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1
My name is Val—shortfor Valentine—Hart, and I’m a Private Investigator with Beyond the Veil, a company that specializes in the magical, the arcane, and the dead. The deader, the better, in fact, as far as the company’s owners are concerned. I’m the elf they tap when what’s missing either wasn’t ever alive or, fortunately or unfortunately, still is.
It wasn’t all that long ago that I’d been the one calling them—I put in more than twenty years as a cop, a lot of it in homicide. I was used to dead people—the kind that smell funny and don’t move. My bosses, Ward and Doc, dealt with the ghostly, the spiritual, and the magical part of things.
I might be an elf, but those two are something else. Specifically, a warlock-medium and an orc-witch.
If it was dead, they could handle it.
If it wasn’t, well, Ward was pretty much useless, and Doc wasn’t very interested. That’s where I come in. I can find your runaway teen, your missing husband, your sister who got involved with the wrong guy, or your brother who got himself sucked into a cult. But only if they’re still alive. I’ve tracked down objects, too—a stolen painting that disappeared with a step-son, some heirloom jewelry that ‘fell’ into grandma’s purse, and, once, a voodoo doll of the client that he really wanted the practitioner to stop doing unpleasant things to, which she was apparently doing in retaliation for him having cheated on her. I’d even handled a couple of run-of-the-mill cheating spouse cases, because when you list yourself as a PI, that’s what you get called for, even if you work for a supernatural investigation agency.
I try not to bitch about it too much.
But I miss the things that really matter.
That was the thing about homicide—what I had done as a detectivemeantsomething. Finding little Timmy who had fucked off to his friend John’s house for the weekend without telling Mom and Dad just wasn’t as spiritually satisfying as exposing the leader of a murderous cult or the host of a centuries-old serial killer.
Doc and Ward, and even Beck, the company’s extremely fashion-forward banisher, had the job satisfaction of helping people find their ancestry or getting closure or getting rid of a poltergeist or hostile spirit. And because Beck and Ward could talk to the dead, they got called in to the homicides, interviewed the victims, and worked toward justice. Even Doc was occasionally consulted for his arcane knowledge. Me? Not so much. I’m just an asshole in a pretty package.
Yeah, okay, I expand the repertoire of the company. And, sure, Mommy and Daddy were more than happy to find out that little Timmy was just at his friend’s house because they’d told him he couldn’t have a fourth PlayStation after he’d stubbed out his weed in the slot of the last one. But it just wasn’t cutting it for me in the job satisfaction department.
While I don’t miss the political and interpersonal bullshit that came with the force, I do miss doing something that feels like it fucking matters in the grand scheme of things. But when things were really serious, people tend to call the cops, not a pointy-eared PI who works with people who talk to ghosts.
It was kinda pathetic that I kept hoping for an actual missing person that wasn’t just another little spoiled Timmy or already dead. If they were dead, Ward could find them easily, and the dead always knew where their bodies were buried.
“Hart.”
I looked up at Doc’s deep voice. The big orc was standing in the doorway to my office, looking down at a tablet. “Yeah, Doc?”
He looked up at me over the top of his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “I need you to go with Ward out to Hampton Roads.”
“Me?” Doc usually went with Ward to cases. Not that I was complaining, since it meant that I might get to do something more interesting than hunt down illicit affairs and ungrateful teenagers. Of course, it might just be a lost will or family heirloom, which was much less exciting, although at least it meant a change of pace.
“I’ve got a donor meeting,” Doc said. That explained why he wasn’t the one accompanying our resident ghost-whisperer—and also the three-piece navy suit and elegantly patterned silk tie.
Between Doc and Beck, I pretty regularly feel like a schlub. Ward just rolls his eyes at me when I make comments to that effect, though, and then asks me how I think he must feel. While Ward and I might share an affection for flannel and jeans and t-shirts, I make them look good. Not that he’s not cute enough—although I would rather die than admit it to his face—but…
I’m an elf. There’s athingthat comes with being an elf. People just look at you like you exude elegance and charm, and I will admit there’s something to it because I trip over my feet a lot less than I used to. That, and I’m six-four, leggy, and have moon-pale hair that—if I let it—will literallycascadedown to my ass. I usually have it back in a braid or a ponytail, but that only accentuates the cheekbones for days and the big lavender eyes.
I’mpretty. But I’m also a self-aware asshole, so I know that I pretty much wreck whatever impression of ethereal beauty I give off the second I open my mouth. Ward, on the other hand, is a genuinely nice guy. Terrible fashion sense, mind you. I just don’t usually give a fuck what people think of me.
“Um. Okay. You got details?” I asked Doc.
“Ward has them,” he answered. “You got other plans today?”
“Other than staring off into space and lamenting my life choices?”
“Other than that.” He sounded amused. At least I knew Doc wasn’t likely to be offended when I stuck my foot in my mouth by essentially insulting his business. The business I’d all but begged to work for.
Like I said, I’m an asshole.
“Nah. Road trip it is.” I pushed myself to my feet and headed toward the back parking lot, finding Ward already wheeling himself toward the door.
“You’re driving,” he told me, completely unnecessarily. He can’t use his legs and hasn’t gotten around to custom-ordering a car that he can drive with his hands, although he has been talking more about it recently.
“We’re getting donuts,” I told him, skirting around his chair to poke the automatic door button before he got there.
“Oh, no, not donuts!” He put one pale hand across his forehead like a swooning waif.
