Badges & Broomsticks

Chapter One

Ryder

To ogle, or not to ogle: that is the question.

Well. Maybe “to stare back at the hot goth very clearly checking me out from the other side of the pool, or to play hard to get” would be more accurate for this situation.

I smile behind my sunglasses and turn the page of my book.

If this were anywhere else, at any other time, I would have made my move already.

If this were a bar or a party or… I don’t know, a library, I would have walked up to him and introduced myself, taken up the empty seat next to him, and asked him what massive (and, frankly, kind of pretentious-looking) book he’s reading.

But I’m not anywhere else at any other time. I’m on vacation… well. Sort of.

I wasn’t expecting the first day of my vacation to revolve around flirtatious mind games.

Not that I have a problem with the games, I just never intended this trip to come with a hookup included.

I never intended this trip at all, actually.

See, this little adventure to The Great Pacific Northwest is a vacation on paper, but let’s be real about what this is: paid leave.

This trip is the best possible result of me being too stubborn with my superiors and getting in the way of “progress” too many times in the office.

In most fields, that would be grounds for a demotion—firing, even.

But for decade-long badge holders at the US Bureau of Supernatural and Cryptozoological Oversight, it’s grounds for just enough paid leave to get you out of the way for a little while.

Major perk of working in an understaffed office with a high turnover rate: no one wants to fire you.

Hot Goth is still watching me. It’s somewhere between a glare and a leer, straw-stirring his cocktail with eyes just visible underneath his wide-brimmed hat, covered head-to-toe in black lace and silver jewelry—with eyeliner to boot.

We’re sitting on opposite sides of the swimming pool at the luxury resort spa I’ll be calling home for the next two weeks, but nothing about his outfit says “summer fun.” If anything, it says, “if you get so much as one drop of water on me, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.”

Like I said—any other time, any other place, I would have bought him three drinks by now. What can I say? I’ve got a weakness for gorgeous, high-effort alt boys.

I look down at my own choice of clothing: a white t-shirt and red board shorts.

My hair (probably one of my best features—thick and curly, just like my dad’s) is pulled into its usual messy ponytail, and my only accessories are a pair of wayfarer sunglasses and a book about birdwatching.

Completely appropriate poolside attire, and the polar opposite of the dark glamor simmering at me from thirty yards away.

I know I look basic as hell compared to all of that.

But, just like I’ve been transfixed from the moment I spotted him, the Hot Goth can’t seem to keep his eyes off me, either, and I’m not one to look the universe’s gift horse in the mouth.

I’m still debating whether or how to make my move when my phone rings.

Incoming Call:

Nix

Most know her as “Nicky,” and no one is allowed to call her “Veronica” outside of work. “Nix” is reserved for a select few. As the only two Queers in the office, we were fast friends at the start of my career and, even after her two promotions, our dynamic has never changed.

“Why are you calling me? I’m on vacation.” She knows I’m not bothered by the call. Kinda been waiting for it, actually.

“Why are you answering?” she replies warmly. Warmly for her, anyway. I hear papers shuffling on her end of the line, and I can picture her fishing around for something on her messy desk while she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder.

“Bored,” I say.

“You poor thing. How’s Miami?”

Oh, right. I haven’t told her yet. “Wouldn’t know. I’m in Oregon.”

The desk shuffling sounds stop. “What do you mean you’re in Oregon?” she demands. “Ryder, you better not be sniffing out some case right now, you’re on leave—”

“No! God, no… I just swapped it.”

“You ‘swapped it?’ What—”

Some noise in the background cuts Nix off, and she does nothing to hide the irritation in her voice as she responds to the interruption. “Yes, hi, what can I help you with in the middle of my phone call?”

I can’t make out the words, but I can tell who it is: Gregory Sieger, the Bureau tool who went to great lengths to get me conveniently out of the way for two weeks. Whatever he’s saying, he sounds pissed about it. Then again, he always sounds pissed when he’s talking to Nix.

“I don’t know why you think your lost paperwork is my problem, but like I said on Friday, I never got it,” she says. I try not to laugh—I know exactly which form Sieger is asking her about, and I know why Nix never got it. So does Nix.

More muffled bitching from Sieger, a slammed door, and Nix sighs into the phone. As far as “chain of command” goes, Nix and Sieger are technically at the same level on different branches, but every conversation they have is a study in power struggle.

