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Oh, darn it.I fought to keep my expression neutral as it seemed, based on their reactions, they believed I’d be upset about the news. “Understandable. There wasn’t much you could go off,” I said, trying to backtrack.
Brody straightened up, as if he was reporting in to Captain Reese instead of me. “If we build enough evidence that a fae summoned the mantasps, the Commissioner will give us the okay to raid the fae Courts,” he said. “We’re trying to narrow down which Courts could be responsible.”
I nodded and internally tried to sort out a proper response.
Tell him that’s reasonable—or smart! Wait, does that sound patronizing?
“What he means to say,” Grove blithely said, finally pulled out of his sighing over the monsters, “is that it could beanycourt because none of the Seelie or Unseelie are able to claim Goldstein. I checked around my Court and found out Tutu laid claim to the area. Because she has clients in all the local fae Courts and requires that the Courts—no matter the territory lines—allow access to it.”
Sounds about right. No one would willingly mess with a dragon shifter.
Dragon shifters were the longest lived and strongest of the shifters. They had rivaled the elves in power, but there were always so few of them. They didn’t typically get along, so each dragon shifter never bothered much with anyone or anything outside of their domain unless they were forced to—like when the elves had forced the dragon shifters to join the rest of the supernaturals in our war against them centuries ago.
“Understood,” I said. “That does make your role more difficult.”
“Rest assured, we’ll find the culprits soon,” Binx growled.
“You will,” I said. I’d meant for it to show that I believed in them but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized it almost sounded threatening.
Uncomfortable silence stretched between us and I knew if I hung around much longer, I was bound to say something stupid again.
“I’ll finish my report and let you know when it’s submitted,” I awkwardly said, taking a step back.
When they didn’t say anything in response, I fled, hurrying back to my desk—red faced and sweating from my anxiety.
Sunshine looked up from her sudoku book. “Tried small talk again?” she asked sympathetically.
I collapsed in my chair and miserably thumped my head on my desk. “Every time.Every timeI open my mouth I just mess up!”
“That’s not true,” Sunshine said. “You are scarily competent when you’re out on an assignment if the gossip chain can be trusted, my delightfully dangerous jewel.”
“And then I accidentally insult everyone with my sputtering, so no one likes me,” I said miserably.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Sunshine flipped her book shut. “Your team doesn’t make it easy on you with their awe. If you’re bad at small talk, they’re horrific about trying to include you in conversations.”
“They don’t exclude me because they are awed.” I glumly scanned my teammates. Juggernaut caught me looking, and even though I’m sure I looked ridiculous with my face planted on my desk he flinched—flicking the deck of cards he’d been shuffling every which way. I sighed. “It’s because I’ve accidentally insulted everyone in this department at one point or another.”
“You’re overthinking things,” Sunshine said. “That’s how you freak yourself out and mess up when you try to be social—you analyze your actions from about twenty different angles because you want to control how people react to what you say. That overloads your brain, so you spit out less than half of what you mean to.”
I peeled my face off my desk so I could scowl at my friend. “Has it ever occurred to you that it would beworseif I didn’t analyze things so deeply?”
“You’re just proving my point.” Sunshine hopped out of her chair. “Come on, walk me out.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I need to finish my mantasp report.”
“No, you need a break or you’re going to beat yourself up all night about some insult you think you said that I’m sure no one else noticed. Up, up, up!” Sunshine came around the desk and smacked me on the shoulder with her rolled up sudoku book until I groaned and started to stand.
I grabbed my mask off my desk and fixed it in place as I obediently followed Sunshine. She marched through the department—skirting Juggernaut’s mess of playing cards—and took me out the front doors. (I wore my mask whenever I was in my task force uniform and outside the department walls.)
“Look, you might not think it but you’re doing great,” Sunshine told me as we trooped down the hallway—the Curia Cloisters were starting to bustle as the early evening hours were its busiest. “Part of the problem is that you just don’t know how skilled you are in combat.”
“Because I’m not,” I said. “I’m a good solid average.”
Sunshine snorted. “You’re average in your freakishly intense, perfection-demanding slayer family who are so elite you predominantly still hunted vampires in a time when a lot of slayers were forced to branch out. Your entire world was fighting.”
“And blood, apparently,” I said, thinking of the nickname as we entered the main chamber of the Curia Cloisters.
The room was massive with staircases and hallways leading in and out of it, so it vaguely reminded me of a beehive with supernaturals going in and out. Tonight, it smelled faintly of wood cleaner and fresh flowers from the buds some fae had brought in. The chamber also housed the main information desk—a sprawling desk lined with pamphlets, papers, forms, and the visitor sign in station.
