My face falls. Usually, she wants me to be here for the full eight hours, just in case a client stops by unexpectedly. That hasn’t happened yet, but it still made me feel useful. Like, on some level, she trusted me to handle important things. But what if I’ve just completely blown that trust? What if this is a prelude to her firing me?
Naturally, she notices my reaction. She looks away, impatient—she’s not big on other people’s normal emotions, let alone my innate catastrophizing—but then she returns to me, pursing her lips, like she’s rallying her strength.
“You still want to learn how to cast spells, right?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Uh— Yes! I do, boss!”
“Well… Your first lesson is that magic needs triggers to activate. You have to feel things. Not stress, not fear… You need to feel strong, because you need tobelieve.”
I have no idea why she’s saying this to me now, but it’s the first actual magical advice she’s given since I met her two months ago, so I just nod quickly, hoping she’ll continue.
“What I’m saying is you need to live a little. I get the impression you don’t do that much.”
She’s not wrong. “Well, um, I guess you could say I’m not really a, uh?—”
Her hand flicks up, stopping me. “I want you to step outside your comfort zone this weekend. Get drunk. Get laid. You said you had a hard time feeling your own magic. Well, let’s see if making out with a stranger doesn’t open something up.”
The fact that she remembers anything I told her about myself is front-page news, but that hot lede is buried under what she’s actually telling me to do. It takes me a solid moment to get my mouth working again.
“Are—are you saying you want me to, uh…?”
“I don’t have time to spell this out for you. You’re a healthy twenty-two-year-old boy in the most libertine city in the country. What I’m asking you to do shouldn’t feel like a chore, but this is your homework. Can you do it or not?”
I can’t. She might as well be asking me to soft-shoe my way up the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve never dared to let myself anywhere near alcohol. And if I doanythingsexual, there’s a very good chance I’ll kill someone.
But any protest will just invite more questions, and her expression makes it clear that she’s in no humor for excuses. At least for this, though, there’s a way I don’t have to outright lie.
“I… promise I’ll step out of my comfort zone tonight, Ms. Stryker.”
“Good.” She’s pleased with me, which is a rare event. She gives a quick nod like she, herself, has leapt a hurdle. “I think this could be your way in. I want you to feel foryour power while you’re having fun—really pay attention, keep your focus around your solar plexus, the third chakra,that’swhere mana pools—and I expect a full report when I get back.”
Mana. That’s the part of myself I’ve been desperate to access. Incubi have a number of specific, intrinsic magical abilities—but they’re vicious by nature and you have to feed to be able to use them, and I’m not down for either of those. There’s another form of magic, though: mana. It’s wildcard power that can be used for practically anything, if you know the right spell. Stryker is one of the rare humans who possesses any—it’s what makes her a wizard—but supposedly every living paranormal has a reservoir of mana inside them, to some degree or another. I’ve just never been able to find mine, no matter how hard I’ve looked.
It’s the satisfied smile on her face that finally clues me in to what might be going on here. My boss is gruff, and hard, and hella scary. But all this time, when I assumed she’d forgotten I even asked her, it looks like maybe she’s been trying to think of some way to teach me how to access my magic—or at least get me started. Sure, what she came up with is not actually going to help me, but it’s still the closest we’ve come to her taking me under her wing, letting me in—exactly what I’ve been working so hard for. And of course, now that it’s finally happening, I deserve her trust less than ever.
“I won’t let you down, boss,” I say, knowing that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Here she is, thinking of me as this innocent human kid in desperate need of life experience, when I’ve literally just conspired with another paranormal to break into someone’s home for $30,000.
She gives me another pleased nod and strokes an index finger over a line of tattooed runes on her wrist. It causes a green-glowing portal to spring open in the air beside her. She gives me one final glance before stepping through—I swear to God, it looks almost proud—and when the portal closes and she’s gone, all light in the room fades away.
Which feels downright poetic. Until I met Stryker, I hated what I was. Being paranormal meant only one thing—being a predator. But then I saw how magic could be used to help people, to save lives. I watched her use the same power that’s inside me, that makes up what I am, to fight a monster that was going to kill a dozen men. I begged her to teach me how to do that. I promised her she wouldn’t regret it. And she took a huge chance on me because she thought I could be worth it. Because she believed that someday, maybe, I could be a little like her. But from day one, I’ve been keeping secrets, and now I’m piling on even more lies. And tonight I’m going to use what little magical ability I have to help someone Iknowfor a fact is a predator become even more powerful and dangerous. All of which are choices I’m consciously making for selfish reasons.
I swear, it’s almost like Mom’s right and I was born to be evil.
3
My dark trainof thought continues rumbling along as I lock the demon head into the magically refrigerated safe in Stryker’s office and then grab a roll of paper towels to clean up the gobs of blood that I dripped everywhere. Becoming an actual good person feels further away than ever, and every time I think of that pleased look on Stryker’s face, it’s like a knife in my gut. So, after I finish inputting the last receipt, I decide to take my boss up on her offer of cutting out early, even though it’s only 11 a.m. Being in her office just reminds me of how far away I am from who I want to be.
Right as I snatch up the soiled jacket on my way out, I’m startled by a soft rap against the frosted glass of the door. I hesitate for a moment, not sure what to do, until I remember that greeting potential clients is one of the few actually important things in my very short job description. (At least in theory, since it’s never happened before.)
I stash the motorcycle leather into a discreet corner, plaster on what I hope is a professional smile, and pullopen the door to find a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and disheveled hair. Even if I didn’t recognize her from the building, her polyester blouse, slacks, and faded navy cardigan would tag her as a clerical worker from one of the low-rent businesses on our floor. She’s my height, but I find her looking up and over me, clearly having arrived with higher expectations than I can fulfill.
Her gaze lands on the torn button of my polo. She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything.
“Hi, um, can I help you?” I ask, shifting awkwardly, already not off to a great start.
The woman takes in the stenciling on the glass. SARAH STRYKER, PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR.
“Your site says you’re wizards. Is that true?”
