointed at my handcuffs. "If you try anything remotely underhanded, I'll replace your eyeballs with pepperoni and lock you up with our K-9 unit."

I arched my eyebrows. "I have so many emotions right now. I'm excited to get these cuffs off, I'm genuinely curious about whether you can do the pepperoni thing, I'm nervous my eyeballs might be in real danger, and—"

With a deft turn of the key, Lienna popped open the handcuffs, and I broke off with a relieved sigh. Holy Sweet Baby Moses that felt good. Not just my newly freed and usable wrists, but the heady surge of confidence that came with the return of my abilities. I could feel my power, like a lightbulb had lit in my head. This wasn't the time for a test run, though—not with Lienna and her scary satchel of abjuration torture standing guard.

"And?" she prompted.

I had to think back to what I'd been saying. "And I genuinely want to know if there are K-9 puppies and whether I can meet them."

With an exaggerated eye roll, she pointed at my clothes. "Put those on. We need to keep a low profile."

Reason two: general health. I don't enjoy running out of breath halfway up a flight of stairs or struggling to carry a medium-sized grocery load home from the supermarket. Working out spares me all that unpleasantry.

Standing, I kicked off the ugly-ass tennis shoes I'd been forced to wear and paused with my fingers on the zipper of my uglier-ass jumpsuit. "You gonna turn around?"

In answer, she crossed her arms.

Fine then. I yanked the zipper down, shrugged off the sleeves, and let the whole thing fall to my ankles. Underneath, I wore boxers, a pair of socks, and nothing else.

Reason three: the subtle expression on Agent Lienna Shen's face as she watched me undress. Having worked with plenty of stomach-turning narcissists at KCQ, I do my best to avoid the realm of vanity, but it's hard not to feel good when you catch someone ogling your six-pack.

I rifled through my clothes on the table, then frowned. "Where are my boxers?"

Said boxers hadn't been washed since I'd last worn them, but anything was better than the starchy, powder-blue, flesh-abusing MPD-issue ones.

Lienna gave a small start. "Oh. Uh. We don't keep undergarments, but"—she held out the small roll of pale blue fabric—"they grabbed these for you."

Ignoring the gooseflesh rising on my skin from the chilly basement air, I took the fabric and shook it out, discovering a pair of boxers identical to the ones I was wearing. Oh, yay.

I rubbed the scratchy fabric between my finger and thumb. "Do you have any idea how itchy these things are?"

She shrugged vaguely. In fact, she didn't seem to be paying much attention to what I was saying. Her gaze kept darting around—jumping from my face to the table, then skidding from my midriff to the one-way mirror, then flicking to my left shoulder, tracing down my bicep to my forearm, and abruptly sweeping to the floor.

"So…" I said, drawing her focus back to my face. "No other undergarment options?"

"That's all we've got." Her gaze drifted down again.

"Hmm." I bounced the boxers on my palm. "So I have to wear these, then?"

"Yes."

I contemplated that deeply and thoroughly, then hooked my thumb in the waistband of my boxers and pushed it down an inch. Her stare jumped to my hand and her face flushed.

"Then…" I drawled as slowly as possible, dragging it out to see how many shades of pink her cheeks could achieve. "I should… finish… dressing."

She wrenched her eyes back up to my face, and when she saw my smirk, she snapped her spine straight.

"Hurry up," she barked, folding her arms again. "We're on the clock!"

"You got it."

I got both thumbs under my boxers' waistband—and her gaze dropped to her feet. Suppressing a chuckle, I stripped off my boxers and pulled on the new pair. They were as awful as their predecessors. It was like wearing a cereal box around your most personal bits.

I slid my dark wash jeans out of the pile and pulled them on. As I zipped the fly, Lienna's cautious gaze crept toward me. I flashed her a grin and she scowled back.

Pretending not to notice her attention lingering on my chest, I tugged on a white V-neck shirt, then donned a hooded, earthy green jacket, hoping my outer layers would somehow counteract the discomfort I was feeling underneath. No such luck.

