She groaned as he took them from her, studying them. If the strands weren’t real, a location spell wouldn’t lead them to the killer like she’d hoped. Another groan escaped her as she scrubbed at her face with her hands. This was… crap, they had nothing.
He smiled slowly as he rubbed them between his fingers. “This is excellent news!”
She looked through her fingers at him. “Have you lost your moons-damned mind? It’s a wig. We can’t identify the killer!”
He took a step toward her, crowding her against a cabinet.
“Yeah… but we can track where it is? We might get lucky and it’s somewhere we can identify the killer. And we can prove the killer wasn’t really white-haired now. Can’t we?” he murmured, lips quirking as he lifted a strand of her bubblegum pink hair. “Which is somewhat pertinent. Isn’t it, my love?”
Her eyes widened. He knew. He knew her hair was white.
“Not many mortal witches have white hair,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t wait to see it in it’s true glory, without this… artifice muddying its true magnificence. I will have a crown made specially for you to match its beauty.”
Her breathing hitched, her feminine instincts dragging all common sense down a dark alley and hitting it over the head. She softened against him, her lips lifted for a kiss.
“Oh, for crone’s sake. Can you two keep your hands off each other for a moment or do I have to do everything myself?” Garlick hissed, jumping up onto the display case next to them. The carnivorous zombie butterflies inside fluttered madly on their pins as the case was rocked slightly.
“Yes… right,” she managed, sliding from Oberon’s embrace. “Right, let’s see where these hairs lead us.”
She held out her hand for the strands, holding them in her palm as she chanted,
“Maiden’s patience and mother’s might,
Lend me your eyes, lend me your sight,
Track these hairs to their fellows,
Their location revealed, for us to follows.”
If Garlick had had eyebrows he would have raised one.
“You try making up rhymes off the top of your head,” she hissed to him as her magic curled around the strands, lifting them in the air. They formed an arrow above her palm. No… more like the needle of a compass. She grinned as they pointed to the door.
“Come on, boys. Looks like the game has begun.”
“That’s it! Just a little more. To the left!” Garlick called out, suspended about twenty feet above Daffi and Oberon’s heads in a spell bubble. The location spell on the strands from the wig had led them to the side alley just around the corner from the hotel’s main entrance.
“Yes, yes! I can see something. Get me closer!” the cat called out in excitement as he floated nearer to a grotesque on one of the ledges. Grotesques and gargoyles were often confused for each other since they both appeared to be architectural statues. But grotesques were just that, statues, as many a building cleaner had discovered when they’d tried to power wash down a frontage and been faced with a pissed off gargoyle covered in soap suds.
“I got it! The wig’s up here!” Garlick called down, reaching out to grab something wedged between the statue and the wall.
“Should have just had me fly up there,” Oberon sulked by the wall. “It’s not like I don’t have the equipment.”
She spared him a look as she held Garlick’s spell bubble in place. “We can’t risk anyone seeing you. You don’t have a visa. Remember?”
He shot her a look, and for a moment she saw the hard-edged fairy king of legend. “I am king. I do not need useless bits of paper.”
Moon save her from men and their egos. “You do if you want to stay and not cause a diplomatic incident.”
Oberon folded his arms and she almost whimpered. She really should have thought about it before putting him in a t-shirt with those muscled forearms on display. Arm porn or what? If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up licking a bicep or something.
“What about the boggle?” he demanded. “Did he have one of these visas? If he did, then I, as his king, should also be granted that honor.”
She sighed and considered dropping Garlick on him. It would serve them both. She still hadn’t forgiven the cat for allowing himself to be blackmailed. With takeout.
“It doesn’t work like that,” she explained with the patience of a saint. She’d given serious consideration to that. Like, where did they get that sort of patience… was it something they were born with, or something they trained for? Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s some spurious honor granted by an ecclesiastical institution kind of thing?
“Besides,” she added. “Jack was born here, so he didn’t need a visa.”
“Will you two argue when I have all four paws safely on the ground please?” Garlick mumbled around a mouthful of dirty wig as he emerged from behind the statue.
“Right! Of course!” Daffi said, waving her hands to bring him back down to ground level.
Luckily, this alley wasn’t often used by norms, so she hadn’t had to cast a concealment spell. A flash of a white shawl... She shook her head to dislodge the memory assaulting her as she brought Garlick safely back down to ground level. He might have been an utter pain in the ass, but he was her utter pain in the ass. She wouldn’t ever see him harmed.
The orb turned upside down, making him squeak with surprise and then outrage. She smothered her snigger. She wouldn’t ever see him come to harm, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t ruffle his fur a little every now and then. Because he had absolutely no qualms about putting claws in her legs to get her attention. Turnabout was fair play.
“Heads up,” Oberon murmured, nodding toward the entrance to the alley.
Whipsnide stalked their way, black cape flapping behind her and giving her the appearance of a large and ungainly bat. Sergeant Abberline walked behind
