Quincy scoffed. “Not at all. This is a state-of-the-art facility.”
Daisy wagged her tail. True.
I frowned. The sloth had said something about the animals not really being… something.
I cleared my throat. “Could they be… different in some way from other magical creatures?”
Quincy frowned, and Peter turned to look at me.
“In what way?”
I scanned back through everything the sloth had said and found myself just as confused as Quincy. I shrugged. “I’m… not sure. Sorry.” I tapped one temple. “Don’t always get the clearest signals.”
He raised one brow, looking skeptical.
Peter kept his gaze on me a moment longer, as if mulling over my words, then turned to Quincy. “You’ve got the required permits for all these creatures?”
I grinned up at his handsome face—that was a good thought. Brains and the looks.
Quincy paled. “Yes, well at least my wife assured me so.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid it may take me some time to sort through the paperwork if you’d like to see them—she was in charge of all that.”
Daisy whined. True.
Peter nodded. “We’ll be back to check on it in the coming days.”
Quincy nodded. “Fine. Well, in the meantime, I’ve got animals to see to. We’re short on staff and Malorie has been an… unforeseen loss.” He clasped his hands together.
Peter nodded. “Alright, thank you. Will you show us out?”
Quincy waved at us to follow, then led the way through the jungle. I glanced back at the tree the sloth had been on but couldn’t see it anymore. I bit my lip, itching to speak with it some more. But I doubted it would talk to me in front of Quincy, and who knew how long it’d take the creature to get its message out. It’d have to wait for the next time we came back to check into the permits.
Daisy trotted ahead, nose to the ground, but Peter fell back to walk beside me. “Edna set an appointment up for us at WWAAC, that animal rights group. We’d better head out now to make it.”
I nodded. Hopefully that would help us fill in some of the gaps on this confusing case.
23
WWAAC
Peter’s magical scroll appeared beside his head. He grabbed it out of the air and scanned the notes his enchanted quill had jotted down. I slid closer and looked over his shoulder.
“Is this the place?”
Peter frowned, then looked up at the nondescript stone building we stood in front of. “543 Lower Sea Current Lane. I guess so.”
Daisy, who stood on his other side, lifted her nose and sniffed the air, then huffed. I think I smell that man you interrogated last night.
I shot her a flat look and growled. Does he also smell like pizza grease?
She whipped her head around to look at me, and her mouth split into a toothy grin. “Woof!” Nope—that’s your own unique odor.
Peter looked at me, eyes twinkling. “What’d she say?”
I glared at the German shepherd. “Something about needing her glands expressed?”
She barked. Lies!
The loud sound reverberated down the narrow, winding cobblestone street we stood on. We appeared to be in a business district of the island. The lane was empty of shoppers, diners, and all the hustle and bustle we passed downtown on our way to this middle tier of the island.
Peter shot me a knowing grin, then led the way across the lane. As we got closer to the wood door, I noticed the lettering on its glass window.
WWAAC Headquarters: Witches and Wizards Against Animal Cruelty
Peter gripped the brass knob, turned it, and pushed the door open. We exchanged surprised looks—despite how quiet it was outside, the place was apparently open for business. We stepped into the lobby of a busy, open-floor-plan office.
Glossy posters of sad-looking animals lined the walls. I curled my lip at the one behind Peter, which portrayed an especially pathetic-looking lion, its brow pinched, deep black eyes sad.
My lip twitched toward a grin. Maybe it was a side effect of my ability to speak to animals or just practice, but I’d gotten pretty good at reading any creature’s body language. I nudged Peter as a young, thin man with a clipboard left his desk and sped toward us.
“I know these are supposed to make you sad for these poor abused animals, but that lion just had gas.”
Peter raised a fist to his mouth to cover his chuckle.
“And how can I help you?” The young man blinked at us, then took in Peter’s badge and uniform and plastered on a thin smile.
“I’m Officer Peter Flint, this is my partner, Daisy, and our consultant, Ms. Hartgrave.” He lifted a palm. “I believe my station manager, Edna, called ahead and booked us an appointment for a tour and a meeting with Zane Perez?”
The young man shook a curly blond lock out of his eyes and adjusted his square, hip glasses. “Of course. I’m Damian, and I’ll be happy to show you around.”
Peter nodded. “I appreciate it, thank you.” A manila file folder magically appeared beside him. He opened it and withdrew the photograph of our Jane Doe. “I’m sorry, this might be a bit graphic, but we’re wondering if anyone here recognizes this woman?” He turned the photo around, and Damian cringed.
“Ew. No.”
I frowned. “You’re sure you’ve never seen her before? She’s not a volunteer maybe?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been here two years, and I’ve never seen this woman. She’s not part of WWAAC.”
Daisy wagged her tail and whined. Truth.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Not knowing this lady’s mysterious identity was getting annoying. Her presence in the enclosure really only made sense if she was trying to bust the phoenix out. It’d make sense that Malorie would try to stop her while some of her associates maybe smuggled the bird out. If she wasn’t part of WWAAC, then what was she doing there and who’d helped
