Page 18 of Hawk & Sparrow

“Mr. Kite!” Vesper ran to catch up as Maximilian opened the door to leave.

“Miss Evans?”

“I’ll do it.” She hated how breathless she sounded.

The sorcerer raised a single brow. “Do what?”

Oh, for goodness’ sake. He was going to make her spell it out. “You need a private investigator to prove that you weren’t the one who killed Francis Gladwell last night. I’ll do it, but I have a price.”

Maximilian’s eyes flashed. Definitely green. “And what makes you think that offer is still on the table?”

Vesper frowned. “What?”

“I made you a reasonable proposition. You declined it.” There was no warmth in the sorcerer’s voice. “As far as I’m concerned, that means our business is—ah, how did you once put it?—concluded.”

“But—”

“Good day, Miss Evans.” He muttered something under his breath while simultaneously cutting his hand through the air in a graceful arc. There was a bright spark of purple, and then the rain paused above him, as though blocked by an invisible umbrella. Vesper watched in disbelief as he headed down the street toward his coach. That was it. She’d just let her very last chance at saving the Globe walk out the door. It was done, over.

No, a stubborn inner voice prompted. Not yet.

Outside, rain was pouring in sheets now, but Vesper paid no mind as she marched toward Mr. Kite and did the only thing she could think to. She snatched the pink bakery box from under his arm and hugged it against her chest. He whirled around.

“Those are mine!” He lunged, but Vesper danced out of his reach. Rain was pelting her now, but she didn’t move. The sorcerer threw up his hands, exasperated.

“For the love of God, woman, you’re going to ruin my apple turnovers!”

“I don’t care.”

Maximilian’s eyes narrowed. “What is the meaning of this?”

“You need me,” said Vesper. “I have the skill you require, and I have an advantage no other investigative reporter in this city has: I was in the maze when Francis Gladwell was murdered. I was one of the last people to see him alive.”

Maximilian’s expression changed. Was that curiosity, contempt, both? Quickly, Vesper went on.

“As for my price, I want twenty thousand gild, in cash. One lump payment, immediately upon the completion of my work. In exchange, I will prove your innocence before the month is up.”

Vesper expected him to counter, possibly to outright refuse. Instead, he uttered a single word.

“Ask.”

Vesper blinked. “Pardon?”

“You want to work for me?” He tilted his head up in challenge. “Ask. Nicely.”

Vesper gritted her teeth. She hated him. She hated his expensive clothes, his grating voice, his unrivaled levels of arrogance. But she needed him. A frigid gust of wind suddenly tore past, as though to remind her.

Do it for Tom. Do it for the Globe.

Vesper steeled herself, then took a deep breath. “Let me work for you,” she murmured. “Please.”

Maximilian eyed her a moment. Then a slow smile touched his face. It wasn’t warm, or kind, or charming. It was only calculating. He made another swiping motion with his hand, and the rain stopped falling around Vesper. Then he offered his hand.

“I look forward to working together, Miss Evans,” he murmured. “We’ll begin tomorrow morning at nine. Shall we shake on it?”

Vesper took the sorcerer’s hand with her free one and wondered if she’d just made a deal with the devil himself.

EIGHT