“Apparently.”
He crosses his arms and pokes mine with a tentacle. “You are going to have to go back and fix this, Rakan. Whatever you think the obstacle is, it’s not as large as you are making it.”
“She’s not going to want to hear from me.”
It’s true, and we djinn are particular about desires. About the things people want and the things they don’t. After last night’s disaster, it doesn’t seem likely that she’d want to see me. I don’t have it in me to force her.
Sigurd knows that but doesn’t give up. “You’ll find a way. You always do.”
Not this time,I want to say. But the words never come out. A member of my staff rushes to my side. He’s a young faun who’s worked these events long enough to know when to interrupt and when not to. Tonight, he judges correctly.
“Mr. al-Rashid, there’s a Detective Miller at the door. He says it’s urgent.”
“Miller,” Sigurd repeats with a slight frown. His markings pulse once along his jaw. “That’s the detective from the Fifteenth Precinct, isn’t he?”
“He’s worked for me for years.” A worm of unfamiliar anxiety stirs in my gut. “This is unlike him.”
There is something akin to a silent agreement between the monster aristocracy and the police force. We have our people among the boys in blue—placed carefully, compensated well, never flaunted. Miller is one of the best I have, and he has never once shown up at my door unannounced.
Sigurd uncrosses his arms. “Go,” he says. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
I nod, but before I can leave, he grabs my arm. “And, Rakan, remember. You still have the other thing to fix tonight.”
I close my eyes for half a second and will myself across the building.
The foyer assembles around me, the white marble floors greeting my smoke like old friends. Miller is standing next to an expensive sculpture from the Ptolemaic dynasty, eyeing the dark basalt as if he expected it to bite him. When I appear next to him, he takes a sharp step backward and puts his hand to his chest.
“Christ,” he croaks out. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“You’ve had long enough to try, Mr. Miller. But you didn’t come here to be comfortable, did you?”
Miller nods, finding his composure now that he’s been reminded of his task. “Indeed. Is there a place where we can talk in private?”
The moment the faun announced Miller’s presence, I knew this was serious. His request for privacy—or rather, his tone—makes it all the more obvious. “Of course,” I tell him. “Please, come inside.”
The study is through a door that most of my guests never find. I lead Miller through it and watch him take in the room.
The floors in here are covered with layered rugs, the kind that were made by hand in places that no longer exist. The desk is there if you look for it, but what dominates the room is the seating—low, cushioned divans arranged around a carved table. The smell of incense is thick in the air, though there isn’t an actual burner nearby.
On bad days, this setup is more relaxing than the smooth modernity of the rest of the penthouse. And this will certainly be a bad day. It already is.
“Sit,” I tell Miller. I gesture to the chair across the desk rather than the divans. I have a feeling he’d appreciate the anchor of formality, since this is still a business conversation.
Miller complies, and I take my own seat and wait.
The detective sets a manila folder on the desk and opens it without being asked. “I’ll start with what my team found,” he says, “because the context matters before the complication.” He turns the first page to face me. “This morning, Old Quarter. We received an alert about a potential magical homicide. First responders found nothing at the scene, but the forensics unit identified the final traces. Harpy female, a clean execution, down to the last atom.”
“And the culprit?” I prod, already knowing I’m going to hate the answer.
Miller leans forward and taps the page. There’s a full forensics summary on it, three dense paragraphs I don’t bother to read. “A pure djinn signature,” he says. “No mixing, no masking, no attempt at misdirection. Whoever did this either didn’t think they’d be investigated or didn’t care. In my experience, those two things lead to the exact same mistake.”
There’s only one djinn alive who kills without masking his signature, and I know him better than I know myself. I skim the information Miller provided, but it tells me nothing I don’t already know.
Looking away from the file, I let out a slow breath. It comes out as smoke. Miller doesn’t cover his nose, but it looks like a struggle.
“This is out of your area of expertise,” I tell him, and it’s not even a lie. “I need you to bury the report. All of it. The forensics summary, every copy, every system it’s touched. This gets handled through my channels, not yours.”
Miller nods, but he doesn’t close the folder. “I can do that. But there is a complication. The witness who alerted us to the murder.”
