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“I’ve got Taavi,” I said.
“So bring him,” came Raj’s response.
I looked over at my canine companion, whose face told me that if I even thought about dumping him off somewhere—whether in the apartment upstairs or back with Doc and Ward—I was going to find out whether or not he was capable of eating my face.
“Okay,” is what I said to Raj, which caused Taavi to huff through his nose as though sayingdamn right. “Where?”
“Federal building. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
I hung up and drove downtown, stopping for fancy coffee on the way.
Raj was waiting when I held the door for Taavi, who was sporting a doggy t-shirt he wore so that he wouldn’t accidentally scratch at his stitches. They’d dissolve over the next week or so, and the wound wasn’t bleeding anymore, but we had to keep the area clean and dry, so we had a small collection of doggy shirts. This one was orange with lemons on it. Because… I don’t fucking know why people put lemons on a doggy shirt. Reasons?
I hadn’t been planning on working, so I was wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt under a button down navy plaid flannel with a faint line of a different shade of orange running through it. It was not a fashion statement.
Raj—who was also wearing jeans and a green cable-knit sweater—was chatting with someone at the main desk when we walked in, me at least being contrite enough to act the gentle-elf and hold the door for Taavi.
He let out a soft chuff when he saw Raj, who crouched down and offered a hand, which Taavi pushed his head into.
“Hey, Taavi.” Raj sounded about as tired and hung over as I felt. He looked up at me, his hand still ruffling Taavi’s crest. “Is one of those for me?”
“No, it’s for my invisible friend.” I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it’s for you, Tony.”
“Don’t give me sass, Keebler. You absolutely have invisible friends.”
“I do not.”
“Invisible dead friends?”
“Oh.” I felt a faint flush around the rims of my pointy ears. “Yeah. Those invisible friends. Well, they don’t usually drink coffee.”
“Fair enough,” Raj conceded. “You eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He pushed off his own thighs, then turned to the desk. “I have to sign you in, then we’ll head upstairs.”
Fortunately, I never leave home without my badge, which I let Raj copy onto the little FBI form that I dutifully signed. I noticed he didn’t say anything about Taavi needing to sign anything, so I guess we were still officially pretending he was a dog. Fine with me.
Paperwork done, Raj handed me a visitor pass and led us to an elevator, which we rode up to the tenth floor, before getting out and following Raj past the reception desk. Raj nodded at the man sitting behind it who was studying me through wire-frame glasses, then led us through a maze of cubicles to a corner in the back that was sectioned off with fuzzy beige cubicle walls.
When Raj walked over, three other people looked up, studying me curiously.
Not a single one of them was human. Or, rather, normal human. I was pretty sure the woman at the desk closest to me—who was studying me the most intently with sharp blue-grey eyes under an auburn pixie cut—was an Arc-human, since she was the only one wearing a mask. In a federal building, not wearing one if you were human was not only stupid, but very illegal. But she definitely wasn’t a normie, judging from the magic rolling off her.
The other two—a pale, older male faun with close-cropped grey hair, sharp-looking black horns, and colorless goat eyes and a younger Asian man with wide brown eyes and an odd blond streak through his hair—were also staring.
“Okay people,” Raj interrupted our mutual examination. “This is Detective Hart. Hart, this is Cass Reinhertz, Drew Shao, and John Kurtzweil.”
I nodded a hello to each of them in turn.
“And this,” Raj continued, gesturing down at Taavi, “is Taavi Camal.” Right. Because Shao was probably a shifter, which meant there was no point in pretending Taavi was actually a dog. Hell, maybe fauns could smell shifters, too. I don’t fucking know. “Taavi’s joining us in this form because he can’t shift back for another, what… week, Hart?”
I nodded.
Raj gathered us all around his desk except for Kurtzweil, whose desk was close enough that he was in the circle without moving. “So here’s the deal,” Raj said. “We need to fully cross-reference all employee and donor lists for Cornerstone Virtues against the Oldham list. Kurtz—you got those?”
“Roger,” the older faun replied in a rough voice.
