“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He held up his cell. “You weren’t answering.”
“Oh yeah, sorry about that. My phone got smashed by an angry Viking.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Viking?”
“Well, Wult, if you want to get technical. So what’s up?”
“I’m meeting with the lead detective in an hour. Someone’s been feeding him some pretty nasty misinformation about you.”
“Rakestraw,” I said. “He hates me.”
“Yeah, that was my thought, too, although I have no way of proving it. Anyway, if you’re game, I’d like to take you downtown to meet with my boss—you know, to prove to him that you’re not a fraud. If you’d like to keep helping with the case, I think you should come.”
I glanced up at the trailer. “We have to go now?”
“Unfortunately, yes, if we want to beat the traffic.”
“Fine, let me grab a jacket.” I headed for my door when Brent stopped me.
“Hey, Olive… you might want to change clothes. You know, since we’re meeting with my boss.”
“What’s wrong with my cloak and boots?”
He laughed. “Nothing. To be honest, they suit you.”
“You’re a true friend to nerds everywhere, Brent.”
I turned away from him to enter the trailer. As I shut the door behind me, I felt a little odd at my ability to laugh and joke with Brent. He didn’t seem like the same person I remembered. Was it his new career that had changed him?
I ditched my Ren Fair costume for a more modern look. The closest thing I found to something nice was my white turtleneck sweater and my black knee-length skirt. I’d had the skirt since high school, and if anyone decided to inspect it closely, they’d find that I’d sloppily re-hemmed the bottom seam on a few occasions. Hopefully, no one would bother to get that close.
My black knee-high boots were the only shoes that fit the ensemble. They were clunky with lace-up ties and fur-trimmed tops, but after putting them on and inspecting myself in the mirror, I decided they worked well enough.
It certainly wasn’t business attire, or even business casual, but hopefully, Brent’s boss could look past it.
I found Brent, phone in hand, sitting on the bottom step outside my trailer. He glanced at me, then quickly back at his phone.
“That was fast,” he said.
“I didn’t have much to choose from. Still broke, you know. Where are you parked?”
“Back at the front. It’s a bit of a walk. Do you mind?”
“No, it’s fine.”
We made our way through the rows of tents. We talked about the weather until we made it back to his cruiser. Thankfully, he didn’t help me inside, which I respected as I seriously hoped he didn’t think this was any sort of date.
He drove one of those large cars with the deceptively souped-up engine. It was a dark blue that blended in with the darkening evening and made it hard to spot on a moonless night.
We made it out of the small town of Plantersville and headed for Houston. Brent put his car’s muscle to good use as he pushed the speed limit.
My mind wandered as we drove. I thought of the strange hairs Kull had found in the forest. What sort of Faythander creature would have had that sort of hair? Then there was the issue of the dark magic. I’d encountered a growing list of creatures with dark magic of late, and I was still clueless as to where they had come from.
When we navigated onto I-45, Brent started a conversation, and talking to him came more naturally than I’d expected. It was hard for me to imagine this was the same guy I’d dumped last December. He’d changed so much since then. We both had.
Up ahead, the Houston city skyline came into view, towering skyscrapers that seemed to disappear in a hazy sky.
“The chief,” Brent said, “he wants things done his way. Even if you do the job right, he’ll still chew you out if you didn’t do it his way.”
“Lovely. You know, you could have warned me before I got in the car.”
“But would you have come?”
Obviously, Brent had no idea who I’d been up against in the past. “Don’t worry, I can handle it.”
“I hope so. For the sake of the investigation, you’d better be right.”
Brent exited the freeway and turned onto Goodman Drive. I spotted the police station down the road—a one-story, tan building with small, barred windows. We pulled into the parking lot, parked, and exited the car.
I wasn’t sure what to expect as we entered the building, but as we crossed through a pair of dingy glass doors, I found the place more crowded than I had anticipated. Inside, the décor was a throwback from the eighties, with a shag rug that smelled musty and outdated plastic waiting-room chairs.
People crowded the front desk area, some of them in cuffs, some of them with bloody lips or bruised eyes. Brent led me through the crowd, down a hall past the front desk, and stopped in front of a door labeled Harry J. Rapier, North Division Lead Detective, Harris County PD.
Brent knocked lightly on the door, and a second later, it was thrown open.
“What took you so long? I needed you here twenty minutes ago,” the guy—I assumed Detective Rapier—shouted. He was a short man with a pockmarked face, small eyes, and a dark beard. His large middle sagged over his belt.
“Sorry, sir, I came as quick as I could.”
“Fine. Just come in.” He led us inside. His office was cluttered with papers and filing cabinets, and cigarette smoke fogged the room.
“Sanchez,” Rapier said with a red face, “take a seat.” He turned to me. “And you, too.”
We sat in the two chairs opposite the desk.
As soon as I sat, the lead detective pulled a cigarette from a drawer and lit it. He rubbed his forehead as he stared at a stack of papers on his desk. “This is her?” he said to Brent.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dammit, Sanchez, this had better be worth my time.
