Before I can reply, he vanishes, leaving only a stirring of dust in his wake.
* * *
I have been gone too long,and the litany of text messages does nothing to assuage my guilt. Six from Maddox and four from Zoe. Maddox will forgive me. Zoe? That is doubtful.
Tracked down your phone number, finally. Don’t suppose you’re coming back anytime today?
Leaving all the research to someone who’s never used the Bureau’s computer system before is bullshit, Sin.
Found Other Resources. No thanks to you.
Her final message sends a storm of guilt washing over me.
The last time a partner went dark on me, he died. If you’re not dead, you better have a damn good explanation.
On my way back to headquarters, I ring Maddox.
“Sin? What the bloody fuck?”
“Do not lecture me, Mad. I certainly did not expect Gabriel tohearme.” Taking a corner on two wheels, I floor it up one of San Francisco’s more challenging hills. “He knows nothing. Yet. But he is on his way to see Lucifer as we speak. Or so he says.”
“He’s an archangel,” Mad replies, as if I’ve forgotten. “He does not lie.”
“I would not be certain of that. Gabriel can twist the truth to his liking with ease.”
“When will you know? I’m worried about you.” As I stop at a red light, I laugh off his concern, but he’s having none of it, and his frustration carries over the transatlantic connection. “Fine. Do things all on your own. Like you have always done. It’s not like we’re family or anything.”
The car’s display flashesCall Disconnected,and I stare at itfor so long, someone behind me honks. When did the light turn green?
Maddox hung up on me.
I cannot pry that thought from my head until I pull into the Bureau’s parking lot and search for Zoe’s old coupe. Fuck. She is not here. I do not know why I am surprised. It is well after 5:00 p.m.
“I will apologize to her in the morning,” I say to no one. Tonight, I have some investigating of my own to do.
* * *
Zoe
My apartment feels smaller than usual. Probably because as little as a few hours ago, I thought I could find a place at the Bureau. Somewhere I’d belong. Until Sin ran out on me and didn’t respond to any of my messages.
Kunchin showed me down to Other Resources, also known as the Bureau’s Personnel Department. The Yeti’s a cool guy. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get up the courage to ask him how he blends in with the rest of the human world when he investigates Otherworldly crime. Because IknowI’d remember seeing him walking around the city.
Oh shit. Have I been Mem-Cleared?
The couple at the park this morning weren’t allowed to leave until they’d spent time with the crime scene techs. Before Sin arrived, one of them—a mage—had explained that they take brain scans of any human witnesses, then wipe their memories of all existence of theother. I couldn’t watch them do it, and now I wish I had.
After I lock the door and strip out of my jacket, I head for the kitchen, wondering if I’ll ever forget the things I saw today. So many photos. Most of them showing women brutalized so badly, they were unrecognizable. Some were only identifiable by dental records or a lingering bit of magic near their final resting places.
The half-empty bottle of whiskey beckons me, but now that I know what this Thorn asshole is capable of, I need to be clear-headed, so I start a fresh pot of coffee instead.
Kunchin didn’t just show me Other Resources. He taught me the Bureau’s computer system. Even got me set up with my own secure cloud storage drive. So after I change into a pair of sleep shorts and my favorite SFPD t-shirt, I pour myself a large mug of my favorite brew—a Peruvian single-origin—and curl up in bed with my laptop.
From what I’ve gathered, both from talking to Kunchin and scanning the news articles in the weekly shifter newspaper—the existence of which nearly had me falling out of my chair earlier today—the shifter community in San Francisco keeps to themselves. And they hate the handful of shifters who work for the Bureau. Some dust up with a tiger shifter agent who hassled one of the leopards working the sex trade in the Tenderloin.
“You’ll have more success without a shifter on your investigative team,” Commander Eve says when I petition her for a new partner who’s at least fifty percent less asshole and a hundred percent more shifter. “This is a delicate case, Agent Dawes. Sinclair knows that. But from what he has told me of his history—which is not much, by the way—it is also deeply personal for him. He will come around.” The corner of her mouth curves slightly. “He is, despite all evidence to the contrary, a good man. Plus, he knows better than to cross me.”
I hope she’s right.
