CHAPTERONE
Spencer Bailey was many things—mage,former special agent at the Preternatural Intelligence Agency, caffeine addict, single—but he was not a morning person. That didn’t mean he was allowed to sleep in. While most people could hit snooze on their alarm and roll over, Spencer’s alarm weighed about twenty-five pounds when she deigned to and more when she wanted to make a point.
Like right now.
“Oof,” Spencer grunted, cracking open one eye to glare blearily at the ocelot who’d jumped onto his torso like she was trying to give him CPR. “Seriously, why?”
Fatima stuck her wet nose against his cheek, whiskers tickling his face.Get up. I am hungry.
Spencer turned his head into the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I was sleeping.”
You will be late, and I will bite you.
Spencer opened both eyes to glare at her. “Do fucking not.”
Then get up.
Fatima sat up, her hindquarters settling on his stomach, forepaws resting on his sternum. One ear twitched toward the hotel room door, but Spencer didn’t hear anyone out in the hallway. He’d laid down a warning spell last night after he’d checked in late from a cross-country flight to Washington, DC, and a quick internal check told him nothing and no one had messed with it. If they had, Fatima would’ve warned him of their intent well before they reached the room. Psychopomps were talented that way, as she routinely liked to remind him.
She lifted a paw and set it over his mouth, forcing Spencer to wrangle a hand free of the blanket to bat it off his face. “Gross. I don’t know where you’ve been walking.”
Right beside you, like always. But we could be walking to breakfast, and I could be having bacon if you were not lazy.
“You don’t even need to eat,” Spencer grumbled. “You’re a spirit guide. Where does the food even go?”
It was an old argument that was mostly one-sided because Fatima never bothered to answer him. She swatted him gently upside his head with one paw.Up. She will be here soon.
Fatima dug her paws into his chest and launched herself off him and landed on the hotel room floor. Spencer grunted at the force of her leaving. He rolled onto his side to grab his cell phone from the nightstand. The clock indicated that, yes, he was going to be late for his day of government meetings if he didn’t get moving.
Groaning, Spencer dragged himself out of bed and to the shower, feeling bleary-eyed even after he’d cleaned up and got dressed for the day. For all that Fatima was a spirit guide and could perform amazing feats when it came to souls, she couldn’t make a pot of coffee to save his life.
He was contemplating the instant coffee pack on the desk when someone knocked on the door. Fatima barely flicked her tail from her spot on the unmade bed as Spencer went to answer it. He knew who was on the other side, the familiar presence of Special Agent Nadine Mulroney from the Preternatural Intelligence Agency seeping through his magic as a comfortable eddy in his soul.
“Hey,” Spencer said in greeting, eyeing Nadine where she stood in the hallway.
She quirked a smile at him, makeup immaculate as always, dressed in a navy blue sheath dress beneath a wool coat and a pair of Louboutins that Spencer was pretty sure he’d bought her as an apology gift some years ago. He’d been the catalyst for quite a few of her ruined outfits throughout the near decade and a half of knowing each other. While their romantic relationship might have fizzled in their twenties, they’d remained friends—sometimes friends with benefits when the mood struck them and they each weren’t in a relationship—and Nadine was the closest thing to family he had these days, despite him residing on the West Coast of the United States and she in Paris, France.
“I see Fatima managed to get you up with mere seconds to spare,” Nadine drawled as he stepped aside so she could enter the hotel room.
“She wants bacon.”
“Of course she does.” Nadine leaned in to kiss the air on either side of his cheek, her typical greeting, before pulling back. She studied him through narrowed brown eyes for a moment before snorting delicately. “And those circles under your eyes mean you need coffee. Get your shoes on. I’m taking you both to breakfast.”
Spencer wasn’t going to pass up a free meal and did as he was told. The dress shoes he’d brought with him from his stopover in San Francisco were brand-new and pinched his toes, but there was nothing to be done for that except walk it off. His charcoal-gray business suit was a little wrinkled from travel; nothing a bit of magic wouldn’t fix, which Nadine handled for him.
Pale violet magic flickered over him, smoothing out the lines of his outfit. Spencer ran a hand through his hair before spreading his arms. The pull of his shoulder harness and holster beneath his suit jacket was familiar, while the brand-new badge tucked away in his back pocket wasn’t what he was used to yet. “Do I pass muster?”
“For now.” Nadine glanced over at Fatima lounging on the bed. “Ready?”
Yes, Fatima said.
Spencer heard her voice in his head, clear and distinct, while he knew almost everyone else only heard the typical growls, chirps, and hisses of an ocelot. Psychopomps chose a single person to manifest for and communicate with. Fatima had chosen him when he’d been four years old and living somewhere in the Midwest with his biological family. They’d gladly given him up to government care once it became clear he was a mage with a particular type of magic that could’ve been a death sentence if it was a shade further down the necromantic scale. Still, a legal battle had been fought over his life, and this was the result—government oversight for his entire life. Complaining wouldn’t change anything and hadn’t.
They left the hotel room, and Spencer let Nadine lead the way to breakfast. He’d been put up at the Hyatt Regency Washington on Capitol Hill on the government’s tab, but Nadine bypassed the on-site restaurant in favor of a short walk to the Dubliner Restaurant. The place was occupied by more business-type people than tourists, but he knew that would change once summer came around. It was barely spring at the moment, and the chill in the air was a reminder of that.
They were seated almost immediately, with the hostess ignoring Fatima entirely as if the psychopomp wasn’t even there. Which, to everyone around them, was definitely the case. Fatima could hide her presence when she wanted to. Fatima hopped onto the booth’s bench and settled on the plastic cushion, tail wrapped around her paws as she poked her nose at the condiments.
“Don’t lick the bottles,” Spencer warned.