Lienna selected a pendant from the collection around her neck and lifted it over her head, a shark tooth dangling from the chain. Stepping closer, she dropped it over my head.

"Ori mens tua serenetur," she declared.

A rune etched into the shark tooth glowed for a second, then faded away. I could still feel my powers, but the necklace had deadened them to the point of uselessness. My good mood fizzled out.

Lienna tapped her fingernail against the tooth. "Keep that on. If I see you taking it off, I'll—"

"Transform cherished body parts into deli meats or send them to a parallel universe?"

"If you're lucky. Let's get going."

* * *

"I can't believe we're in a smart car."

The gate to the MPD's underground parking garage lifted and Lienna pulled the dinky vehicle out onto the street. As per the norm in Vancouver, a drizzly haze coated the pavement, leaving the streets perpetually damp. No wonder Duncan lived here. I'd been hoping, perhaps naively, that the sun would be out, but even an overcast sky was a welcome change from the windowless, subterranean prison.

Lienna turned left through a shallow puddle that threatened to submerge the eco-friendly clown car we were jammed into.

"Why don't you guys have something with more, you know, strength, power, guts?"

Stopping at a red light, she cast me an arch look. "Is your masculinity threatened by the teensy-weensy car?"

"My masculinity is threatened by this dashboard, which my knees will go right through if you hit the brakes too hard."

"We're keeping a low profile. We can't have the general public knowing that ‘magic police' exist and patrol the streets. Where am I going?"

"Kitsilano area," I informed her. Had I refused to divulge a location until I was out of the precinct? Damn right I had.

The light turned, and Lienna accelerated just as a jackass truck blew through the intersection. Standard Vancouver driving. Lienna and three other drivers chastised the truck with honks, then we all went on our merry way.

"How do you expect to chase after bad guys in this thing?" I asked, picking up where we'd left off.

"I don't. A low profile and car chases are also incompatible. We're not Steve McQueen."

I gasped dramatically. "Did you just make a classic film reference? Are you flirting with me?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm just trying to speak your language."

Not bothering with subtlety, I studied her. Was it my imagination, or was the stern Agent Shen looking more relaxed? Now that we were out of the precinct—and out from under Blythe's omnipresent shadow—the tension around her mouth had softened, and the lingering hint of pink in her cheeks from my not-quite-a-striptease brightened her complexion.

Her eyes flicked to mine, deep brown and lit by a lively, mysterious glint—until they narrowed suspiciously.

"What?" she demanded.

Diversion tactics, commence. "You're from LA, right?"

She faced the road again. "Yes."

"Why are you still in Vancouver? Don't you have a job to get back to? Criminal mythics in California to tackle to the floor?"

"I had a flight booked for tomorrow, but after the incident at the precinct, the captain requested I stay to provide support."

"Captain Blythe doesn't seem like the type to request things."

Lienna answered with a grunt. Did I detect a note of bitterness, mayhap?

"She's making you stay," I guessed.

"The Vancouver MPD is critically understaffed. Captain Blythe needs the help."

"Is that why she has you leading the manhunt for Quentin?"

Lienna flexed her jaw as though considering whether to answer. "I'm the most qualified agent available. I'm technically on the Rogue Response team in Los Angeles."

Technicallyon the team? Interesting.

"Ooh, fancy," I teased. "You must have a trophy room full of taxidermied mythic bad guys back home."

"I can't say I've ever taxidermied anyone. I'm still a rookie."

"Don't be so modest. How many rogues have you caught?"

"Including you?"

I nodded. "Yeah, sure."

She held her breath as she calculated the number in her head, then exhaled. "One."

"One?"

"Just you."

I couldn't hide my surprise. "What?"

"I transferred into the RR a week ago. Apprehending you at LAX was my first assignment."

No wonder her interrogation skills were kind of green. "Well, as your very first arrest, I can say you did a lovely job."

