by Carter, Mina
“Take a seat, Miss McGee,” she ordered. “Daffodil is one of our junior curators here at the museum. She was the last person to see Sybil alive.”
The sergeant took the tea with a murmur of thanks and balanced it on his knee as he looked at Daffi. He was a thin, neat man with an odd gleam in his eyes. A notebook sat perched on the desk in front of him, a pencil next to it. She didn’t need a set square to know it was perfectly aligned, and she was pretty sure that was a bylaw book peeking out of the breast pocket of his uniform jacket.
The sergeant looked at her directly. It was like being stared at by a slightly rabid hamster. “Now, Miss McGee, you were the last person to see the deceased?”
Daffi frowned. “I’m not sure. The last time I saw her was yesterday, during the… uhm… meeting we had.”
She didn’t want to mention it had been a disciplinary meeting, not in front of the watcher anyway. But Whipsnide knew what she’d been about to say, and her smile split like a killer clown’s.
“Yes. We have had some… issues with Miss McGee. Haven’t we?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet.
“Really now?”
If the sergeant had been a dog, his ears would have pricked up. Daffi’s heart sank. A disciplinary combined with her being the last person to see Sybil alive didn’t look good at all.
“There was an incident in my exhibit area,” she explained in a calm and professional voice, getting it out there before Whipsnide could. “A magical creature was inadvertently released, and I took appropriate action to stop members of the public from being harmed.”
The sergeant had his notebook on his lap now, lips pursed as he tried to juggle the tea cup and saucer as well as make notes.
“So, there was an incident at the museum prior to Miss Bulcock’s mur… unfortunate demise?” he corrected himself mid-sentence as though remembering that reminding the coworkers and possible grieving friends of the victim that she had been murdered was actually a bad idea.
“Correct,” Ms. Whipsnide’s voice cut through the air like… a thin leather thing. Prim. Proper. Sharp. “Due to Miss McGee’s negligence with her exhibit, a magical creature of fae origin was released in the museum. Not only that, but Miss McGee then did not follow correct museum procedure for such an incident.”
Daffi kept her face level, neutral, as the sergeant scribbled in his notebook. How this had anything to do with Sybil’s murder she had no idea. The fae didn’t use hellfire, and dragons couldn’t use machetes… if the fae dragon had been responsible, Sybil would have resembled a somewhat charred chew toy, not had her throat cut.
She focused on Wanker’s picture above the fireplace. Her gaze narrowed on a pin. She’d never really spent much time studying it, but she was sure it hadn’t been there before. It looked like a lopsided duck. She frowned, searching her memory. She’d seen that before somewhere. She was sure of it.
Then her expression cleared. Old Wanker had been a Butterknife.
The Order of the Hidden Butterknife (such names were the somewhat unfortunate and inevitable result of a drunken “design by committee” naming process) were a “secret” society set up by Merlin to hunt down the bloodline of Morgan La Fay. Rumor had it that the enmity between the pair was less to do with anything about Arthur Pendragon and far more to do with the fact they’d been a couple once. Merlin had gotten caught shagging a maid and Morgan had thrown him out. When she’d refused to take him back, he’d completely thrown his teddies out of the pram and they’d become mortal enemies.
“Miss Bulcock brought this… lapse to my attention and was present during the disciplinary meeting. She left the room just after Miss McGee. And that—” Ms. Whipsnide’s voice broke, and she dabbed artfully at the corners of her eyes. Large crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks in a performance worthy of the stage. “That… was the last time anyone saw poor Sybil alive.”
“Hmmm… motive and opportunity,” the sergeant mused.
Daffi thought quickly. This was not good, not good at all.
“Neither,” she argued. “Miss Bulcock was only present at the disciplinary. She has no actual power to level any reprimand. That lies solely with Ms. Whipsnide. And if the murder occurred between six and seven p.m., I was on my way to Daphne’s Bakery over on Friar’s Clunge. I have receipts and passed several cameras, both mortal and magical, on the way home so my movements can be corroborated.”
Whipsnide’s tearful expression slipped and she looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp.
“Well,” the older witch huffed, “I’m afraid this is the last straw, Miss McGee. I would have allowed the incident with the fae beast to slide but insubordination and being questioned by the watch over the murder of our beloved Sybil because you were jealous…” She sobbed again, all for the benefit of the sergeant. Daffi doubted she ever let anything as crass as actual feelings affect her cold, blackened heart. “… I’m afraid I can’t tolerate that on my staff. I have to let you go. You’re fired.”
7
She’d been sacked. Actually sacked. All because the watch had asked her a few questions. The sergeant hadn’t even taken her down to the watch house, despite Whipsnide throwing her not just under the bus, but the plane, train and tram as well.
Daffi had barely had time to process the fact that she’d been sacked from the museum, a “helpful” spell from Whipsnide packing up all her personal belongings and dumping them in a box on the front steps as she was frog-marched out by Whipsnide herself and Iggy, the gargoyle on the museum’s security team.
