It’s true that I used one of those cheap builder apps to make Ms. Stryker her first website. It’s also true that she wanted me to put “Wizard-for-Hire, $300/day plus expenses” on its single page along with our phone number, like some kind of classified ad from the 1980s. I’m pretty sure it’s where all the crank calls have been coming from.
“Well… My boss is.”
The lady glances down the hallway, like someone might see her. “You’re right across from the bathroom. I’ve seen this door a thousand times. I wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.”
I exhale, frustrated. It figures that my first chance to do something real for Stryker turns out to be some rando indulging her curiosity. “It’s no joke. But we aren’t taking any cases at the moment, and I’m actually about to go. So, if you want to learn more, maybe stop by some other time?—”
Her fist darts up to the edge of the door, preventing me from closing it. The hand grips a wad of tissue, and her eyes are rimmed red.
“I’m sorry.” She bites her lip. “It’s my daughter. She’s missing. And I… I really don’t know where else togo.” The last word comes out in a strangle.
“Oh,” I say, softening my tone, and feeling like a total jerk. “Well, um, I’m sorry to hear that. Honestly. But we aren’t taking new any cases right now, so the police?—”
“They can’t help me. Not with this.Please.”
She leans in and her eyes cling to mine like she’s drowning.
This woman is not going to find what she needs here. My boss doesn’t take cases involving kids—too much heartbreak. And, of course, I don’t have the power or the ability to find anyone. But, at this moment, I also don’t have the ability to say no to this desperate mother falling to pieces in front of me. Not without offering hersomething.
I pull the door wider and gesture inside. “All right. Ms. Stryker is away, and I don’t know for how long, but Icantake a message and give it to her when she gets back. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”
“I understand. Thank you.” She sniffles as she passes me. The protective runes around the doorway grumble slightly in their slumber, but do nothing. The woman has no hostile intent, and I only notice because my sensitivity to magic is so high.
She warily takes in the beige chenille couch Stryker uses for post-battle naps and then the plastic chair in front of my cheapo desk. She chooses the chair, perches herKleenex on the lip of the table, and removes a mobile from her frayed, quilted shoulder purse.
While she’s distracted, I quickly glance into the trash bin to make sure the demon blood on the paper towels isn’t glowing or anything. (It’s not.) Then I remove a yellow legal pad from the lowest drawer and pluck a pen from its stained coffee-cup holder, before squeezing into my own chair opposite her. This might be pointless, but I might as well do it right.
“I’m Alvin, Ms. Stryker’s assistant. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“I’m Nicole. I work for Harry Jinny Accounting, down the hall? And… I think monsters have taken my daughter.” She places her phone in front of me, turning it in my direction. “This is Emma. Her most recent picture.”
The full-screen image shows a sturdy-looking girl in an orange corduroy work shirt and black jeans, standing alone in front of a wooden park picnic table.
“Monsters,” I echo, trying to sound neutral while noting down both names on the pad. Emma looks to be in her mid-to-late teens. She’s got short, cropped hair with frosted pink tips—the color matches the small triangle pin on her collar. Her scowl is fierce, aggressive even, but there’s vulnerability in her eyes. It feels like the face of someone who doesn’t fit in and is trying to learn to be okay with it.
I have some idea what that’s like.
Nicole puffs out a helpless breath. “I know it sounds crazy. Maybe I am crazy! But you see things online. When I was growing up, it was UFOs, but now people are sayingthat the government’s made contact with creatures from fairy tales. That magic is real.”
A lot of our crank calls are based on what “people are saying.” Actual details about what the US government knows about the paranormal are sketchy, but that hasn’t stopped a ton of conspiracy theory forums from posting what they call “P-drops.” The first emerged after “P-day”—a twenty-four-hour window ten years back when conspiracy theorists believe random Americans suddenly manifested magical abilities with no warning or ritual preparation. Spells like a businesswoman levitating across a busy New York City road, blue satin Manolo Blahnik pumps kicking in the air—or a burly construction worker blasting streams of rainbow light from his hands into the face of his nagging foreman. All these reports were subsequently dismissed as a hoax, and anyone who came forward claiming otherwise was immediately discredited. Regular folks moved on with their lives, but there were more than a few Americans happy to believe in a government cover up. The first P-drop claimed federal agents were reopening cold cases after discovering the existence of very real mythical beings eager to do people harm. Stories about monsters are still what gets the clicks.
The media and almost everyone else treat these reports as malicious fiction for the gullible, but Ms. Stryker told me P-day was real—she, herself, felt the extra magic in the air. And even if I haven’t personally met many other paranormals, I know for a fact these P-drops aren’t wrong—at least in the broad strokes. Elves, werewolves, vampires, goblins, even yellow-blooded demons do exist, almost all of themarelooking to hurt people, and Stryker hasconfirmed a section of Homeland Security was created six years ago, specifically charged with rounding up supernatural threats.
But there hasn’t been any official acknowledgement. And Mom says our numbers are so small that 99% of the “sightings” have to be total BS. That it’s just human nature to look for an “other” to blame when bad things happen. So, while there might indeed be some kind of “monster” behind the disappearance of this woman’s child, the chance of it being of the nonhuman variety is vanishingly slim.
Nicole takes in my skeptical frown. “Iknow. I wouldn’t believe it myself, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
I ready my pen. “What did you see exactly?”
“You should know Emma’s a good girl. Kind, cares about animals, helps around the house even without being asked. But she’s always looked for…something. Something that would help her feel strong. Something I couldn’t give her, I guess. There’s just the two of us. For a while, it was ninjitsu. Throwing stars, knives, she even got the mask and boots, and not just for Halloween… Then it was hacking, cracking codes.” Her smile broadens. “She’s really good at math.” Her expression falters. “But this past summer, it became witchcraft.”
I lean back in my chair. “A lot of kids get interested in the occult. It’s not usual.”
“That’s what I told myself. It was just another phase. She’s sixteen, so I try to give her the freedom to explore things. But then, a few weeks ago, when she had gone to the burrito place down the street to get our dinner, I hearda strange man’s voice in her room. Calling her name. I knew it couldn’t be her phone—she had that with her. I grabbed the kitchen knife and looked in, but there wasn’t anyone there.” Her expression hollows, blood draining from her face. “It was coming from a candle she had lit on her desk.”
She reaches into her purse, removes a tall cylindrical glass tube filled with white wax, and places it on the tabletop in front of me. The front is imprinted with an illustration of a robed saint. He has a bright golden halo around his head and is holding a small brown book. I can just make out the title: “El Libro de San Cipriano.” But that’s not what captures my attention.
“Wait,” I say, breath caught. “That has real magic…”
