“They’re not identical. The pinstripes vary.”
Hazel reached for her favorite scrying crystal, wrapping it carefully in silk. “This is important.”
“It’s a rock.”
“It’s a family heirloom. Six generations.” She shot him a look. “Some of us value things a trip to the corporate wardrobe can’t replace.”
Marcus had the grace to look ashamed. “I apologize. I didn’t realize it had sentimental value.”
“It’s fine. Just don’t touch my stuff.”
She continued packing, aware of Marcus standing awkwardly by the door. Every time she bent to retrieve something from a low drawer, she could feel his attention. When she stretched to reach a high shelf, she caught him looking away.
The apartment felt too small with him in it. Too warm.
“Where’s Azrael’s carrier?” Marcus asked, apparently looking for something useful to do.
“In the closet, but he hates it. Azrael’s not a pet. He’s my partner. He goes where he wants.”
As if to prove her point, Azrael appeared in the doorway and fixed Marcus with a baleful stare. When Marcus reached for the carrier, Azrael flattened his ears and hissed.
“I think that’s a no,” Hazel said.
“How does he travel, then?”
“However he wants. Last time I moved, he rode in the passenger seat and commented on my driving the entire way.”
Marcus stared at Azrael, who stared back with the unwavering intensity only cats could manage.
“Fine.” Marcus broke the stare first. “But if he damages my rental car…”
“He won’t. He has better taste than that.”
Hazel zipped her suitcase. “Ready.”
“Absolutely not.”
Marcus stared at Hazel’s hand hovering over his car’s radio.
“It’s just music,” Hazel said.
“It’s Bach. Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, performed by the Berlin Philharmonic.”
Hazel pressed the scan button.
The elegant strains dissolved into a screaming guitar solo that made Azrael yowl and Marcus flinch.
“Much better,” Hazel said.
“That’s noise pollution.” But Marcus didn’t change it back. He reached over and adjusted the volume down slightly.
Hazel let him. It was probably the best compromise they were going to get.
They drove in relative peace for fifteen minutes before Marcus said, “Tell me about the moonbell flowers.”
Hazel’s fingers curled in her lap. “What moonbell flowers?”
“The ones you were gathering when you witnessed the murder. The ones that require a Class Seven permit.”
