MIRA

Rain dripped off the fire escape, creating a pitter-patter symphony against the dark metal that echoed through the shadowed alley below. Thick air carried the scents of iron, oil, and the musty green moss that seemed to spring from every crack in this oversaturated city. A cold trickle snuck down the collar of Mira’s leather jacket. She shivered against the guardrail bars digging into her back. I am so ready to be done with this rain. She shifted positions, trying to get some feeling back in her numb ass, but wet denim restricted her movement. She’d been sitting on the fourth-floor landing for over an hour, and there was still no sign of her quarry.

<Maybe they went to a hotel.> The demon’s voice rang in Mira’s mind, her constant companion.

Mira sighed and tipped her head back. The rain wasn’t heavy enough to make her close her eyes, just a constant drizzle that draped like a blanket and seeped to the skin. Dark clouds blocked the stars, creating an abyssal backdrop to the blazing lights of the towering downtown structures beyond the mouth of the alley. Traffic rumbled in a post-workday frenzy, as people hurried to dinner, dates, or whatever activities normal people filled their time with on a Tuesday night. Mira patted the digital camera in its waterproof case. “They’ll be here.”

Light flared in a window across the alley, as if on cue. Four stories up, two rooms from the end. Mira perked, rising to a crouch. Rusty metal creaked, making her wince. She glanced at the joints anchoring her stakeout platform to crumbling bricks, praying the nineteen-sixties construction didn’t choose this moment to prove why fire escapes were no longer put on buildings. The bolts held. No one stirred in the connected apartment. Not that they’d see her even if they looked. Mira wore shadows like a cloak.

Returning her attention across the way, to the smooth gray stone and mirrored windows of the more modern tower, Mira pulled out her camera. Ignoring the large display, she placed her eye to the viewfinder. Silhouettes moved through the distant room as Mira fiddled with the camera’s focus. The larger shape resolved into a middle-aged man in a business suit. Antony Scalduzzi. A stockbroker at a big firm. He had a wife and three kids, none of whom knew about the apartment he kept in the city, two blocks from his office.

“What a sleaze,” Mira muttered as she zoomed in.

The room’s second occupant stepped into view. Standing at barely five feet four inches, she had to get on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around Antony’s neck.

Mira snapped a picture. Lisa Dempsky’s husband suspected his wife was having an affair, but he didn’t want to believe it. Not without proof. So he’d hired a PI. Mira shook her head. Most of the people who hired her didn’t want to be right . . . but they usually were. Lisa’s husband certainly had been.

Mira snapped a few more pictures as the two swapped spit in front of the window, then Antony closed the curtain.

Oh no you don’t. Mira waited long enough for the adulterers to get their clothes off, then sent a thread of magic toward the window. It was delicate work. Mira was usually more of a “blow a hole in the side of the building” kind of gal, but that sort of magic drew attention—something Mira couldn’t afford. Not when she was playing host to a demon.

Inch by inch the curtains parted, revealing the bedroom beyond. Luckily, Antony and Lisa had left the lights on.

“What a pair of idiots,” Mira mumbled. “They both have spouses, families, homes, lives . . . They’re risking it all. For what? A quick screw?” She shook her head.

<They’re doing what feels good in the moment. What’s wrong with that?>

“Every choice has a consequence.” Mira’s mind wandered to Ty, her one-night-stand-turned-crime-fighting-partner. “Acting on desire alone can be disastrous.”

<So can repressing it, and letting loose is more fun.>

“In the short term, maybe. But I doubt Lisa will think tonight was worth the cost, once I hand her husband these pictures.”

Mira snapped photo after photo as the two cheaters tumbled in the sheets. She felt dirty, as if she were the one doing something wrong. These pictures could end a marriage. Maybe two. But that wasn’t her fault. She was just doing her job. Even rifters had to eat.

<What’s he trying to do with her leg?>

Mira tipped her head sideways and wrinkled her nose. Maybe he thinks she’s made of rubber.

The demon laughed, though the sound didn’t enter the wider world until Mira joined in.

