Storm of Sin - Patricia D. Eddy Page 0,49
her keyboard back and waving her hand towards her visitor’s chair.
“About damn time. Where’s your partner? She came in, then ten minutes later, bolted like her ass was on fire,” Eve says, a distinctive high-pitched edge to her voice. She’s close to a shift. Something is bothering her. Something more than my AWOL partner and the attack on our lives.
“Zoe had a personal errand to attend to. Apparently. I am waiting to find out where so I can pick her up.” Sinking into the chair, I narrow my eyes at Eve. “What is wrong?”
“Salem is threatening to fire me.”
I lean forward, tension prickling along the back of my neck. “Why?”
“Three hundred and forty-two thousand dollars of this division’s budget is unaccounted for. The dicks in Salem believe I had something to do with it.” Her talons tap against the desk, and the frustrated sound she makes as she throws her head back shakes the glass walls. Any higher pitched, and she’d probably have shattered them.
I scan the bullpen, seeing heads turn, agents whispering to one another. Eve notices and slaps her hand down on the button to engage the privacy screens. “Just fucking great.”
“Get one of the witches to cast a truth charm.”
Grayson’s eyes darken, and she shakes her head. “I won’t ever be under a witch’s spell again. Which means I have to do this the old fashioned way. Spending the next few weeks neck deep in budget reports.”
Pushing to her feet, she turns her back to me and runs her hands through her blond hair. “But not until you tell me exactly what went down yesterday.”
Half an hour later, I have still not heard from Zoe, and my ire and concern are rising with each passing minute. The commander is satisfied that neither Zoe nor I sustained serious injuries, and she had two of the mages conjure memories of a gas leak for the SFPD officers.
Back at my desk, I run a trace on Zoe’s phone. Blue Bottle Coffee. At least she is in public and not out chasing down a lead on her own. It takes me only a few moments to convince one of the ghouls to check up on her.
“Agent Sinclair,” the ghoul whispers to my mind when it returns. “Agent Dawes is having coffee with a panther shifter named Dion.”
I take a small measure of relief from the report, and pull up James Temple’s last will and testament. Fuck. The date at the top is the day before he shot Zoe. There is nothing out of the ordinary about the text. Standard legalese, his name, date of birth, address, and the like. A small list of possessions bequeathed mostly to Zoe, his savings to be distributed to a handful of charities.
Nothing appears out of place until I zoom out and view the two-page document as a single image. A faint watermark darkens the paper, and I have to rotate the pieces several times before the image coalesces into something that makes my blood run cold.
The edges are uneven. Perhaps a bit lopsided. But it looks very much like an orange blossom. Fuck.
Thorn and Regina are most certainly sending me a message. They know I am in San Francisco, and they are counting on my fear leading me to make a mistake. One that will land me in their clutches once again.
After I order the ghoul back to Blue Bottle to watch over Zoe, I turn my focus to the human missing persons databases and begin my search for men between the ages of twenty-one and forty. The assholes who nearly killed us yesterday were wearing masks, but as I flew past, I got a very good look at their eyes. I can find them. I have to.
Zoe
Blue Bottle Coffee’s tall windows let in the late morning light, and when I step inside, Dion waves me over to a table in the corner. She’s already ordered, and my mouth waters at the sight of the steaming French Press pot and two cups.
“Guatemalan single origin,” she says with an easy smile. An animal print sweater hangs off of one shoulder, a black bodysuit underneath, and her skin glows, not a single fur visible.
“You’re a mind-reader,” I say, sinking down across from her.
“Nah. Us coffee snobs just gotta stick together.” She winks, then depresses the plunger. “Okay. Spill it, hon. What happened with your handsome jerk of a partner?”
I can’t tell her everything. Not by a longshot. But if I don’t get some of this off my