Chapter 3
She was tired and worried and didn’t want to be here, even if the view was lovely.
She resented that view. She didn’t want to feel anything pleasant—didn’t want to enjoy the view, didn’t want to find the room comfortable or beautiful, didn’t want to associate anything to do with this whole seedy deal with the smell of fresh flowers.
She ran her fingers over the ledge, noting that the cleaning crew had done an impeccable job of keeping the room dust- and grime-free.
While part of her appreciated the thoroughness of the job, she preferred spaces that felt lived-in and real.
Places that had knick-knacks, a few pieces of mail, a little soft dust in the corners.
Simon didn’t. Or, rather, he felt that a senator’s home needed to be spotless at all times so that if anyone needed to be entertained or—more accurately—politically wooed, they could do it at the drop of a hat and make it look good.
She didn’t much like being a senator’s wife.
She hated the spotlight. The fund-raisers and campaign events. The long weeks he spent in DC, sleeping in an apartment he kept there even though Richmond was only two hours away.
She also knew that what Simon wanted to do—to help other shifters, other Arcanids, and Arc-humans—required him to have a political position and allies. And for that, he had to stay in DC and have an immaculate and un-lived-in house that could grace the pages of Good Housekeeping.
I shuddered a little as the memory fell away.
“Well?” Parikh asked.
I sighed, wanting to lean on something, but not wanting to touch anything. I shifted a little bit, trying to push back the slight dizziness that came along with exerting my abilities. “Nothing useful,” I admitted. “She was worried, and she didn’t like being a senator’s wife.”
“She didn’t—” Parikh reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So nothing about who she was meeting? Who was blackmailing her for being a shifter?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Try somewhere else.”
“Where was the money?” Hart interrupted.
We both looked over at him. “What?” I asked.
“The money. Yesterday, you said that she’d brought money. Where the fuck did she put it?”
“Why would I know that?” I stared at Hart, confused.
“You know she brought it, right?”
“Yes.”
“So if she thought about the fact that she brought it, wouldn’t she have looked over at it or some shit?”
“I don’t see things,” I told him. “I just… feel them. More like words than pictures.”
“Can you focus it?” Parikh asked.
I frowned. “I… don’t know. I’ve never tried.” I had no idea how I would even go about doing that. “I’m not sure how,” I admitted.
“Well, I sure as shit don’t,” Hart responded. “Ask Ward, maybe?”
Parikh frowned. “Memories aren’t ghosts, Keebler,” he pointed out.
“Fine, Doc, then. They’re both witches.”
“And Mason Manning isn’t a psychic, either,” came the counterpoint. “Cass would likely be far more useful.”
“Not a bad idea, Tony.” He pushed away from the wall. “I’ll call her.”
I looked at Parikh after Hart walked into the bedroom at the back of the suite. “Who’s Cass?” I asked him.
He offered me a small smile, and the expression made his features suddenly seem warm, but then the expression flickered away, returning his face to its customary sternness. I wanted to see him smile again—and to smile more. Not that I knew how to make that happen.
“Cass is Cassandra Reinhertz, a seer who works with us in A-Branch.” He held up a hand, his palm toward me. “I know seers and contact psychics don’t have exactly the same abilities, but they might be similar enough that her methods might be able to help you… focus more.”
“And be more useful,” I finished.
He looked startled. “That is not what I meant,” he protested.
I tilted my head to the side, confused. “But that would be more useful,” I said. “Isn’t that why you suggested it? So that I could be more useful. More targeted?”
“I—yes, but…” His brow furrowed. “The point wasn’t that you aren’t being useful,” he explained. “You’re not a tool.”
It was my turn to frown. “Yes, I am. That’s why you came to me.”
His cheeks darkened. “Yes, but—you’re a person, Rayn. Not an object.”
I wasn’t sure why he found this embarrassing or frustrating. “We’re all tools,” I pointed out. “With different abilities that are needed in order to find or evaluate evidence. Why do you think that would upset me?”
Now he looked just as confused as I felt. “Because a hammer is a tool,” he replied. “A gun or a microscope or a… summoning circle. They’re tools. The people who wield them are people and deserve respect—and not just because of what they can do.”
I studied him. “But it is because of what we can do that we are here,” I argued, although I wasn’t sure why I was arguing this with him. “If we didn’t have those abilities, we wouldn’t be able to solve this murder—or try to.”
Parikh ran a hand through his hair, agitated, although I didn’t understand why. “Yes, but you’re a person. You have value above and beyond your abilities.”
