“Sit down.” Stress lines permanently bracketed Eldritch’s mouth. His baldpate glowed dully under the harsh fluorescent lights. The desk hid a paunch that betrayed a lifelong love affair with fried dough, but one would be unwise to mistake his generous midsection for a sign of weakness. He’d maneuvered his way up from patrolman to captain in a criminal justice system rife with political intrigue and bureaucratic red tape. For his efforts, he was rumored to be next in line for chief of the entire BPD. In other words, he was not a man to piss off.
“I won’t bother asking if you’re all right because I can see you are. Instead, I’ll begin by asking what the fuck you thought you were doing?”
“Sir, I—”
He slashed a hand through the air. “Don’t bother. You weren’t thinking. Not a damned thing. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Because I know you were trained better than to enter a dangerous confrontation with a hexed-out suspect without backup.”
“If I’d waited for backup that bastard would be running free through the Arteries.”
“Thanks to you he’s not going to be running anywhere ever again.”
I leaned forward, my hands up in a pleading gesture. “It was a clean kill, sir.” If you could call blowing someone’s face off “clean.”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his gut. He hit me with his best cop glare—the same one I used on suspects until they broke under the oppressive weight of silence. But I wasn’t a criminal—not anymore, anyway—and I knew I’d done the right thing. In fact, if I had to do it over again I would have made the same call.
“Even if I’d waited for backup the outcome would have been the same.” I looked right in his eyes. “He was immune to every defensive charm I tried. There was no stopping him without lethal force.”
The captain scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up. His chair creaked in protest. “Christ, Prospero. Damned if I wouldn’t have done the same thing.” I opened my mouth to ask why I was getting the riot act if that was the case, but he held up a hand to stall my arguments. “Be that as it may, since this case involved deadly force, the rules dictate that I put you on suspension pending an investigation of the incident.”
My mouth dropped open. “But—”
“There’s not a damned thing I can do about it, so don’t waste your breath. We got bigger issues to discuss.”
I shook my head at him. Forcing a cop to take leave after the use of deadly force was standard procedure, but I wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines with a new lethal potion on the streets. Still, the look in his eyes told me arguing would only prolong the suspension.
“The ME identified your perp.” The lightning-fast change in topic nearly gave me whiplash.
“And?” I frowned.
“His name was Ferris Harkins.” The female voice surprised me from the doorway.
I swiveled to see a tall woman in a smart navy pantsuit. Her brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense bob. The lines between her brows told me they were used to frowning, and the steel in her gaze hinted at a razor-blade tongue. She wore her watch on her right wrist and her briefcase was clutched in that same hand. Whoever she was, she was definitely a Lefty—just like me.
I glanced back at Eldritch. He didn’t look surprised by the new arrival so much as resigned to it. He pasted his best politician smile on his lips and rose to shake her hand. “I was about to inform Officer Prospero of your interest in the case.”
“That’s a diplomatic way to phrase it, Captain.” She turned to me. “Special Agent Miranda Gardner.”
I frowned at her. “Which agency?”
She smiled tightly. “MEA.”
Something heavy bounced off the base of my stomach. If the Magic Enforcement Agency was involved, things were about to get … complicated.
After a moment’s hesitation, I rose and offered her my left hand. I usually offered my right to Mundanes to avoid awkwardness, but she offered me her left, which confirmed she was an Adept.
Her handclasp was brief but firm enough to tell me she meant business. When I looked down at our hands, I noticed a cabochon ring on her middle finger.
“Nice ring,” I said. “Tigereye?”
She nodded and pulled her hand away. “The stone of truth and logic.”
And she wore it on her Saturn finger—the finger of responsibility and security—which meant she wanted a boost in those areas. Interesting.
She tipped her chin at my wrist. “And your tattoo—Ouroboros?”
I placed my right hand over my wrist, as if the snake might jump off my skin otherwise. “A youthful transgression,” I said in a flippant tone that disguised the massive understatement it really was.
Eldritch cleared his throat. I looked up to see Gardner watching me with a too-wise gaze. Either she already knew the snake swallowing its own tail was the emblem of the Votary Coven or she merely smelled the lie on me. Time to change the subject.
“Why is the MEA interested in Ferris Harkins?” I glanced at Eldritch, but he looked away.
“What your captain was about to tell you before I interrupted,” Gardner said, “is that the man you killed tonight was an MEA informant.”
I closed my eyes. “Fuck. Me.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what I said when his name popped up on ACD two hours ago as deceased.”
ACD stood for the Arcane Crime Database, a federal clearinghouse of all magic-related criminal activity in the country. Actually, that’s not entirely true. ACD just kept track of the illegal dirty magic. The corporate labs that produced legal, “clean” magical products, aka Big Magic, bought their legitimacy through lobbyist bribes and the generous tax revenue they generated for Uncle Sam.
I opened my eyes. “Were you aware when you recruited him that he was a hexhead with a hard-on for murder?”
“He wasn’t a hexhead when we recruited him.” She handed over a picture of a male. Mid-twenties, scruffy with a hardness to his gaze that hinted at life on the street, but no noticeable signs of magic use—dilated pupils, scabs, etc. A far cry from the gaunt, savage creature I’d killed. A scribbled date at the bottom told me the picture had been taken a week earlier.
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”
“Positive. I’ve just come from IDing the body.”
Usually potions took several months—sometimes years—of heavy use to transform normal people into freaks and monsters. “You expect me to believe a potion turned this guy”—I held up the picture—“into the beast I shot in less than a week?”