“Tell him to check the shredder,” I suggest.

“Furnace would be a better bet. But, wait, back up—what do you mean you ‘swapped’ your trip? I thought it was pre-paid.”

“Yeah, I called the hotel. They have other properties in the chain, so they let me move the reservation to another location.”

“And you picked… Oregon.”

She’s not being judgmental, exactly. Just pointing out the obvious: that I love Miami.

The nightlife, the beaches, the tostones — three things that are rare-to-never occurrences in my present locale.

And I could try to explain to her why I picked this location out of my half-dozen or so options, to try and describe the sort of pull I felt when I heard “Mount Hood National Forest.” I could sit here and try to tell her all the reasons I’ve learned to trust my heavy sense of intuition, but I know it would be a waste of time.

The senses Nix trusts are the ones that present facts—her choices are made based on what she can see and hear.

And being my friend hasn’t stopped her from reprimanding me multiple times for following my gut and not direct orders, regardless of how right my gut was.

“Oregon in August sounded nicer than Florida,” I say instead, and it’s not a lie. “If I wanted 95 degrees and equivalent humidity, I would have stayed in DC.”

Nix sighs again, this time relieved. “Fair enough. Food’s probably better in Miami, though.”

“I mean, the restaurant here has three Michelin stars, but the only hot sauce they have is Tabasco, so. Kinda breaking even on that one.”

“Bro, you used your liquids limit to bring Tapatío to Chicago in your carry-on—I know you have some with you.”

“Guilty.”

“So, how’s Oregon, then? Having fun?”

I look across the pool again, to where Hot Goth has gone back to his book. A strip of skin down the center of his chest is exposed, and I can see tattoos peeking out from underneath the layers of jewelry and drapey fabric.

“Not yet,” I say, a little absently.

“You’re contractually obligated to have fun. What are you gonna do while you’re there?”

Hot Goth shifts his posture, curling his long legs up underneath himself like a cat as he turns a page.

“What do you get when you cross Stevie Nicks with a twink?” I ask after a moment.

“Your type?” Nix answers dryly.

“Exactly. And he’s been making eyes at me from the other side of the pool all morning.”

“Oh my God—okay, but does he look like he has a real cunty attitude? Like, if you tried to hit on him he would just roll his eyes and ignore you?”

“It’s like you’re standing right next to me.”

“Nah, I just know you that well. Go get your dream man.”

“Might not have to,” I say as Hot Goth closes his book and stands up from his chaise lounge, “I think he’s coming over here.”

“Yes, bitch, get it! Get. IT.”

I laugh and end the call, and, yeah, Hot Goth is definitely headed in my direction.

“Your margarita, Sir?”

I look up at the interruption to my horny-adjacent thoughts: a waitress standing at my shoulder with an Instagram-worthy cocktail on a serving tray. “Right!” I say, digging into my pockets for my wallet. “I wanna open up a tab…”

I’m handing over my credit card when it hits me.

It’s a familiar feeling, one I’ve known since childhood.

It starts with a tingling in my fingers and a humming in my spine, then it travels along every nerve until my whole body buzzes with it.

Like electricity, like a fever, like a warmth that makes me shiver.

The Sense.

October 1998

Arlington, VA

He didn’t know what it was. He was too young to understand it.

“Do you feel that?” he asked Paige.

“Feel what?” his sister replied.

She wasn’t really Ryder’s sister. Her grandfather had worked with his grandfather for forty years, which made her mother Ryder’s “Aunt Cindy,” which made the children as close as siblings, even though they weren’t related by blood.

He didn’t know that yet. Yes, Ryder could see that his olive skin didn’t look like hers, and that Paige’s blue eyes didn’t look like his.

But everyone in his family looked a little different, so that didn’t strike him as strange.

As far as Ryder knew, for at least a few more years, Paige was his sister.

Ryder stared at the woman on the sidewalk, at her shiny hair the color of shadows at night and eyes even darker. He couldn’t explain why he felt drawn to her; he didn’t quite have the words at that age.

“What’s the matter?” his grandfather asked. “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” Ryder said.

But his grandfather knew better. “Alright, then, what do you feel?”

“Fuzzy,” Ryder said. It wasn’t quite right, but it was the best he could do.

His grandfather’s eyes lit up, the way they always did when he got to teach Ryder and Paige something new.