We pulled into City Hall East and parked. Andre Rand was waiting for us at the entrance, but I waved him off and turned to the trio.
“Maybe I should just wait here, you know, like in the car,” Spleen said. “I mean, what if they try to disappear you? Maybe someone should just hang back and—”
“We won’t need to make a getaway,” I said. “And, trust me, you don’t want to be a suspicious-looking person sitting in a police parking lot.”
“You’re saying I’m suspicious looking?” Spleen said, twisting round so his good eye could get a look at me round his long, ratlike nose.
“No, I’m saying that anyone sitting in a police parking lot at seven-thirty at night acting like a getway man is bound to look suspicious,” I said. “But look, we do need to have a few ground rules going in. Cinnamon, come back from Alagaesia for a minute.”
When she stopped the CD, everyone was looking at me.
“First: no-one mentions Wulf, or the Marquis, or any other Edgeworlder,” I said. “They’re so skittish they won’t even meet with me, so we’re not going to rat them to the Feds.”
“We’re going to go see the Feds?” Spleen said, half sitting up in his seat. “Oh, hell—”
“Spleen,” I said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You don’t have anything to worry about from these people here.”
“So we gots something else to worry about?” Cinnamon said, eyeing me warily.
“Second, Cinnamon and Spleen are going to wait with Andre Rand,” I said, pointing at him. “He’s my dad’s old partner, and I trust him. I’ve told him you’re ‘edgy’ and that if you get scared, or even just uncomfortable, for any reason, you’re just going to leave—no arguments. He knows to call a cab for me and Jinx.”
“We’re not scared,” Cinnamon said, jutting her jaw.
“Speak for yourself, tiger,” Spleen said. “You can soak up lead bullets.”
“Third… I have a little negotiating to do with Philip. And if it goes well.”
“You wants to get down his paants,” Cinnamon said.
“—if it goes well, Rand’s going to escort you back so Philip can brief you.”
“About what?” Spleen said, his one good eye gone surprisingly wide.
“I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation,” I said, “but maybe Philip can.”
After a moment, I nodded roughly, and got out of the car. I guided Jinx, and Spleen shepherded Cinnamon. Andre Rand met us and ushered us in through the metal detectors, with as little verbal comment about our guests as possible. I’d briefed him about Cinnamon—who was now ignoring us all, engrossed again in the audio world of Alagaesia—but still he raised his eyebrows at me.
Rand took us to floor six and beeped us in to the long corridor divided between Atlanta Homicide on the left and “Federal Magic” on the right. Breaking the law with magic turned a local felony into a federal crime—but you needed that local conviction to make it stick, so the magical Feds tended to be friendly with the locals. I’d never heard of the relationship being this tight, but it figures it would be that way in Atlanta, where there was more magic—and misuse—than anywhere else.
Rand stopped at the end of the hall, knocking at the door to the Fed offices, to summon Philip, I assumed. While we waited beside him, I took a good look at the agency’s logo, etched into the office’s frosted glass wall. The seal bore an eagle carrying a lightning bolt, and around the rim were the words DEPARTMENT OF EXTRAORDINARY INVESTIGATIONS. I found myself wishing I could see inside, see where Philip worked—and looked back, surprised to see Rand holding the door open to the Federal offices. Grinning, I led Jinx inside.
The DEI reception room was small but surprisingly stylish, with fresh-off-the-stands issues of hip magazines neatly arranged on a granite-topped end-table sitting between two comfy chairs. An array of paranormal-themed posters curled around the walls, including an honest-to-gosh X-Files “I WANT TO BELIEVE” poster next to an official-looking one that said “DEI: A CENTURY AND A HALF OF SERVICE, 1856-2006.”
But as we filed in, we weren’t looking at the posters. All our eyes were drawn to the granite-topped reception desk—and Philip, resting a hip on it casually, like a shot out of GQ.
“Homina,” Cinnamon said.
“I like his cologne,” Jinx said, her hand on my wrist giving a brief squeeze.
“Miss Frost, thank you for coming,” he said, winking at me. Then his gaze took in Jinx’s cane,