What Goes Wrong
Dodger
The coffee shop where Harper and Rowan meet is packed this afternoon, the warm scent of coffee and pastries in the air as we use another customer as our ticket inside. I slip through the door behind a woman with a stroller, scanning the crowd for our targets.
“See them?” Marlow whispers.
Students hunched over laptops, a couple of elderly men playing chess in the corner, a group of moms gossiping together while their kids are in school—there they are.
Harper and Rowan are seated at the far end of the café, tucked away in a semi-private nook. Harper’s back is ramrod straight, his golden eyes focused on his boss intently. Rowan, by contrast, appears completely at ease. The police chief’s smile is warm, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Let’s get closer,” I mutter, already inching forward.
“Careful,” Marlow warns, but I’m already weaving between tables, not seeing the man pushing back his chair and heading straight for me until it’s almost too late.
I freeze, a deer in headlights, as he barrels forward. At the last second, Marlow’s fingers close around my arm and yank me sideways. The man passes through the space where I stood a heartbeat ago, oblivious to our presence.
“Invisible, not intangible, remember?” Marlow hisses in my ear, grip still tight on my arm even though I can’t see it. “You can still get hit or make noise. Be more careful.”
Oops. “Right. Sorry.”
All I care about is making sure Harper is alright—because someone needs to keep an eye on him, just to be safe.
We edge closer, finding a spot near an empty table just within earshot of their conversation.
“Not much more to tell you,” Harper is saying. “The evidence showed Maddox was innocent.”
“Which is all well and good,” Rowan responds, stirring his tea. “I’m not in the business of persecuting an innocent man. But the details are decidedly lacking when it comes to this evidence. How did you reach the conclusion the demon wasn’t responsible for Williamson’s death?”
“Followed a lead with a source,” Harper answers, offering nothing more. Good for him.
“A source you can’t name?”
“Sorry, it’s protocol since I’m working with the Concordia authorities now.”
I sit down at the empty table and think Marlow follows suit. Harper tilts his head and subtly sniffs at the air—oh shit. I freeze and hold my breath, as if that will prevent his super shifter senses from scenting me. With the strong aroma of coffee beans and all the food and people in here, I don’t think he’s getting a good scent, and then Rowan steals his attention away.
The chief heaves a theatrical sigh. “I wish I’d been consulted before this was transferred over to another jurisdiction.”
“The deputy chief made the call,” Harper counters. “You can’t possibly sign off on every decision made by the whole department.”
“Well, that’s true. My time is valuable. But this is an issue I hold dear.” He adopts a concerned face, placing a hand over his chest, and I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “We know all too well the damage that dangerous powers cause in the hands of theunhinged. I need to be able to assure my citizens the matter is handled.”
“Really?” Harper sips his coffee casually as he muses. “The department was extremely concerned internally, of course, but I thought public details were at a minimum. A demon killing someone wouldnormallybecome a huge spectacle but given the necromancer victim, who is never even allowed in the city, the deputy chief must have thought passing this case off was a no-brainer and settling things quietly was the better option.”
Rowan’s smile tightens as I mentally fist pump and cheer Harper on. But I have to stop paying attention when a lanky college student with a massive iced coffee and a backpack that could house a small family approaches our table.
Marlow barely scrambles away in time when the student drops the backpack down in his chair. I’m not quick enough and the guy almost sits right on top of me.
The guy goes stumbling sideways at the last second. Shock morphs to anger across his face before the student whirls around. “Hey, watch where you’re—huh?” he sputters, staring wide-eyed at the seemingly empty space where I’d bet Marlow stands. “Did someone just—?” He looks around wildly, trying to find whoever bumped into him.
I hurry away while the student is distracted. That was too close.
We retreat to a safer position near a potted plant, and I strain to hear the conversation we’ve been missing. The temperature between them has dropped several degrees, and Harper’s jaw is set in a rigid line.
