Five Dead Herrings by E.J. Russell

An hour later, I was sitting in an Aeron chair—much easier on the butt than that damn grass tuft—in Quest’s fourth floor conference room with the remains of my telephoto lens spread on the table. Jordan, no longer a wolf but still naked and wrapped in one of the silvery space blankets that Zeke keeps stocked in the Quest supply closet, was curled up in another comfy chair across from me.

“I’m really sorry, Hugh,” he said in a tiny voice, which, if he were still wolfy, would be a pitiful whine. “But I could tell there weren’t any dryads in the stinky tree.”

I pushed the lens away with a sigh. It was toast. No hope for it at all. “How could you tell?”

He tapped his nose. “Dryads have a specific scent. Wet bark and autumn leaves and sage. The stinky tree didn’t have any of those scents.” He screwed up his face. “Well, other than the wet bark because I…you know.” He pointed at his groin.

“Got it.”

He picked at the edge of the blanket. “I’m good at finding things. I’ve never missed a single one of the Frisbees my little brother buried behind the…” His expression turned furtive. “Never mind.” He bit his lip. “But I’m really sorry.”

I sighed as Zeke came in with a tea tray, my camera bag slung over his shoulder and the bundle of Jordan’s clothing clamped under his arm. “It’s okay, Jordan. Clearly the client gave us the wrong information. It’s not the first time.”

Zeke set the tray on the table, and I noticed it didn’t contain only a teapot and cups—it carried two plates of falafel, still steaming gently in what was obviously fresh pita. “I called Bryce—that is, Dr. MacLeod,” he said, “and told him what you discovered. He apologized. Apparently he was so annoyed by the client that he didn’t bother to investigate whether there might be anything else going on.”

I snagged one of the falafel plates. “Not his fault. I mean, we’re the investigators. It’s kind of our job to figure this stuff out.” I took a bite. Mmmm. Cumin, coriander, garlic, and lemon. The crunch of lettuce, the sweet acid of a perfectly ripe tomato, the cool tang of tarator sauce. The falafel balls were fluffy and light, not dense and gluey, the pita soft and elastic, not stiff and hard. Perfect. “Thanks for this, Zeke.”

He smiled sweetly, the vision spell on his glasses glinting in the halogen ceiling lights. “It’s my job to take care of you all. And my pleasure as well.”

“Does Dr. MacLeod have any idea what was going on with the dryad confab?”

Zeke shrugged. “He’s not sure, but he doesn’t believe their attack on you was intentional.”

“Looked pretty intentional to me,” Jordan mumbled around a mouthful of falafel.

“Well, you did pee on them,” I replied. “They might consider that an aggressive act.”

Zeke cleared his throat. “I think their, um, charge may have been a reaction to your presence, Hugh. Not everyone is aware that you’ve been vetted by the supe council.”

“Provisionally vetted,” I grumbled. Although I’d been working with Quest for nearly a year, I was still on probation as far as the supe council was concerned. Some factions continued to object to me knowing as much as I did. They regularly demanded the elimination of what they perceived as a threat to their safety and privacy, and they weren’t especially squeamish about ensuring the finality of said elimination. But at least one other faction was trying to use my awareness as proof that the Secrecy Pact had outlived its usefulness and that supes should be free to live in the open at last.

That particular decision wasn’t mine, thank goodness, but I’d been allowed into this world, my memories intact, as an active participant rather than an accidental victim in need of therapy or memory adjustments. No way would I ever jeopardize that. I’d been dreaming of this for too long, even if the reverse was not also true: I had yet to run into any supe who harbored dreams of living a human life.

Unfortunately.

I took a gulp of tea, its heat searing my throat. “Are Mal and Niall back yet? I should probably report to them.”

“Niall’s in his office with the Purl brothers,” Zeke said as he gently turned my broken lens in his hands.

“Both the Purls?” Devin and Ronnie Purl were ferret shifters. Devin was a stand-up guy—a low-voltage electrician who worked with both supe and human contractors. Ronnie, though… His ferret instincts were a little too close to the surface. “Did Ronnie get caught with his hands where they shouldn’t be again?”

Zeke nodded. “Sadly, yes.” He set the lens down carefully. “He was working on one of Devin’s crews for a Johnson Construction job. Mr. Johnson’s husband stopped by and Ronnie…liberated Mr. Moreau’s cashmere overcoat.”

I goggled at him. “Ronnie stole from a vampire? Is he completely nuts?”

Zeke fussed with the tea tray, nesting the spoons in a precise line. “No. Just desperately attracted to anything soft and cozy. He’d recently snatched a ceremonial cloak from an elemental mage too.” His hands shook, and he knocked the spoons out of alignment. Holy crap, he was nervous. Almost frightened.

Then I remembered—before the practice was outlawed, mages were known to bind demons into unwilling servitude. It had never happened to Zeke, but it had to his friend AJ, another super sweet demon who now did diagnostic possessions for the supe hospital.

That’s right. Diagnostic possessions. I’m telling you—this stuff is just so freaking cool.

Zeke pointed to the lens. “You can submit an expense report for this, you know, Hugh. It was damaged on the job.”

