Page 14 of Mane Brew

“It’s a hell of a problem.” Rhodes closes his clipboard with a snap that echoes off the cramped walls. “I need the full routing records for every delivery to Duskfire Brewery in the past six months. Plus, access logs for anyone who touched those shipments.”

“That’s sensitive information⁠—”

“And this is an official investigation authorized by the Protection Network head.” His voice doesn’t change—still measured, still controlled—but steel hardens underneath it. “Someone used your distribution center to commit magical sabotage that affected dozens of people. I’d think you’d want to know who.”

Marlowe holds his gaze for a long moment. I watch the battle of wills play out—ancient brownie versus stubborn lion—and find myself oddly fascinated by Rhodes’s composure. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, just waits with the patience of someone who knows he’s right and isn’t in any hurry to prove it.

Finally, Marlowe nods, grudging respect flickering across her weathered features.

“I’ll have the records by evening. Every scrap of paper, every signature, every timestamp. But, Rhodes—” She pauses at the door to her back office, her small frame silhouetted against the glow of preservation enchantments. “Be careful where you dig. Some roots go deeper than they look. Eighty-seven years in this business, I’ve learned to recognize when weeds have been growing underground for a long time.”

She disappears into the stacks. Rhodes stares after her, his expression unreadable.

“She knows more than she’s saying.”

“She suspects more than she can prove.” He turns toward the exit, and I fall into step beside him without thinking about it. “Different situations entirely.”

We step out into the midday mist, the silver-gray swirl wrapping around us like a greeting from an old friend. The air carries hints of growing things from Marlowe’s warehouse—herbs and roots and the green promise of magic in its rawest form.

My brewery is a twenty-minute walk from here. Rhodes’s territory is in the opposite direction entirely.

He doesn’t move toward either.

“I have documentation at my personal office that might be relevant.” The words come out carefully, like he’s measuring each syllable against an internal standard. “Patterns from previous Preserver operations. If the contamination entered through the distribution center, there might be a signature I can match.”

“You want me to come to your office?”

“I want your input on the brewing aspects.” He’s not quite looking at me—his attention fixed on a point in the middle distance, safely neutral. “Your expertise is relevant to the investigation.”

My expertise. That’s a first. Four years of safety violations and documentation wars, and suddenly my expertise is relevant.

“Lead the way, then.”

Sunridge territory is exactly what I expected.

“You have a schedule for sunbathing.”

“Temperature and light exposure affect shifter metabolism in measurable ways. Proper documentation ensures equitable access to prime locations.” He says this like it’s completely reasonable, like scheduling sunshine is what normal people do. “The rotating assignment system prevents territorial disputes over preferred rocks.”

“You made a spreadsheet for lying in the sun.”

“I made a comprehensive resource allocation system that happens to include solar exposure optimization.” He leads me up a winding path toward the highest point of the territory, his stride confident on ground he’s walked a thousand times. “The spreadsheet is only one component. There’s also a waiting list.”

“A waiting list. For rocks.”

“For sunning rocks. The distinction matters. Regular rocks don’t have the same thermal properties.”

“Does the waiting list have an appeals process?”

“Of course. What kind of operation do you think I run?”

I shouldn’t find this charming. I shouldn’t find this charming at all. The man has bureaucratized basic lion behavior.

Damn it.

His office occupies the second floor of a stone building that manages to be both imposing and aggressively organized. File cabinets line every wall, color-coded and labeled in handwriting so neat it looks machine-printed. The organizational system is visible at a glance—dates running left to right, categories top to bottom, cross-references indicated by colored tabs.

A lion is leaving as we arrive—solid build, close-cropped dark hair, the easy authority of someone Rhodes trusts with a great deal. He pauses in the doorway when he sees me, giving me a single measured look before turning back to Rhodes. “The quarterly patrol schedules are on your desk. And—” His voice drops slightly. “You’re certain the brewery investigation warrants this much of your personal attention? Pride matters have been waiting.”