When you say you don’t believe in fairies, a fairy dies. Then you have to clap your hands to bring them back to life.

If you don’t clap your hands fast enough, well, it becomes the business of Mr. H. D. Thistle of 167 Oakshot Row.

You blow on the knocker, rap your knuckles against the wood three times, turn your back to the door.

The world shifts upside down so you can enter.

Once inside, you can view caskets made from woven willow, or you can buy an urn that encourages butterflies to take the remains of your loved one to the other realm, or if you’re feeling fancy, you can have your loved one pressed into a rune gem so that their magic will stay with you forever.

Today, I want none of those options.

Today, I’m here to interrogate the man who is mortician to the fairies.

The shop on Oakshot Row is full of mysterious things. You can’t run a funeral business for fairies without having a few ancient artefacts scattered about.

I don’t need to play with the gadgets though. I have no one to bury. I am just here to see the person burying them. The person who might be killing them.

“Mr Thistle?” I call. In the stuffy shop, it doesn’t travel more than a few feet. It’s as though sound itself has decided to be respectful.

I venture into the back and take off my grey dress coat, laying it on an old chair with a leather cushion that has cracked and faded.

Henry Thistle doesn’t appear to be in his back office either. I guess I’ll have to wait.

There’s paperwork scattered across the desk. Some signatures are written in ink, but others are splashes of mud or flower petals pasted onto the documents. All marks of hobs and piskies and gnomes who have come here to find a resting place for their dead.

No sound of footfalls, the door opens soundlessly.

“I’m sad. I didn’t know I booked an appointment this afternoon.”

The first thing that hits my senses is the scent. Light, soothing, fresh. A slight hint of apple. Roman chamomile. My nostrils flare as my pupils dilate.

Henry Thistle steps through the door as silently as Death himself, but my pulse is racing. He’s tall, made even taller by his funeral director’s top hat atop glossy raven hair. He wears a plain black suit and a grey waistcoat. Around his neck, a dark tie hangs like a noose. A pocket watch is tucked neatly into his breast pocket.

It’s Henry’s face that is the only thing that gives away he is not your average mortician.

His eyes are black. Not the black that normal peoples are, where there’s a hint of brown or deep grey.

His eyes are an absence of colour entirely.

My heart is hammering in my chest. It is not the prospect of meeting a potential suspect that is making try to wrench itself from my ribcage. I am not afraid.

It is the dragon within me unfurling, latching onto the soul in front of me, and claiming it for its own. It is the reason dragons are recluses, who keep to themselves and avoid other beings. It is the same reason my kind hole up with a large amount of money and obsess about trinkets and inanimate objects.

Because the other prospect is that one day, the dragon magic deep within us will sense a compatible soul and tie us to another being, against our will, forever.

Soulmate.

Dragonbonded.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Did I say that aloud?

“Mr. Thistle, I’m Special Agent Jax Hedge.” My voice creaks under the strain of trying to hold back the almost savage growl that rumbles somewhere in my gut.

“Pleased to meet you, Special Agent. Is there something I can do for you? I don’t have any bodies at my disposal, so I assume you are not here to reclaim a body for the coroner.”

God. His voice makes a shiver go down my spine like I’ve been dipped into a warm bath. I’ve got to keep it together but everything inside me just wants to curl around him, snout to tail tip, and listen to him speak forever.

I don’t see him move, but his hand is held out for me to shake.

I stare at it and reach forward, hesitant as a blushing bride. Scales shimmer just under my skin, the glamour I used to hide them failing with my distraction.

When I take his hand, the pull is almost too much. I take in more of his scent. A hint of fresh dirt under the florals, a waft of freshly burning tobacco. His hand is dry and a little cold, but my own has become damp with perspiration.

“Special Agent? Are you well? You seem a little distracted.”

I clear my throat.

Get it together. I can’t let him figure out how I’m affected.

I have a job to do.

“O-Official business,” I say, letting go of his hand and withdrawing my badge from my pocket to prevent it from automatically reaching out to clasp his again.

Compared to his formal suit that looks like something from Dickens, I’m wearing something that is far more functional. The Fairy Bureau of Investigation does not need us to be more than smart - a button-up shirt and a grey suit is fine for me. Or it was. Now I curse at my plainness.

But even in this state, I refuse to preen.

“I see. Which of my customers is it you have an interest in?” A tight, close-lipped smile.

I want to say that he looks a little sad, but is that just because I want to believe that he has emotions at all? It is impossible to read his expression, those two black holes eat all the feeling from his face.

“Not a customer. I need to know what you were doing on the night of the spring equinox,” I clench my fists in my pockets, gritting my teeth. “Routine inquiries.”

I don’t trust myself to say more.

Henry folds his arms and I notice his nails are painted black. He has nice hands. The kind that should play the piano. “I can confirm, for your routine inquiry, that I was here the whole time.”

“Anyone who can corroborate that Mr Thistle?” My throat feels like it’ll crack under the pressure not to ask him to be mine right this minute.

No. Job. Grisly murders. Multiple deaths.

Suspect.

I have to do my job. I can’t let my biology stop this. Even if it’s useless to fight against the connection.

Perhaps if I escape soon it won’t be permanent? Perhaps it will fade, half-formed between us? Perhaps the dragon inside me will realise that this is a dangerous game to be playing and let me leave with my dignity intact?