“I know. I will, as soon as I find a replacement.” I might need it sooner than I expected if Niall wanted me to tail Ronnie Purl again to keep him out of trouble, but I was picky about my equipment. I took one more bite of my falafel sandwich and stood up. “Thanks again, Zeke. You’re the best.” I wiped my mouth with the napkin and tossed it in the trash. “I’ll finish up later, after I check in with Niall.”

Zeke blinked his big, dark eyes. “You don’t have to hurry. You’re due a break after an entire morning staking out—”

“The wrong tree,” Jordan said brightly.

I paused in the doorway. “If I were you, Jordan, I wouldn’t harp on that little detail too much. Especially if anybody asks you how you happened to find out it was the wrong tree.”

He flushed. “Right. Sorry, Hugh.”

I shot him a grin. “No worries. But maybe next time? Don’t be so quick to volunteer those particular…forensic services.” I studied Jordan’s slumped shoulders. “If you’re worried I’m going to rat you out to Mal and Niall, don’t be. I’ll keep your involvement vague.”

“Thanks, Hugh, but you don’t need to cover anything up. I’ll tell them myself.” He smiled wanly. “Messing up your case is a bigger deal than burying a Frisbee in the back yard, and I’m working on taking responsibility for my screwups.”

I lifted a hand in farewell. “In this case, your screwup exposed a major gap in the client’s information, so don’t be too hard on yourself.”

I took the stairs down to the second floor, where Zeke’s reception desk and my bosses’ offices were located. But when I entered the lobby, my breath caught in my throat and my heart gave an odd sideways thump.

The room wasn’t empty. A huge figure was silhouetted against the window, gazing down into the street. The height, the shaggy hair, the broad shoulders…

“Ted?” I croaked.

The guy whipped around and…he wasn’t Ted, although my breath didn’t immediately come easier nor my heart settle down. Ted had been married for almost a year and he’d never been mine to begin with. You’d think I’d be over this stupid crush by now, done with harboring the forlorn hope that he’d show up and declare his undying love.

You’d be wrong.

But now that I got a better look at him, this guy wasn’t anything like Ted, despite the similar aspect ratio. While Ted’s medium brown hair seemed always one week past the need for a haircut, this guy’s mane was literally that—shoulder length, with streaks of gold amid the brown. A sort of Jason Momoa-as-Aquaman vibe. His eyes were dark, almost black, instead of Ted’s warmer brown, and while Ted’s open face was nearly always wreathed in smiles, this guy’s clenched jaw could be made of granite. Really grumpy granite. Plus, Ted always brought the scent of the woods and mountains with him. This guy smelled vaguely of fish. Old fish.

I pasted on what I hoped was a professional smile. “C-can I help you?”

He narrowed his eyes and gave me the once-over. I was used to that here—all our clients had that first what the heck? reaction when they realized I was human. But this guy… His gaze was a little more…focused, if you know what I mean?

“I need to speak to O’Tierney.”

Just shoot me now. He had a freaking Scottish accent. Ted’s American, so that was another difference, but with all the Celtic fae I worked with, I’d become a sucker for the UK accent spectrum, and Scots was my favorite. What can I say? Too much Outlander on my solo Netflix nights.

“He’s with another client now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Kendrick, then, if I must.”

I wasn’t sure if Mal was with Niall in his meeting with the Purls—he might be off checking with Dr. MacLeod about the feral dryad pack, and once Mal got within ten feet of his husband…well, let’s say those meetings tended to be a little extended, if you catch my drift. “I’m not certain—”

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize we had a visitor.” Zeke bustled in and took his place behind the desk. “Welcome to Quest Investigations. How may we assist you?”

“Bloody hell,” the big guy growled. “Stop asking questions, for starters.”

Zeke blinked at the man’s tone. “I’m sorry, but if we don’t ask questions, how will we know what you need?”

The guy glared at Zeke. “You’re the demon. Surely you can tell by looking.”

Zeke’s blush blotched his pale skin. “I don’t use that ability here. It would be unprofessional.”

Poor Zeke had eons of trying to please totally unpleasable people—the demons who ran Sheol weren’t exactly mellow—and it wasn’t fair that he had to put up with it from our clients. I squared my shoulders and faced the guy down.

“You’ve come to our offices, therefore you must need something. It’s to your benefit to explain what that something is. We can get all the formalities out of the way, so when Niall and Mal are free, you won’t waste any time.”

“Any more time, you mean,” he grumbled.

I gritted my teeth. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

He scowled at us from under lowered brows. “Is this a trick question?”

I shared a bewildered glance with Zeke. “It’s pretty standard for people who want to engage Quest’s services.”

He jerked his chin at Zeke. “Tell him.”

Zeke sighed. “Sometimes names can be used to bind people against their will. Demons, for instance.” He smiled rather thinly. “However, sir, you needn’t worry about that here. Our security spells negate any possible misuse of true names.”

The guy harrumphed. His shoulders might have relaxed a fraction, although with their width, it was hard to tell. “Brodie,” he said. “Lachlan Brodie.”

Zeke nodded and typed it into his computer with his usual blinding speed. “Mr. Brodie, could you give us a general idea of the reason you’re here today?”

For a moment, Brodie’s dark eyes glinted with something that could have been wicked humor. He reached into a small cooler I hadn’t noticed next to his feet. “This,” he said, and slapped an extremely dead fish in the middle of Zeke’s desk.