She hadn’t bothered arguing. As museum director, Whipsnide’s word was law and it was well-known that Iggy thought the sun shone out of her proverbial. So there was no point appealing to him. She just took her box and left, back ramrod straight as she walked away from the job she loved.
The box didn’t contain much. Just a cute mug with a cat in a witch’s hat, a small plastic succulent (she’d managed to kill every plant she’d ever bought) and three notebooks with her research. Not much for three years of work.
Fortunately, Garlick had had enough presence of mind to get Oberon and himself out of the building, and they trailed behind her as she stalked home. She didn’t talk, didn’t want to talk right now. Not at the moment, and both boys—fae and feline—seemed intelligent enough to realize that. Either that or their survival instincts had kicked in at the first snarled, “I’m fine!”
* * *
But it seemed the day wasn’t done with her yet. When she arrived back at her apartment, the landlord was waiting for her with a notice of eviction in his grubby little hand.
“You have to be freaking kidding me,” she hissed, snatching it from his hand. “Conduct unbecoming? Economic liability?”
She glared over the paper at him without moderating her gaze. Normally she made sure to keep a happy, or at least neutral, expression on her face because if not her resting bitch face took over and told everyone she looked at to fuck off and die in a variety of unpleasant and painful ways.
“We received word that you’ve been let go from your place of employment,” he started. “And subclause thirty-four, paragraph C states—”
“Let me look at that,” Garlick demanded, pushing his way past Daffi, his tail lashing like a helicopter blade.
The landlord blinked and, with no available excuse not to, handed the scroll over to the cat. Garlick sat on his hind paws and started to read, his whiskers twitching once in a while.
Silence fell. The landlord looked at Daffi, who ignored him, and then at Oberon, who shrugged. She was grateful for the reassuring presence of the big fae at her back. At least if it got ugly, she knew she had the backup of his big… axe. For a moment she wondered where he’d stashed it and then decided she really didn’t need to know.
“Can he actually like… read?” the landlord finally asked, watching the cat in amazement. Although he was at least aware of the magical world, Daffi didn’t know to what level. He might be used to dealing with the magically inclined rather than a full-on wi
tch and had never interacted much with a familiar before. And even then, for a familiar Garlick was… unusual.
“I probably read better than you,” Garlick commented without taking his eyes off the scroll. “I also understand contract law as well as being more than capable of preparing legal arguments.”
He sighed and rolled the scroll up with a snap, handing it back to the landlord.
“Good news and bad news,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“Bad news. He can totally kick you out, like now.”
She blinked. Okay, it was a shitty end to a shitty day, but she would not cry. Not even when Oberon slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. For a moment she ached to just lean back against him and let him take her back to his home. Forget all this and become his queen. No one would dare arrest a queen of the fae. Would they?
Despite the temptation, she straightened her spine. That would be running. She was a McGee and a McGee never ran from anything. They faced it head on. Always had, always would. They might not have blue blood in the magical world. They might be run-of-the-mill “steady” witches, but they were witches. And a witch always dealt with shit when needed.
Remember, the headline on the paper tucked in the landlord’s arm declared. Remember who you were before you forgot.
She ignored it. She knew exactly who she was, thank you very much. She was the witch currently being evicted from her flat. Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, she sighed.
“Okay, you said good news as well?”
She needed good news. She really did.
The cat grinned.
“This gentleman didn’t realize that by evicting you without notice, he just made himself liable for your living expenses until you’ve found somewhere new.”
The landlord started. “Wait, what? No I did not!”
The cat trotted away, his tail held like a banner.
“Sub clause, nine forty, paragraph D. Read it and weep. Don’t fuck with me on contracts, bitch. I’m demon trained.”
“I can’t believe you managed to get us a reservation at this time of night.”
Daffi looked around with wide eyes as they hauled her trunks through the door into what turned out to be an expansive corner suite. She’d passed by this place many times but never thought she’d end up staying here. The Mad Pumpkin was one of the premier hotels for the magical community in the city. She’d never so much as looked at getting a table downstairs. Even the afternoon tea was out of her price bracket.
“Nothing is too good for my bride-to-be,” Oberon exclaimed, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her close for a quick hug. “You deserve the very best and I intend to give it to you.”
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin to look him in the eye as he let her go. With a little distance between them, it was easier to think. “I can’t believe that asshole got a judge to negate the contract like that.”
“Not fucking right. Asshole should have paid up because he evicted us,” Garlick muttered, slinking by them and leaping up into the window. Immediately he plunked his ass down and started to wash his unmentionables, a sure sign he was either distressed or trying to piss her off. Since he wasn’t looking at her while he was doing it, chuntering under his breath instead, she was going with the former.
Her lips quirked and she looked back at the big, handsome fae. “Seriously,” she repeated. “Thank you.”
He nodded, his expression dropping serious as he studied her face. “You are my bride. What is mine is yours. My crown, my kingdom, my wealth… all yours.”
Surprise rolled through her. He meant it. He seriously meant it.