The inner pocket of Mira’s jacket vibrated. She nearly dropped the camera. Only one person had the number to her cell phone. Only one person even knew the phone existed.

She zipped the camera into its waterproof case. Antony and Lisa were still going at it, but she had plenty of pictures to break her client’s heart. Sitting back, she pulled out her phone and smiled at the name on the display.

<Speaking of desires . . .>

Don’t start. Mira answered the call. “How’s Vegas?”

“Hot.” Ty’s deep voice carried through the phone and into the Seattle night. “And over. Finally.”

Her smile grew. Not long ago, the very idea of working with a partner would have sent Mira running for the hills, but . . . well, Ty wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately, their partnership had to be kept on the down-low, so Ty’s participation in a PTF agent training retreat had not extended to her. Even though she was usually on the same side as the Paranatural Task Force, working toward similar—if not always identical—goals, she wasn’t one of them. So long as she was a rifter—a demon-possessed magic practitioner—she never would be.

“What are you up to?” Ty asked, shaking Mira out of her self-pity. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“I’m earning a paycheck. We can’t all rely on a cushy PTF payroll.”

<Bitter much?>

Mira rolled her eyes. It was hard not to feel slighted when she was doing basically the same job as a PTF agent, and a hell of a lot better than most of them, but she was stuck living out of a truck and hiding her real identity, lest she be hunted down herself, while people with not even a quarter of her talent got poolside drinks and capture bonuses.

“Are you still in the northwest?”

“Seattle.”

“Perfect,” Ty said. “Garrett threw a case my way that might be up your alley.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the draw?”

“A woman who ate her husband.”

<Kinda puts the whole cheating spouse thing in perspective,> the demon said. <At least Lisa here just boinked her boss instead of resorting to cannibalism.>

“Rifters aren’t the only beings who eat people,” said Mira. “Far from it.”

“The woman wasn’t a rifter,” Ty corrected. “She’s dead, too. Choked on a finger bone.”

The demon chuckled. <Yeah, no way a demon lets their host die from something as stupid as that.>

Mira pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let me get this straight. A human woman ate her husband, then she choked to death on one of his bones?”

“That’s right.”

“And what part of that screams ‘Let’s call Mira’?” She glanced through the distant window. Lisa and Antony were still going. “You’re probably looking at a nasty hex put on her by some jilted fae lover.”

“Maybe, but sowing chaos and spreading fear is certainly a rifter’s MO,” he said, “and the Johnsons aren’t the only casualties involved.” Ty’s voice hitched, as if he were fighting to hold his temper. “The PTF dispatched a local team to look into the case—one full field agent and one junior agent learning the ropes. The senior agent died yesterday after guzzling half the liquid inventory of a convenience store, including drain cleaner and engine oil.”

The pitter-pat of raindrops echoed through the alley. A car horn sounded in the distance.

“I’m sorry.” Mira couldn’t think of anything else to say. It had been barely a year since Ty lost his previous partner on a PTF case. That had been before Mira met him, but she knew that case, and his sense of guilt, still haunted him.

Ty cleared his throat. “The culprit could still be fae, or an unregistered practitioner even, but a jealous lover probably would’ve stopped with the Johnsons. Even if this case turns out not to be demon related, I could use your help getting to the bottom of it.”

The demon stretched in Mira’s mind, like a cat getting comfortable in a patch of sunlight. <He totally wants our company.>

He wants to avenge the dead agent, Mira corrected.

“And you’ll get paid,” Ty added. “More than a PI taking dirty pictures of cheating spouses.”

Mira blushed. Her corner of darkness on the fire escape suddenly felt way too exposed.

The demon laughed, drowning Mira’s thoughts. <Nailed it in one! So, what do you think? I’m ready for a change of scenery.>

“Fine,” Mira said. “Where am I heading?”

“I’m on a flight to Portland in the morning. You can pick me up at the airport at 9:00 a.m.”

“What am I, your chauffeur?”

“See you tomorrow.”

Mira hung up and rested her forearms against her knees.

