A human woman in a heavy coat stood apart from the foot traffic and waved us down as we approached. Only her eyes and a single lock of brown hair were visible beneath her hood and mask.
“Are you the cops?” The fabric of her face mask muffled her voice. “You look like cops.”
Jax nodded. “Can we go inside?” Mollenkampi may have more innate cold resistance than humans, but they don’t enjoy exposure to the elements any more than we do.
Our escort hustled us into the big tent, which turned out to actually be a series of smaller tents, roughly the size of my apartment, each separated by thick curtains, and each getting progressively warmer than the last. By the third entrance, flooring was laid out over the ice, providing better footing and adding a layer of insulation that would keep the snow from melting below us. That was impressive, but when we crossed into the main area I couldn’t help but draw in a shocked breath. They’d managed to re-create an entire arena inside the tent. A construction crew was putting the finishing touches on the stage, positioned so the performers would have their back to the city.
It was time to shed the elaborate coats. There was a temporary coatrack set up near the entrance. A few paces away were lockers, row after row of them, along with signs indicating the price: two taels. The concertgoers would pay to store their coats, eliminating the need for a coat check.
As we all peeled off our own layers of protection, our escort proved to be a young woman, her hair tucked under a knit cap. “Name’s Vandie,” she said, draping her coat across an open rack. “You want a tour, or a soda or something? Or do you want to meet Cavanaugh?”
“We’d rather go straight to where the incident occurred,” I said, avoiding the loaded term crime scene. “Where’re the patrol officers whose vehicles are outside?”
“The patrolman is by the dressing room, and the others, um . . .” She trailed off, eyes widening as I removed my face mask. I’d gotten accustomed to reactions like that since our photos had begun appearing in the papers. I braced myself for a quick barrage of questions, but was saved when another woman’s voice called out from behind us.
“Hello, gentlemen.”
I turned to find a pair of plainclothes cops making their way across the massive open space. They were both human, a man and woman, the fabric of their dark cloaks swaying with each step, lined by shifting symbols stitched in iridescent thread. Outfits that marked them as divination officers.
The woman had an elaborate up-swept haircut, though a few casual wisps had escaped to tumble onto her shoulders. She smirked and said, “Appearing by popular demand, huh?”
Her name was Guyer, and she’d been a friendly ear more than once. I’d even taken my greatest secret to her, only to have her dismiss it out of hand. From the way she stared at me now, I guessed she was starting to rethink her skepticism.
The male divination officer outpaced her, grinning as he approached us with hand extended.
“Harris,” he introduced himself. “I hear McIntire made serious noise to get the two of you sent out here.”
He didn’t know the half of it. Our public profile was a source of great contention within City Hall and the TPD. With the influx of cash and public relations that the concert brought, we’d never have been allowed near the site of such an important event if McIntire herself hadn’t demanded we be present.
The male divination officer peered down at Jax as they shook hands. “You’re much younger than you look in photos,” he said. “Here I thought I was the freshest face in plainclothes!”
Harris was broad shouldered and tall, with dark skin and a wide, friendly grin that showed off a set of front teeth large enough to make an ice hare jealous. His hair was a neatly trimmed halo of natural curls, and his handshake was firm, with the kind of calluses you didn’t get from police sorcery.
“And you must be Carter!” He pumped my hand with an abundance of enthusiasm. He didn’t tell me how young I looked.
“Carter.” Behind us, the woman who’d led us inside muttered my name. I ignored it. Over the last two months I’d been caught up in a series of high-profile investigations, and I got the occasional star-struck civilian.
“Why’d this case rate a pair of DOs?” Ajax asked, glancing from Harris to Guyer. It was a good question. Divination officers relied on manna to force details from the remains of the departed, either through reading entrails or through more direct methods. For my entire lifetime manna had been so precious that it was only used in the most extreme of circumstances. Or at least it had been, until the last few months when the manna strike turned the global economy upside down. Now we were walking onto a crime scene that apparently warranted not one but two divination officers.
From farther in the tent, a pair of human men in security jackets walked over to us, but our guide intercepted them. She answered whatever concerns they had and they retreated. Maybe she was more than a junior intern after all.
“It’s high profile,” Guyer said. “But Harris is the only DO officially on this case. I’m merely here for the view.” She swung an arm as she said it, as if she were there for the concert setting, but her eyes were locked on me. She felt I owed her a conversation, and I felt she owed me an apology. As a result we hadn’t spoken much in the two weeks since Titan’s Day. We’d have to talk sooner or later, but when exactly is the right time to have a talk about developing an inexplicable talent for magic, especially when there were so many additional ears around? A fact underscored by the way the woman who’d welcomed us inside now