“Do I?” I blurted it without thinking—it was a genuine question, although I usually managed to stop myself from asking things like that, since I knew it upset Ward.
I’m under no illusions that most of the people who knew me thought highly of me.
I knew that Ward and Mason had hired me because they felt bad about how I’d been treated at Tranquil Brook.
Perhaps because Ward felt guilty that it had taken him as long as it had to find me—although I don’t think he should.
Perhaps because he felt a connection to me and therefore wanted to help me.
Perhaps both. Mason, Beck, and Hart mirrored Ward’s actions, but I didn’t expect that Parikh—who didn’t know me—shared that sympathy.
Which meant that he had some other reason for wanting to value me beyond my admittedly weak psychic abilities.
I had no idea what that reason might be.
“Cass is on her way,” Hart announced, walking back into the room and startling me into jumping a little. He arched an eyebrow at me. “Jumpy, aren’t you, kid?”
“I don’t like murder scenes.”
“No fucking shit, kid. Want to hear a trade secret?”
“What?” I asked, curious.
“None of us fucking do.”
Parikh snorted.
“You wanna argue with me, Tony?”
“Absolutely not, Keebler.”
“Why do you call him Tony, Hart?” I asked.
“Tony the Tiger,” he replied, lips quirking. “On the Frosted Flakes box.” There was a pause in which I hoped it would become clear that I still didn’t understand. “He’s a tiger shifter, kid.”
Oh.
“You know it’s rude to out shifters, right, Keebler?” Parikh didn’t sound particularly upset, although he was right that it was rude to tell people about someone else’s Arcane status without their explicit permission.
Hart just rolled his eyes. “If he didn’t already know, it wouldn’t take long before he was gonna find out anyway.”
Both Parikh’s dark eyebrows went up. “Oh?”
Hart crossed both arms over his chest. “You think these fuckheads are just gonna sit back and let A-Branch take them down without you going all stripey on their asses?”
“One can hope,” came the wry response.
I didn’t know if it would be rude to comment on his shifter nature, and Ward had taught me that if I didn’t know, it was probably better for me to keep those sorts of remarks or comments to myself. So I did.
“Agent Parikh?” I asked, instead.
He looked over at me. “I call you Rayn, so you should do the same. Not Rayn, obviously,” he corrected, quickly, cheeks darkening.
Hart snickered. “Rajesh.” He held out a hand.
He had his cuffs folded back and wore no watch or jewelry on his right hand, so it was safe enough for me to accept the gesture without risking ending up in his thoughts.
I swallowed, and took his hand. It was warm, his palm smooth, his fingers a little calloused.
I liked the feeling of his hand against mine, but I let go when his grip loosened.
“Rajesh,” I repeated, and it was almost as though I could taste his name on my tongue, although I couldn’t have told you what it tasted like.
“Raj,” he said, his cheeks even darker. “Nobody except my mother calls me Rajesh.”
“I could—” Hart began.
Parikh—Raj interrupted the elf with a raised middle finger. “Shut up unless you want me using your legal name, Keebler.”
I knew Hart’s first name was Valentine because I was in charge of Beyond the Veil’s payroll and had been when Hart worked for us. I also knew that only Taavi was allowed to use it on pain of possible death. I wouldn’t dare.
Hart held up both hands in surrender with a grimace. “Fine. Ugh.”
“Raj?” I asked, coming back to the original question I’d wanted to ask him. The syllable felt funny in my mouth.
I liked the fact that Raj had asked me to use his first name. I liked the idea that he might think of me as a peer rather than just a tool to use and otherwise ignore.
I was used to being ignored, even by the people who genuinely seemed to like me.
Ward always made a point of recognizing and including me, but sometimes even Hart, Mason, and Beck seemed to see past me, although usually I got at least a hello, and sometimes Hart brought me hot chocolate with espresso.
But the clients who came through, whether they were there for Beyond the Veil or the Lost Legacy Foundation, mostly ignored me entirely, even if they had to talk to me to check in or make an appointment or ask for a pen.
It was an odd experience, knowing that someone was talking to you, but wouldn’t be able to even describe you to someone else in an hour.
Raj looked over at me, and I couldn’t quite read his expression. “Yes?”
“Can you tell me where someone would have to stand in order to cause that?” I pointed at a particularly large spray of blood.
“Why the fuck do you want to know that?” Hart uncrossed his arms, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
I looked between them. “I want to increase the likelihood that I might be able to find something the killer… touched,” I explained. “Maybe I can tell you something more… useful that way.”