Page 43 of The Prophet

Pictures of Vicki’s crime scene cover a board on wheels, and a map of Clearhelm is attached to a corkboard, with a red pin where Vicki died.

Marc strides over to it and adds a pin to mark Lethoba’s death before he peers over his shoulder at Pen. “Where did the reverend die?”

“Reverend?” My mind works fast. “Do you mean Jordan Shawe? From the Church of Humanity? He’s the third case?”

“Yeah. That’s why Bailey pulled Marc and me into the Clearhelm Police Department this morning.” Pen taps on her phone and calls out an address to Marc, who places another pin on the map. “His murder is the same MO.”

“I’m pretty sure Bailey wanted to grab you instead of me and Pen.” Marc’s hands clench. “He and Lynch tried to pressure us into solving this for them.”

Pen’s lips twist with displeasure. “He thought he could still bully us into doing his grunt work, but we told him to shove it. You’re not their yes-man. You run things your way now.”

I gaze around the room, and a smile spreads over my face.

Pen heard my frustration over not being able to help bring Vicki’s killer to justice, and even though she said it wasn’t our jurisdiction, she still worked quickly to find a way to let me investigate the case, and Marc had helped.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this family, but I’ll be forever grateful that I have them.

A weight lifts from my shoulders, leaving me lighter, the exhaustion wiped away along with the sense of helplessness that’s plagued me since we walked away from Vicki’s murder.

There will be no more walking away. Not now that the Lethoba was murdered under my protection.

Rubbing my hands together, I turn toward the crime lab. “Okay, let’s pick up Walker and Young, then get back on the streets. We have an investigation to start, and a killer to find.”

It feels good to be back in control.

double-edged words

- Darius -

The bell above my shop door tinkles, and I glance up from the mahogany counter where fabrics of midnight blues and emerald greens lie in waiting for me to transform them into a gown for an arachnid demon.

A small, gray imp scuttles in, its large black eyes scanning the room and locking onto a spinner toy glittering beneath the skylight. It hasn’t chosen to take a human form, making it indistinguishable from the hundreds of other imps that have slipped through my door.

I pretend I don’t see it as it scurries to the cash register to slip a folded note into the tip jar, then beelines for the display case, its excited chitters filling the shop.

At the scratch of my pencil over paper, it flinches, black eyes darting to me before returning to the shiny toy. With a sudden motion, it snatches one from the stand, its long fingers curling around the slender stem.

Instead of scurrying back outside as expected, though, it hesitates and reaches for a second.

I clear my throat in warning.

Its narrow shoulders hunch, but it pulls out another spinner.

About to reprimand it for being greedy, prickles of magic rush over my skin, raising goose bumps.

With a bleat of fear, the imp drops both toys and darts out the door.

I sigh and walk over to pick up the mess. The plastic flower at the top spins, casting blue, red, yellow, and green light around the shop, like a kaleidoscope.

A smile ghosts across my lips as I put them back before continuing forward to lock the door, turning the sign to Closed for Lunch. At least the skittish demon left the note before it got scared away.

Grateful that my staff have gone for their mid-day break, I take the long way toward the fitting room, dipping my fingers into the tip jar to retrieve the folded piece of paper.

The intel could be about anything from where someone lost a sock to an assassination plot. With imps, anything is possible, which is why I pay them with toys for the information they bring.

Whatever it is, it will have to wait until my uninvited guest leaves.

I step behind the short wall to the changing room. “The shop is clear. You can come out of hiding.”

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