“Uh…” She didn’t know what to say as her brain short-circuited. “I really don’t know how to thank you. We’d have been out on the streets tonight…”
Which was true. After she’d paid her rent and bought her rail pass, she barely had enough in her account at the end of the week to get lunch at work each day. To say working as a curator at the museum didn’t pay well was an understatement. She shuddered. With her asshole landlord getting out of paying their expenses… without Oberon offering, she didn’t know what they’d have done tonight. Probably ended up under one of the bridges near the Thames.
“But we’re not,” he rumbled, his deep voice low and soothing as he reached for her again. This time he did it slowly, allowing her an out if she needed it. She didn’t, giving into temptation and leaning against him with a sigh. “And I have an idea for saying thank you.”
She tensed, glaring up at him with an accusing look. If he suggested the horizontal hunka-chunka, she was so blasting his ass back to Fae. He chuckled at her look, tucking a strong finger under her chin.
“Will you allow me a kiss?” he asked, bending his head. She was caught by his blue eyes, her hands aching with the need to wander all over his heavily muscled frame.
Hell, all she really wanted to do was drag him into the nearest bedroom and get down and dirty… but if she did that, he might get ideas. Well, more ideas. And she was so not ready to head off into the sunset and go live a happily ever after in fae. She had far too much to do here first.
“Just a kiss,” she told him firmly, her hands curling into the front of his shirt.
He smiled and her ovaries damn near whimpered. One man should not be allowed to be so sexy. But he was fae, so was he technically a man?
His lips covered hers, warm and firm, and she stopped thinking. Like dead stop. Her train of thought, which had previously been rattling along quite nicely following current events with occasional asides to cake and wondering what Oberon’s ass looked like without his jeans on, derailed completely and crashed down the embankment. Total multiple-car pileup.
She gasped and the kiss went from exploratory to inferno level within a heartbeat. By the time Oberon lifted his head, their breathing was more ragged than the clothing on the professional beggars that lined up outside some of the tube stations, forcing commuters to run the gauntlet. And that was literally when magical beings were involved.
“Just a kiss,” he murmured against her lips. “But I can’t wait for our wedding night. With passion like this, you will bear me a fine heir. My son will be a fine king.”
Annnd… he ruined it. She narrowed her eyes as she pulled away. “What if your heir is a girl?”
He shrugged, blue eyes still fixed on her face. “Then… girl king! The first to hold the throne!”
She frowned. “Wouldn’t that make her a queen?”
Oberon shook his head. “Female king.”
“And if she marries?” she couldn’t help asking, even though this was totally a hypothetical scenario since she had no intention of having kids, mortal or otherwise, in the foreseeable future.
“Male queen!”
Garlick sniggered somewhere behind them. “Yeah… you might be a little behind the times there, sparkles. We already got them this side of the barrier.”
Daffi shook her head and disentangled herself from Oberon’s arms. It was getting harder and harder to resist him, especially when he had that look in his eyes, but this nonsense about kids sure helped.
“So… what the fuck do we do?” she asked the room at large, stalking through and dropping onto the large couch. Her trunks, containing all her worldly possessions and the little bit of furniture she owned, had been piled behind it. It was a good job they were enchanted to be bigger on the inside.
Garlick had stopped washing his unmentionables and curled up on the windowsill. He watched her with unreadable eyes as Oberon dropped into the seat next to her, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She let him. She had bigger fish to fry at the moment.
“I have no job and no place to live—”
“You are my queen-to-be!” Oberon broke in. “You could always—”
“If the next words out of your mouth are not ‘solve this murder and get your job back,’ I would advise you to keep it shut,” she told him sharply and then gasped, her eyes wide.
&
nbsp; “That’s it. I need to solve the murder!”
8
“Are you sure this thing is even legal?” Daffi asked as she looked at the card Garlick had handed her. “Where did you get it?”
Small and square, it had an official-looking seal and ribbon hanging off it with the words “Official Magical Private Investigator” on the front.
“Hey!” Oberon exclaimed, looking at his and then at Daffi’s. “Why does hers say investigator and mine just says assistant? I am king. I should be in charge.”
Garlick sniffed. “You’re an illegal fae. You’re lucky I could even get you an assistant’s badge rather than a stay in Bedlam and a one-way trip back to the land of the winged and happy.”
“Shhh, keep quiet and try to look like we know what the hell we’re doing!” She hissed out of the corner of her mouth as the three of them—witch, familiar, and fae—walked toward the murder scene.
Tucked in a back alley between the museum and the nearest tube station, it was the way she walked home every night. Apart from last night. Last night she’d turned right into Pendleton Place instead and walked back toward Hansom Row.
One of the hidden magical streets in the city, it would only show itself to those with non-mortal blood and was crammed with shops. You could get everything from spell books and ingredients all the way through to brooms and wands for witches who liked that kind of thing. They weren’t required for spellcasting but were fun to carry at Halloween.
“It had better be,” Garlick chuckled. “It was authorized by a Judge, and if he’s bent, we’re all fucked.”
But the murder scene was on her normal route home so they walked past Pendleton Place and kept going. Gore Alley. It was aptly named. Daffi couldn’t help a shudder of foreboding at the name as they were stopped by a Shifter in watch uniform.
