Allow me to pose a question to you, child: how many times have you wondered why I did what I did? When you stare at your reflection in the mirror, when someone asks about the ones who gave birth to you, when you inevitably travel from country to country and can never quite call any place you linger in your home, does it eat at you?

It should.

 - Journal of a Nameless Genius, page 1

The sudden tinkle of the bells above the shop door shot through Nemira like a clap of thunder. She jumped in her high-backed chair, her book slipping out of her hands and to the floor with a clumsy flutter of yellowed pages. Her polite shop owner smile was already plastered across her brown, heavily freckled face before she could even register who had walked in.

“Good afternoon,” she said, hyper-aware of the way the edge of the book she had dropped now prodded awkwardly at her ankle. “Welcome to Books On 8th! How may I—”

The sight of the two people striding toward her between the neatly arranged bookshelves made her mouth clamp tight. Stern gray jumpsuits and hats, thick jackboots, the batons dangling from their waists and the crossed gold styluses glinting on the badges pinned to their chests…they were never first on the list of people Nemira wanted to encounter.

“What can I do for you today, officers?” she asked, smile back on and tighter than ever as she set her reading glasses down and slowly rose from her seat. Her cheeks were already starting to ache.

The man in front reached into an inner pocket for his wallet and flipped it open, giving her a glance of his identification. He was a pale, barrel-chested fellow. Not all that tall, but bulky enough to take up much more space than necessary, a catalyst of claustrophobia that bent everything in the room toward him. In stark contrast to Nemira, neither the photo of the man in the ID card nor the real thing standing in front of her wore so much as a hint of a smile to soften his face.

“I’m Detective Quincy Maybard of the Coine Supernatural Public Guard Department, Homicide Unit.” He stuffed his wallet back into the depths of his jumpsuit and nodded at the woman hovering near him like a wary shadow. “This is my partner, Detective Lena North.”

Nemira flicked her gaze over to her, and Lena gave her a curt nod in return. She was a thin reed of a woman, roughly as pale as her companion but practically insubstantial compared to his width, her heart-shaped face a mask of mistrust. 

“We’re here for Master Summoner Nemira Bizen-Rava vah Sahas.”

“You’ve found her,” she told them, the friendliness in her voice sounding brittle even to her own ears. 

And then Quincy stuck a big, rather meaty hand out for her to shake. A second passed, maybe two at most, but to Nemira time might as well have frozen entirely. She looked from that hand back to the detectives, the corporal plane and the Firmament blending together in her vision until their pneuma flickered to life. Colorful, gentle flames licked at their shoulders and heads. Quincy’s pneuma shone in a sunny buttercup yellow hue, as though to apologize for his physical form’s complete lack of cheer. Lena’s was deep purple-red like a nasty bruise. Their pneumas exuded from them with the steady strength of well-built fires, the mark of competent arcane practitioners. Touching either of them would be uncomfortable at best, a bolt of static shock that would crawl up her arm and last for far too many seconds.

If Nemira had been alone, she might have been able to extricate herself from the wretched ritual of the handshake without too much of a fuss. She, like just about every other summoner she knew, learned to develop a long mental list of polite rejections for any interaction that involved touching a stranger before any other aspect of aetherology. Unfortunately, she had forgotten that she was very much not alone.

Bang, bang, bang. A slow and heavy warning. The detectives whirled around. Nemira dropped her smile at once and shook her head frantically at the looming figure that now stood at the doorway as though he had risen up to it from the very shadows. 

“You stand too close to the Worthy One,” he said, voice deep and cold like the ocean in winter as he approached them. “Step away.”

No one said anything. Perhaps they were a little in awe, and Nemira couldn’t blame them. Her bodyguard was short for a nephilim and still towered over the three humans with ease, the ridged, curled horns that grew from his head perfectly shaped for intimidating humans unused to Mountain Lords in their proximity. The sword he had knocked against the wooden floorboards with all the authority of a judge’s gavel didn’t help ease tensions, nor did the deep cut of his shirt that exposed an absurd amount of muscular bare chest and the raw gash that tore the flesh between them. She had learned the hard way why he always wore tunics with such low necklines, but she was not at all convinced that he didn’t also enjoy shamelessly showing off his impeccable assets. 

It was Lena who broke free of the trance first. Nemira couldn’t see her expression, but could hear the scowl on it in the harsh notes of her voice. “Got a permit for that sword there, buddy?”

“You may look me up on the Knights Allegiant’s registry whenever you wish. I am Sir Sai-em of the Order of Nova. The Beast Champion. My colleagues will vouch for me.”

The temperature in the shop shot down even further. Lena gripped the handle of her baton, and Quincy shifted on his feet as though preparing for a tackle. Nemira nearly wailed aloud. She’d never hear the end of it from her actual employers if she managed to sour relations with the Public Guard and hosted a brawl in the building they owned.

Instead of wailing, she cleared her throat as loud as she could. The three of them turned to her. Lena still had her hand on her baton. Quincy’s heavy brow was furrowed.

“Play nice with the lawmen, please,” she shot at Sai-em in terse Rhuzic.

Sai-em aimed his perpetual frown her way. “And let them disrespect you with their ignorance?”

She jerked a thumb behind her at the spare chair against the wall she usually piled her to-read books on. “I’m not going to let you be a pain in my ass, too. Sit here while I get these Grays to leave before you start an altercation with them!”

“I’d be able to throw them out for you much more quickly.” But he inclined his head in acquiescence, even going so far as to step back and take another aisle through the bookshelves to her rather than attempt to squeeze by the detectives.