<Admit it, you’ve missed him.>

Mira squinted through the window across the way. It seemed Lisa and Antony had finally run out of steam. A few nights of carnal pleasure in exchange for the ruin of their existing relationships. I wonder if they’ll think it was worth it?

Tucking the phone back in her pocket, she grabbed the camera case and started her descent. “Let’s get these pictures delivered. We’re gonna need gas money.” The corner of Mira’s mouth twitched. “While we’re at it, Antony’s wife might be interested to know what his long hours at the office actually look like.”

<You think we can get paid double for this job?>

“Whether she pays or not, she deserves to know.”

<Are you sure you’re not just taking out your frustrations on someone who’s having more fun than you?>

“We all have to live with the choices we make.”

#

Mira drummed her fingers against her steering wheel and studied the pedestrians milling along the sidewalk. Some strode with purpose. Some wandered aimlessly. Some sat on concrete benches, attention fixed to their phones. Cars pulled to the curb, loaded or unloaded passengers and luggage, then pulled away, only to be replaced by others in a never-ending cycle. There were a few larger vehicles, rideshare vans and the like, but nothing so large as the renovated moving truck Mira called home. She garnered more than a few honks and glares as sedans and SUVs were forced to maneuver around her.

Her fingers drummed faster. She didn’t like drawing attention. The size of her vehicle was noteworthy enough in a place like this. The fact that it was currently wearing an illusion to look like a refrigerated catering truck made it stand out even more in the arrivals lane. Who picked up a passenger in a catering truck? But the spell to change the illusion was time-consuming and tiring. She had to make all the details just right, and it was delicate work, not something she could have done while driving through the night to make this meetup.

<There he is.>

Mira perked up at the demon’s statement, scanning the crowd.

Standing just outside one of the many sets of sliding glass doors along the pickup corridor, Ty wore standard-issue black slacks and a white, button-up shirt that contrasted sharply with the deep richness of his skin. His appearance screamed ex-military, from the tidy trim of his goatee and the angle of his shoulders to the perfect polish on his shiny black shoes. Despite the crisp lines of his long tan coat, Mira noticed the slight bulge of his holstered gun. He glanced up and down the row then headed in her direction. He carried a single bag slung over one shoulder. Ty preferred to travel light—only what was necessary, always arranged just so. Mira respected that. Never hold on to anything you can’t afford to lose.

Ty opened the passenger door and set his bag on the floor but didn’t climb in.

“Slide over.” He slipped a manila folder out of his pack and waved it like a fan. “I’ll drive so you can familiarize yourself with the details of the case.”

<Someone’s in a rush.>

“Hi, Mira,” Mira intoned in a mocking imitation-Ty voice. “It’s so nice to see you. Thanks for driving all the way here in time to pick my lazy ass up from the airport.”

Ty smiled and set the folder on the passenger seat. “Hello, Mira. It’s wonderful to see you. Thanks for coming. Now scoot over.” He closed the door and circled the front of the truck.

Mira slid along the bench seat, lifting the folder so she didn’t sit on it.

Ty settled in, typed something on his phone, then set it on the dashboard. A woman’s artificial voice instructed him to drive forward. Mira glanced at the listed destination as he turned on the engine.

“The city morgue?”

Ty pulled into traffic. “We’re scheduled to meet the junior agent there this morning for the official case hand-off and to talk to the coroner. Hopefully they’re done with Agent Reyes’s autopsy.”

Mira cast a sideways glance at Ty. The muscles in his neck and jaw were tight.

<You should say something,> the demon prompted.

Like what?

<Something comforting or encouraging. Something to let him know you understand his pain and you’re here for him.>

Mira cleared her throat. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

<Wow,> the demon said. <You are so bad at this.>

Like you’d do any better. All your relationship “experience” comes from watching soap operas.

Ty glanced at her, then returned his focus to the road. “What do you mean?”

“I just . . .” She shifted on her seat and picked at a corner of the folder with her thumbnail. “You know. Agent Reyes. Jamal.”

Ty stiffened at the name of his dead partner, tightening his grip on the wheel till his knuckles turned white.

<I don’t think this is helping,> the demon observed.

