has anything to do with current events. Jo did some digging.” Which meant hacking into governmental files, not something we would ever say aloud. “She found out FireWind was married in the late 1800s, to a witch. She was injured in a fire in 1937—the Blackwater fire in Shoshone National Forest in Wyoming. He got her out, but she was badly burned. She lived for several weeks before she died.” He slanted a look my way. “Want to take a guess which date matched two days ago?”
“The date of his wife’s death?”
“Yep. Worst part was, he had dreamed about fire for decades. He thought it was some kind of vision quest. He used to chase fires, looking for the vision. Turned out the dream was a premonition, not something he was supposed to chase.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah. And to keep him from knowing Jo was digging into his sealed files, we have to go on treating him like he’s an ass. Which he still is, but at least we can understand some of it.”
“So FireWind causing trouble and making threats was all tied up with him trying to run people’s romantic lives, including ours? And him losing his wife? Grief and him having a stick up his rear end?”
“Pretty much.”
“This is gonna be hard,” I said.
“What? Keeping secrets?”
“No. Being nice to him whenever I want to kick that stick farther up his backside.”
Occam chuffed with laughter. “You know? I dated a woman before I joined Unit Eighteen, a non-cop civilian. There was almost nothing we could talk about that wasn’t off-limits on my part or considered gruesome on her part. The relationship didn’t last.”
“Good,” I murmured.
Occam chuffed again, cat-like. “I’m glad we both work law enforcement because we can talk about anything.” He extended his hand and I placed mine into it. Warmth spread from the point of contact, from the way our fingers laced together and tightened.
This. This was all the goodness I had ever wanted.
My cell rang. It was Mud. I let it go to voice mail. I was not letting my little sister spoil this moment.
* * *
* * *
It was close to midnight when we got to Stella Mae’s farm and, now that the late news was over, the road out front was clear of media vans and roving reporters and cars and music fans. Except for the flowers and stuffed animals piled along the fence and the armed security guard at the end of the drive, I’d have never known a crime or a death had taken place.
Occam whirled the steering wheel and braked the sports car to show our IDs. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe he knew our faces, but the guard let us pass through without the hassle I’d experienced earlier. Even at night the house and grounds were amazing, the buildings and plantings well lit, the security lights providing visibility of anyone approaching, if not actual protection. There were still vehicles parked out front and I recognized PsyCSI vans and the witch cars. The crime scene techs (who had their own unis) were likely at work inside, trying to collect evidence, while the witches were in the backyard at their circle trying to figure out how to rein in death and decay. There was crime scene tape all around the house, where there had been none before, but there was an opening that led to the side door.
We got out and Occam popped the trunk. I locked my weapon in the gun safe in the floor of the small vehicle. Occam was still armed and, in his off hand, lifted out my vampire tree, a flashlight, and the faded pink blanket I used in my readings. He had a sharp steel knife strapped at one thigh and was dressed in jeans and field boots, like me. He made a fist, working his fingers free of the stiffness he still experienced from being burned. Against the evening’s chill we both wore dark wind jackets printed with PsyLED on the front and back, our IDs clipped near the collars.
“Something I can do for you folks?” a voice asked out of the darkness.
Occam didn’t go for his weapon, so I figured he recognized the man in the dark with his cat vision or by scent. Having spent twenty years in cat form in a silver-lined cage had given him more access to his cat abilities while in human shape than most were-creatures, and his eyes were glowing with a faint gold sheen. “PsyLED business,