“You have friends in high places,” said Quincy slowly. Meanwhile, Lena occupied herself with watching Sai-em stride around the front counter. If Sai-em noticed, his only response was to toss his long, lustrous black hair off his shoulder like a stallion flicking at a fly with his tail. He even had it tied up like a horse’s tail, exposing the closely shaved underside of his scalp. It still was strange for Nemira to see him so poised and oozing easy confidence. He had been neither of those things when she first found him.

“Sorry about that,” she replied with an airy laugh, switching back to Tet. “My employee is new and enthusiastic.”

Lena finally tore her eyes away from Sai-em and addressed Nemira. “I’d fire this guy and try someone from the merc union for hired muscle instead. Even a pack of those idiots aren’t as likely to raze your shop to the ground as a knight the second he feels like you slighted him.”

Sai-em, who had settled in the seat behind Nemira, didn’t take the bait. He had his sword balanced on its point between his legs, hands resting on its pommel as he gazed into the middle distance with solemn green eyes. His sword did not look particularly special at the moment. Its sheath was plain dark leather, the hilt unadorned, but Nemira could feel its arcane hum. A quiet, malevolent vibration. The monster lying in wait. 

Her next laugh was a struggle. “Well, who knows what the future holds! But let’s move on, shall we? I don’t recall ever having a hand in murder. I’m assuming you’re not here to arrest me, at least.”

“Not at all.” She had to give Quincy a point or two for the way he shrugged off the aggression that had built in the room. At least one person wasn’t trying to pick a fight. “We’re here for your expertise. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Blackjack Killer by now.”

He pulled out a letter from another jumpsuit pocket and placed it on the worn wooden surface of her countertop. The wax seal in its center was a vivid bloody red and showed her employer’s insignia: a rose in full bloom wreathed in fire. The Beloved’s Rose. She pressed her thumb to the seal and let a spark of her pneuma melt it to atoms, the sign of an authentic missive from the Council.

The contents of the telegram within made her sigh as she read it. They often did.

A GREAT TRANSGRESSION HAS TRANSPIRED. FOUR KILLED, OUR ALLIES CAGED WITHIN THEIR CORPSES. THE CULPRIT HAS FLED TOWARD THE MIST-SHROUDED VALE. HIS WEAPON PROFANES THE FIRMAMENT. RETRIEVE IT. THE GRIM SUMMONER HEREBY HAS THE BLESSING OF THE COUNCIL. ACT AS YOU SEE FIT. IF DEATH BEFALLS THE CULPRIT, NO ONE WILL WEEP.

Nemira folded the telegram closed. “The Council approves of my involvement,” she told them, no longer smiling.

“Let me see that.” Lena’s words were abrupt and sharp, perfectly calculated to get Sai-em’s hackles rising. She handed the telegram to the detective without hesitation and watched her face twist in immediate confusion. “Wait, there’s nothing—”

“I apologize,” she said. “But the contents will not reveal itself to anyone other than the specific addressee. It’s standard Council policy, given the sensitive nature of our work.”

“This is complete bullshit.” She smacked the telegram with the back of her hand and glared not at Nemira, but at her partner. “We can’t let them get away with this!”

Quincy’s steadfast impassiveness finally cracked. He shot Lena a warning look. “Lena, cool it.”

“Coine is our turf. Why are we kowtowing to the Council? Why are we letting them throw some weird little bookseller broad into our active murder case—”

BANG! Everyone flinched as Sai-em slammed the end of his sword against the floor with frightening force and shot up from his chair. 

“Mind your tongue when you speak of the Worthy vah Sahas or I’ll rip it out by the root.” Sai-em didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t do “loud” at all, as far as Nemira knew. His words grew frigid instead, threatening to crush the target of his ire with its leaden weight.

If Lena faltered under the immense pressure, she was quick to rally right back up. A slender, ebony stylus was in her hand and aimed up at Sai-em’s face in the blink of an eye. Nemira would have much preferred the baton.

“Try it,” she spat. “Give me one goddamn reason to take a knight down a peg and I’ll do it. Hope you enjoy getting pulled down Twin Justice Street in cuffs, you goat-horned fuckhead.”

“Sai-em!” Nemira rushed at her guard, only just aware of the way Quincy yelled his partner’s name and leapt in front of her like a mirror image of Nemira. Heart thundering in her ears, she grabbed the ridiculous cut of his shirt’s neckline and yanked him back into his seat.

“Shut up and let me handle this!” They were almost nose to nose. Remnants of incense wafted from his body, a clean and woody scent. Her knuckles twitched against the jittering shock of contact with his bare skin, but she paid the pain no mind and twisted her hands tighter around the fabric of his shirt. After far, far too long, he gave her a wordless nod. 

She took a deep breath and spun around. She had her best over-the-counter smile back on, but she kept as much of Sai-em as she could out of view with her body. “Forgive us, detectives! Mountain Lords are very particular about how summoners are addressed in front of them. We truly meant no harm to either of you.”

“No harm done,” said Quincy, unruffled. He held his hand out in front of Lena’s face. Whatever her expression was, she had lowered his stylus and that was what mattered. “We’d like you down at the station to help with the bodies. Sometime today, preferably. We'll explain the case in more detail once you arrive.”

“Give me about an hour and I’ll see you there!”

“Excellent. We appreciate it.” The detective doffed his hat at her with his free hand, revealing neatly cropped blonde hair. Lena simply stalked down the center aisle and out the door without another word or a backward glance.

Nemira waited until Quincy had followed his irate partner out of her store before dropping her smile and scowling at Sai-em over her shoulder. The knight stared back, chin tilted up in unabashed defiance.

“Care to explain the display of theatrics, my dear swordsman?” she asked, tone dangerously honeyed. “Keep in mind that your answer decides whether I make you sleep outside in the rain for the rest of the weekend with no tent or food or change of clothes, so choose your next words very wisely.”