Mira shrugged. “I guess I’m just saying, if you need to talk or anything . . .” She shrugged again.

“Thanks,” Ty said. He exhaled, and some of the tension left his shoulders, as if he were making a conscious effort to relax. “I appreciate the offer.”

<Is that what that was?>

“But if you really want to make me feel better, just help me catch the bastard who killed Reyes.”

Mira nodded. “Deal.” She opened the folder on her lap, grateful to end the conversation.

<That was awkward as ass.>

It was your idea!

<Yeah, but the execution . . .> Mira felt the mental equivalent of a shudder. <You really need to up your interpersonal game now that you’ve got someone you plan to talk to more than once then run.>

Rolling her eyes, Mira focused on the case file.

Trish Johnson, forty-seven years old. Cause of death: asphyxiation. Frank Johnson, forty-nine years old. Cause of death: sharp force injury resulting in exsanguination. In the day leading up to their deaths, Frank worked his usual shift at the mechanic’s shop where he was employed. Trish, who had the day off from her job as a reference librarian, ran errands. Witnesses and receipts placed her at a grocery store, a bank, and a yoga parlor. Neighbors say they heard shouting shortly after Frank returned home, which is when the police were called.

Mira flipped the page to find the first-on-scene report. The officer who knocked on the Johnsons’ door got no response. They announced themself, then proceeded to circle the house while their partner reported to dispatch. Looking in a window, the first officer observed what appeared to be a man on the floor, though only his legs were visible. The second officer called for an ambulance, then joined the first, and they proceeded to force the door. The scene they found in the kitchen was right out of a horror movie, as evidenced by the crime scene photos included in the file. Even Mira recoiled, and she hunted demons for a living. She was no stranger to gore.

The wife, Trish, looked as though she’d bathed in blood and used it to finger paint the kitchen tiles. Her dull-brown eyes bulged. Her lips had a distinctly bluish tint. The skin on her hands, arms, and face was seared, even blackened in some places. Blisters coated her injured skin. Her dress was charred, burnt through with dozens of holes. The right side of her shoulder-length blond hair ended in short, singed strands. Mira was glad she couldn’t smell the scene in the photo. Burnt hair was not nice, and it brought back bad memories.

Chunks of meat littered the inside of the open oven, as well as the area around it. Mira hoped all those chunks came from whatever had been cooking, but they could just as easily have been pieces of Mr. Johnson.

A close-up photo showed the husband also had burns on his hands and arms, though his face was injury-free. Not that Mira could see much of his face under all the blood. The hilt of a carving knife stuck out of the man’s chest, but the blade had made its rounds. His blazer and shirt were slashed to rags; the original colors showed only in a handful of places not saturated to near-black by his blood. Exposed ribs glistened wetly under the harsh kitchen lights, and ragged holes cratered his arm like bites out of an apple.

Mira pressed her knuckles against her lips. This is gruesome.

<But she wasn’t a rifter. Not if she died from choking.>

Is it possible she walked in on a rifter eating her husband, and the demon decided to have some fun?

<Maybe, but that’s a lot of food to waste.>

But killing the wife with the husband’s bone would throw off the case and play to their sense of chaos.

<So if we are looking for a rifter, it’s a clever one.>

Damn.

“Did you check for other suspicious activity in the area?” Mira asked.

Ty nodded. “The only red flag was a grocery store cashier who stole money from her own register then ran into traffic, screaming that she was ‘finally free,’ only to be hit by a bus.”

Mira shrugged. “Maybe she was just greedy.”

<And stupid,> the demon added.

“Or maybe there’s a demon getting their kicks by making people act batshit crazy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she admitted.

The truck pulled to the curb. Mira glanced out the window. They were parked beside a pale-brick building with inset doors and windows. The structure towered above its neighbors, as if proclaiming dominance over the groveling relics of the past.

Ty cut the engine and twisted to look at her. “Any insights before we head in?”

“Rifter definitely isn’t off the table,” she said, “but neither is fae. I need more info.”

He pointed to the building’s glass lobby. “Then let’s get to it.”