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‘Yeah, yeah. Night, Bird.’ I turned out the light and he squawked pitifully. ‘What’s up?’ I asked in the darkness.
‘Light?’ he asked in a small voice. My little bird was afraid of the dark.
The frost around my heart melted some more. ‘Sure.’ I flicked on a table lamp. ‘Is that enough?’
‘Enough,’ he replied.
As I walked into my bedroom the bird called softly, ‘Night, Pigdog.’
‘Night, Bird.’
My job is often weird, and juggling the Common and the Other is headache-inducing at the best of times. Today had been a little weirder than usual, even for me. Here’s hoping tomorrow would be a cake walk.
When I woke, there were two messages on my phone. One was from Ed and simply said: Positive ID on Jude Jingo; the other was from Roberts: No wits on canvass.
I grimaced: of course no one had seen anybody coming or going from the murder site of a glorified mobster. But I had a lead – albeit from a bird, and I could go and speak to the dryad community. For that, I’d need to go off the Common grid.
I replied to Roberts: Following leads. Keep me appraised on the forensics.
This is why Roberts hates working with me, and I can’t blame him. He thinks I’m a jumped-up asshole, and without telling him the hows, whats and whys I’ll never convince him otherwise. I long ago resigned myself to my colleagues being exactly that: colleagues. I don’t need friends; I need to do the job and do it well.
I prefer to work alone, but Thackeray had thought I was overworked and drafted in a new Connection detective to help me. So far Channing had been more of a hindrance than a help, but I tried not to hold that against him. Although I sometimes felt like I walked out of the womb jaded, I must have been that green and eager once.
I hesitated before texting him. A partner – especially a rookie one – complicated things. I really do prefer to go solo so I don’t need to worry so much about hiding my sub powers. But Thackeray’s word was law, so I messaged Channing: Meet me at Union Street at the entrance to Grosvenor Park at 0900.
I showered, dressed, then wolfed down a cereal bar and a cup of tea. By the time I was pulling on my coat, Channing had responded: On my way.
‘Take me?’ Bird said hopefully.
I hesitated. He might be able to identify the dryad killer but carrying around a bird cage was going to cause issues.
I had ten minutes before I needed to leave, so I logged on to the Connection database and searched for ‘caladrius’. The resulting page was sparse, but the important part was the threat assessment on the top right of the file: low. If that was correct, the only thing the bird could do was peck me. Its magical properties were intelligence, the ability to talk – and apparently it could heal someone close to death.
I turned to the bird. ‘If I let you out, will you come with me to meet the dryads? To identify the killer?’
The bird cocked his head. ‘Yes.’
I didn’t believe him for a second. ‘Your oath, Bird.’
He huffed. An oath isn’t a minor thing in the Other realm; breaking an oath or a geas can get you killed, and an oath death – when magic itself kills you – is not a pretty thing. Plus your name will be stricken from the roll of the Other.
Bird ruffled his feathers. ‘My oath. Will stay. Find killer. Then can go.’ A warm light glowed around him as the oath took hold. Good enough.
I unlocked the cage and let him out. He gave a happy warble, spread his wings and flew around the room in exultation. When he landed on the back of one of my dining room chairs, he trilled his joy.
I couldn’t help but feel I’d done something right – even if what followed went very, very wrong.
Chapter Seven
As I stepped out of my house with Bird flapping above me, my senses went on high alert. Two men were stalking towards me, their eyes fixed on me and malevolent intent in every line of their overly muscled bodies.
The first man had flames dancing on his head; the second man was a wizard like me. Even though there were two of them, it still wasn’t an even playing field because I’m a level-five wizard. I am rarer than a vampyr with a conscience.
I snapped out my extending truncheon, not because it was especially useful as a weapon compared to my magic but because of the message it sent: Bring it on, lads. I’m no victim. If I’d been a werewolf, I would have bared my teeth. I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet.
‘You the cop bitch investigating Jingo’s death?’
‘That’s me,’ I said, manfully ignoring the bitch part.
