So far, Snowbelt had been running without much supervision. The division was a well-oiled machine, but the real test would be the new cold case team. Case selections were due by the end of the day. After that, most of the agents would clear out, leaving our floor nearly empty while I stayed behind, buried under a mountain of paperwork until New Year’s.
It was unappealing.
My grandfather wanted an end-of-the-year report detailing all the division’s accomplishments and plans for next year. I’d been compiling it nonstop, dragging files home with me. My nights consisted of greasy takeout and cold coffee. I couldn’tremember the last time I’d gone out for anything besides milk, forget entertainment or anything that closely resembled a date.
Not that I was interested. Valerie might still be chasing her elusive soulmate, but I was, technically, a married man. Even if it was by accident, and I had the specter of a mystical couples resort on my back.
They had, in fact, sent a bill. Which I’d paid, no questions asked. Nobody tell my wife.
I pushed away from my desk, mug in hand, and made my way toward the break area in search of a refill. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the hall glowed with the first rays of sunlight, signaling that the earlier storm had finally passed. Fresh snow gleamed off the surrounding buildings, nearly blinding me.
Agents passed with similar bright smiles and “Morning, Director” greetings that dimmed when I nodded absently, trying not to look halfway to scowling. Since when had I become the office Scrooge? My first Christmas as division leader, and instead of wearing a Santa hat and whistling holiday jingles, I was starring in a one-man production ofA Christmas Carol.
I lined up my mug beneath the single-serve coffee machine and pressed the button, my back to the open circus of cheerfully decorated cubicles.
Steam hissed. The machine sputtered. I stared at the blinking red light that indicated it was “thinking about” dispensing coffee. I’d just reached for a sugar packet when a ripple of laughter drifted over my shoulder. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Valerie.
Her laugh had always been easy to recognize—melodic, and a little too infectious, especially now, given mybah, humbugmood. I glared over my shoulder because, apparently, I’d developed ano laughing during the holidaysoffice policy. HR would be thrilled.
She stood by the windows, chatting with a man dressed in an ugly Christmas sweater. My scowl deepened. It was Tom from logistics.
My grip on the sugar packet tightened, crinkling the paper. Tom didn’t even work on this floor. Logistics was two levels down. He had no reason to be here, unless his job suddenly involved hovering around my wife's desk. Now that I thought about it, I saw him last week too. And a few days before that. Most days this month, actually.
I ripped the sugar packet open. Tom was getting transferred to Siberia. Effective immediately.
The coffee machine gurgled. I didn’t move, watching as Valerie handed him one of her seashells, a tiny red hat glued to the top. He turned it over in his palm as if it were a rare artifact and not something the sea had spit out. She said something that made him laugh, then he opened the tin in his other hand and offered her a cookie.
Cookies, really? Amateur. She likes brownies—the corner pieces, warm if she can get them. I know, I watched her pick them clean at the potluck two weeks ago.
Something sharp twisted inside my chest before I could bury it under logic. The air around my hand dropped in temperature, magic pricking under my skin. Frost bloomed across the rim of my mug, spidering down the ceramic until the coffee froze solid with a brittle crack. The steam died mid-hiss.
Great.I dumped the mug into the sink; the coffee inside just a giant ice cube. No more caffeine for me. I stalked back to my office, agents whispering behind their hands.
As I passed Tom, a flicker of cold threaded through my fingers. The metal tin in his hands iced over. He cursed as it slipped, clattering to the floor and scattering cookie crumbs across the tile.
"Vacuum's in the closet," I said, without breaking stride.
Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Also yes.
By the time I sat down, I wanted to bang my head against the frosted window. What was wrong with me? Valerie and I weren’ttechnicallytogether. Not in a way anyone could know about. We avoided eye contact like one look might set off the sprinklers. Yet my magic had decided that method acting as Scrooge wasn't enough; it had to snag me a side role as a jealous husband. I'd been playing that part for months.
The Fates would laugh until eggnog came out of their noses.
What I really needed was a case.
Which was hilarious, considering all the years I’d worked as an agent, I’d never appreciated what we actually did. Now that I was chained to my desk, I regretted taking it for granted.
I used to needle Valerie endlessly about her over-dedication and roll my eyes during Matt’s stern lectures. Even my grandfather’s rigid orders of conduct looked different from this side of the desk. It didn't make his way right, but I could finally see why this place meant so much to him.
Valerie had finished handing out her gifts, and she approached my office as if she were wading through three feet of snow. She knocked lightly and stepped inside, carrying a folder but no seashell or Christmas card.
Whatever. I had a gold credit card and no use for seashells in my sterile office. Matt had never decorated beyond the single wreath outside his door—absolutely no jingle bells—so I wouldn’t either. Even though, secretly, Ihad a box full of trimmings stuffed in the trunk of my car. At this rate, I should just donate them and make room for more file folders. For a magical agency, we hadn’t exactly embraced technology, and paper was still king.
I made a mental note to change that, and to get rid of my Santa nesting dolls before I ruined the austere vibe of my executive office.
Valerie stood in the doorway, her hair longer since moving east. Chocolate curls grazed the middle of her back. She’d traded sundresses for sweater dresses, soft knits that hugged her curves, always paired with fleece-lined leggings covered in holiday patterns—candy-cane stripes, holly, once even reindeer. If, by some coincidence, her name came up in the Secret Santa drawing, I already knew what I’d buy: a pair sporting decorated palm trees to match the potted plant in her office.
