EPILOGUE
Leviathan
Six weeks later, I've learned three things about owning part of a private investigation business.
Being able to disappear doesn't legally exempt me from paperwork, Rowan should never be allowed to choose office furniture without supervision because apparently every chair needs to support the weight of a shifted rhinoceros, and Amand considers a labeled filing system an act of love.
I'm currently ignoring all three lessons from behind my desk.
Our new office is smaller than Essence, quieter than Essence, and missing the unsettling sensation that somebody might be measuring my magical output every time I scratch my ass.
I consider that a significant improvement.
We have two interview rooms, one storage room, an office big enough for all three of us, and a coffee machine Rowan bought after I threatened to leave him over the one that came with the building.
Gerald is still dealing with the investigation into everything he did, and enough of Essence has been dismantled, reorganized, or dragged through legal review that I stopped checking the updates unless something directly affects us.
The Chameleon records are ours now. My father’s files are locked in the safe behind Amand’s desk, and I've managed to read most of them without either throwing up or putting my fist through anything expensive, which I'm counting as progress.
Amand looks up from his computer when I lean back far enough to put both feet on Rowan’s thigh. Rowan catches one ankle automatically and keeps reading the report in his lap while rubbing his thumb over the bone.
“You have your own chair,” Amand says.
“I also have two mates. It would be wasteful not to use the available furniture.”
Rowan doesn't look up. “He has a point.”
Amand stares at him for a second before returning to his screen. “You are the reason he keeps doing this.”
“I was doing this before him,” I point out, sinking lower in my chair when Amand gives me another look. “So if anything, Rowan is enabling a preexisting condition.”
“That is somehow worse.” Amand goes back to whatever he is working on, and I grin because this is exactly the kind of argument I'm happy to have for the foreseeable future.
Cases come to us now instead of through somebody deciding what kind of magical disaster might force another useful trick out of me.
We take what interests us, turn down what does not, and charge people enough that Amand finally stopped making that face every time I mention my consultation rate.
We have already handled three cases without anybody being petrified, impaled by a unicorn horn, drained for a resurrection ritual, or used as a laboratory stimulus, which has started giving me dangerously optimistic ideas about normal investigative work.
The receptionist ruins that almost immediately when her voice comes through the speaker on my desk. “There is a man here who says he has an identity problem.”
I glance toward Amand and reach for the button. “Tell him to call the DMV.”
The pause on the other end lasts long enough that I know I'm not getting out of this that easily. “He says the problem is supernatural.”
“Of course he does.” I pull my feet off Rowan and sit upright while he finally lowers the report in his lap. “How supernatural are we talking?”
“He says there are at least six of him, and all of them are taking over pieces of his life.”
I stare at the speaker while Amand stops typing beside me. “I'm going to need you to repeat that, because I've already decided I heard something significantly less annoying.”
“There are six versions of him,” she repeats. “He says they all believe they're him.”
Amand is already pushing away from his desk before she finishes, and I point at him immediately. “No. Whatever thought just made you stand up, put it back.”
“I have not said anything.”
“You stood up with intent.” I turn toward Rowan and catch him reaching for the empty client folder on the corner of his desk. “And you can put that down too.”
Rowan does not. “Six identical people who all think they're the same person is at least worth hearing.”
“You are both terrible at supporting boundaries.”
The receptionist clears her throat softly over the speaker before adding, “He also says he is a phoenix.”
That shuts me up for approximately three seconds, which is long enough for both of my mates to notice.
A phoenix is rare enough that most of what people know about them comes from badly copied supernatural texts and stories told by somebody who heard them from somebody else.
Resurrection is real, obviously, but beyond that the details get inconsistent fast enough that I've never had a reason to memorize any of it.
I press the button again before Rowan can comment on my sudden interest. “Send him in. Apparently these two have decided we're working today.”
The man who walks through the door looks exhausted enough that I almost feel bad for him before he says anything.
He looks somewhere in his thirties, though I have no idea whether that means anything for a phoenix, with dark hair, amber-brown eyes, and a faint trace of smoke clinging to him despite the complete lack of anything burned on his clothes.
His magic reaches me before he reaches the chair. Bright, hot, unmistakably supernatural, and phoenix enough that I don't need him to confirm what the receptionist already said.
There is something odd underneath it. The signature is fresher than I expect from someone carrying himself like a man whose life existed long before whatever disaster brought him through our door.
I let the thought go almost immediately because I have never met a phoenix before, and deciding how old one should smell after resurrection feels like exactly the kind of confidence that gets investigators embarrassed later.
He drops into the chair across from us and rubs both hands over his face. “I need you to prove that I'm actually me.”
I look at Rowan, who looks at Amand, and Amand calmly reaches for his notebook like the decision has somehow already been made without involving me. “I hate both of you,” I tell them, settling back in my chair anyway because apparently I'm about to hear this.
