Page 16 of Paws & Order

Idon't budge from her stoop for the next three hours.

The night is damp and buzzing with fog, all sodium-yellow and distance-softened, like the set of a supernatural detective show with serious atmospheric ambitions.

I'm flanked by a detail of my best officers: Margo, ex-soldier and full-moon lunatic; Ravena, the only witch on the force and a stickler for protocols so esoteric even I can't keep up; and Alaric from the Night Patrol, whose presence is less official but considerably more terrifying, which was the intention.

"Nice place," Alaric says, leaning against the rail with all the undead smugness of a cat on a hot car hood.

His eyes are luminous tonight, like brine left to ferment in a glass.

"Bit of a security risk. The side windows probably don't even lock."

I look at him.

"We're here to deter, not judge her décor."

Alaric snorts, running his tongue over one fang like he's considering the flavor of my lecture.

"I still say this has all the notes of a phantom. Or a demon with a flair for the dramatic. But if you want wolf patrol, I can do wolf patrol."

"Do your job, Ric."

He gives one of those theatrical bows only vampires can manage without looking like idiots.

"Already on it, boss."

He glances at the window, where a blink of movement reveals the backlit slink of Gomez, Liza's black cat, considering a leap to the radiator.

Margo and Ravena are doing a perimeter sweep, fielding calls from dispatch and occasionally shooting me looks that are equal partswe got youandso when's the wedding?

I ignore them.

Mostly.

My phone vibrates.

A text from Zadok:

Zadok: Hex-breaker confirms the envelope is clean. Coins are ordinary but handled by someone with a weird signature, whatever that means.

He attaches a photo of the bouquet from her office with the words:

PURIFY THIS

in all caps.

Classic Zadok.

I text back:

Me: If you see anything, let me know. Standing by for updates.

I type it exactly like that, no unnecessary words, because I have a reputation and because typing out full sentences makes me feel like I'm sending a love note, not an investigative memo.

I pace the short sidewalk, scanning every passing car, every set of footfalls.

The feeling in my chest isn't entirely professional.

More like standing at the lip of the bay at midnight and seeing a shape in the water you know isn't just driftwood, but you can't be sure until it's too late.