"Very funny."

"I'm serious. Five stars. Best incarceration service I've received so far."

All I got in response was another eye roll—but the corner of her mouth might have ticked upward. Watching her in my peripheral vision, I considered what I knew and what I'd heard. Something wasn't adding up.

"If you're only a week in and I was your first arrest," I began carefully, "where does your reputation come from? Half the precinct was buzzing about the newly arrived abjuration prodigy, and that was before you went all Dirty Harry during the riot."

She shrugged. Before I could try another angle of questioning, I had to direct her on where to turn. I navigated her through the neighborhood, and a few minutes later, she pulled the smart car up to the curb, cut the engine, and looked around curiously.

We were parked on a narrow road south of Kitsilano Beach. A mix of sleek, modern homes and old, behemoth multi-story residences hid behind towering maple trees. Across the street was a skinny, two-level house with a hand-painted sign that boasted, "Kitsilano Klairvoyant."

"We're here," I announced unnecessarily, then squeezed out of the car and tugged my clothes straight. Lienna joined me, her hand buried in her satchel like an Old Western Sheriff gripping his pistol as she faced the sign. Her forehead wrinkled with skepticism.

I crossed the street and walked onto the creaky front porch, Lienna following on my heels.

Quentin came here whenever he had an important decision to make. He liked mystical confirmation before entering new, risky ventures—and he liked to rule out any mystical portents of "do that and you might die." I'd come along a few times, and I kind of got the appeal.

It wasn't that unreasonable to assume he'd show up fresh out of jail, seeking guidance. If I was correct, it would play right into my leniency deal with Captain Blythe. And if I was wrong? Oh well. It'd gotten me out of the precinct, away from all but a single agent, and into a magic-suppressing necklace that was far easier to remove than magic-suppressing handcuffs.

Stifling a smile, I hit the doorbell, and a chime rang through the house's interior.

Visible through the frosted glass, the shadow of a tall, slender figure approached. The door opened, revealing Jansen Jenkins, the Kitsilano Klairvoyant. Technically speaking, Jenkins was a diviner—a mythic who used various tools and rituals to predict the future. Or as Jenkins put it, to "translate messages from the spirit world."

A clairvoyant was something else entirely, but he called himself one as a marketing gimmick. He was one of a very few mythics who used magic in full view of the general public without revealing the true and full nature of his abilities. It was a fine line to walk, but he walked it well.

At Jenkins's appearance, Lienna's expression shifted to surprise. Diviner stereotypes consisted of eccentric, heavily accessorized women with an affinity for colorful silk scarves, but Jenkins was in his fifties, well over six feet tall, beanpole thin, and sported a long, pointed nose and a short, conservative haircut. With his white dress shirt, neatly tucked into his black dress pants, he resembled an English butler more than a West Coast fortune teller.

He looked us both up and down with his typical reserved expression, then offered me the faintest smile. "You're Quentin's friend."

"Kit," I reminded him.

"And you are?" he asked Lienna.

She flashed me a vaguely alarmed look as though just realizing she had no idea why we were here or what our strategy was supposed to be, then plucked her badge from her satchel and held it up like a shield. "Agent Lienna Shen."

Should I have warned her that her badge and agent title would get her approximately nowhere with this guy? Probably—and yet, I had no regrets about failing to do so.

A sour look squeezed Jenkins's face. "And what business does MagiPol have here? Unless you've come for a reading?"

She dropped her badge back in her bag. "You mentioned Quentin. Do you know him well?"

"He is a regular client," Jenkins stated flatly.

She flicked another glance at me, then asked, "Have you seen him recently?"

Jenkins crossed his arms in response. "I can't be sure. However, I find my memory is much sharper after a reading. Or two."

The message was clear: to get information, we needed to pay up. Businessmen like the Kitsilano Klairvoyant didn't work for free. Lienna shifted her weight as though debating her options, then sighed.

"Do you take credit?"