The phoenix leans forward and drags both hands down his face before he starts. “I died about two months ago. Completely normal death, as far as phoenix deaths go. I burned, resurrected, went home, went back to work, and everything was fine for four days. Then another me showed up at my apartment.”
Amand has already opened his notebook. “Another version who only looks like you, or actually another you?”
“Another me. Same face, fingerprints, memories, magic, blood, identification, passwords, childhood scars, and an extremely strong opinion about which side of the bed belongs to him.” The phoenix rubs at his forehead like listing it all has given him a headache for the thousandth time.
That is considerably worse than somebody using glamour to steal his face. Rowan leans forward beside me. “What happened after he showed up?”
“He moved in.” The phoenix gives us a look before any of us can react. “My landlord cannot evict him because his name is on the lease. My name is on the lease. We are both technically the same tenant because apparently nobody bothered writing rental law for magically identical phoenixes.”
Amand starts taking notes while I seriously consider disappearing before this becomes our problem. Unfortunately, the phoenix keeps going fast enough that I don't get the chance.
“Then another one showed up at my job and convinced human resources that I was the duplicate. A different one accessed my bank accounts because every security question belongs to him too, and another moved in with my ex because he remembers the entire relationship and apparently thinks getting dumped was a clerical error.”
Rowan coughs into his fist, badly disguising a laugh, and I turn my head slowly toward him. The phoenix notices too and points at him. “It’s not funny.”
“It is a little funny,” I admit, mostly because Rowan is trying so hard not to make it worse.
The phoenix narrows his eyes at me. “Wait until somebody else starts sleeping with your boyfriend using your memories.”
I immediately stop finding it funny. Amand’s mouth twitches beside me, so I point at him before he gets any ideas. “Do not.”
The phoenix slumps farther into the chair. “There are six of us now. Maybe seven. I stopped counting after one filed a police report accusing me of identity theft, and the police eventually asked me to leave because none of us could prove which one was supposed to be reporting which.”
I stare at him for several seconds. “One of you reported another one of you for stealing the identity all of you share, and the official solution was to remove whoever happened to be standing closest to the desk?”
“Basically.”
“That may be the most reasonable thing anyone has done in this story so far.” I glance toward the client folder Rowan has already opened despite the fact that there is almost nothing in it yet. “What exactly are you expecting us to fix?”
The phoenix looks at me with the desperate intensity of a man whose entire life has apparently become a group project.
“I need you to find out why they keep appearing, get them out of my apartment, get my job back, fix my accounts, stop one of them from trying to reconcile with my ex, and prove that I'm the original.”
That last part catches somewhere in the back of my mind hard enough that I sit forward. “You said the first duplicate showed up four days after you resurrected. Did you personally see him arrive?”
“Yes. He came to my apartment and started accusing me of stealing his life.”
I watch him more carefully. “And during those four days between your resurrection and him showing up, you know for certain there were no other versions of you anywhere else?”
His mouth opens, but the answer doesn't come immediately. He glances down at his hands before saying, “I didn't see any.”
That isn't the same answer.
Amand notices the distinction at the exact moment I do, and Rowan catches whatever passes across Amand’s face. Apparently I have chosen to mate with two men capable of holding an entire investigative conference using nothing but eyebrows while pretending they're sitting quietly.
The phoenix reaches into his coat and pulls out a thick envelope before any of us can push harder. “I brought everything I have. Photos, employment records, bank statements, security footage, copies of the police reports, and a list of where the others are living right now.”
Rowan takes the envelope before I can stop him, and Amand is opening it almost immediately.
I point toward the door even though neither of them is looking at me.
“We aren't taking this case. I have recently developed a deep appreciation for ordinary crimes involving exactly one version of every client.”
Rowan pulls out the first photograph and sets it on the desk between us. Three identical men are standing outside the same apartment building, all arguing with one another while a police officer looks like he is reconsidering every decision that led him there.
Amand takes the next page. “Apparently two of them are suing each other over the apartment and access to the same retirement account.”
“We are still not taking it.” I fold my arms and try not to look too interested when Rowan turns another page.
“One got married last week,” Rowan says, studying whatever is in front of him.
My attention snaps back despite myself. “To who?”
Amand looks at me, and I immediately hate the expression on his face because he knows exactly what just happened. I point between both of them. “Don't mistake curiosity for consent. Those are completely different things.”
The phoenix watches me with the first trace of hope he has shown since walking into the office, which is unfortunate because I'm trying very hard not to encourage him. “We aren't taking this case,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair while Rowan keeps reading and Amand reaches for another page.
Then the phoenix’s smoke-bright magic catches my attention again. That strangely fresh edge is still there beneath everything else, subtle enough that I would probably ignore it if I wasn’t already wondering whether his timeline is as clean as he thinks it is.
I look at the photographs spread across the desk, then back at the man sitting across from us.
Fuck.