Detective Jones’s office had a faint smell of old coffee and hopelessness. The desk was a mess, buried under stacks of folders ready to topple over. Jones looked like he hadn’t slept in years, his face rough and tired.
He rubbed his face when he saw me, messing up his gray stubble. "Vance. Please don’t tell me you’ve got more strange stuff for me."
"Depends on what you call strange," I said, slipping into the hard visitor chair. I took a folded napkin from my pocket and laid it flat on his desk. On it was a quick sketch of the symbol Kaelen had said was Fae.
Jones leaned in, narrowing his eyes. "What’s this? Looks like a mess of lines."
"Fae ritual mark. Very old. That’s what my... contact says." I didn’t name Kaelen Thorne yet. Better to keep some things quiet for now.
Jones groaned and leaned back hard. "Fae? You’re joking. First, a vampire drained dry with odd marks on the floor, Thorne’s name popping up everywhere, and now the Fae? My captain is on my case. Wants answers now." Stress poured off him like heat.
"Maybe this is an answer," I said carefully. "Or part of one. It might mean this isn’t just vampire trouble."
"Or someone wants us to think that," he shot back, sounding worn out. "Perfect. Just what I need. More complications."
Before I could answer, a sharp knock hit the doorframe. We both looked up. A man stood there, making the dull hallway look cheap by comparison.
He was tall and slim, wearing a suit so perfect it likely cost more than Jones’s yearly pay. His face was sharp, almost too flawless, with eyes like cold winter ice. He gave off a vibe of ancient power that had nothing to do with human rules.
A shiver ran down my spine, not from the Seattle damp. Fae. No doubt about it.
The man stepped in without waiting to be asked, moving smooth and exact. His eyes slid over Jones like he didn’t matter, then locked on me. It felt like being frozen in place.
"Detective Marcus Jones?" His voice was smooth and fancy, but it carried the weight of breaking ice. "I am Lysander Quinn. Envoy of the Court of Whispering Cedars."
Jones straightened, annoyed by the interruption. "This is an active case, Mr. Quinn. You can’t just..."
Lysander raised a perfect eyebrow, stopping Jones cold. "The death of Julian Thorne is now under Fae Court control, Detective. An important Fae item was with him when he died. Stolen long ago."
My breath caught. "An item?"
Lysander’s icy stare turned back to me. He didn’t seem surprised I was there or that I spoke. "A Moonstone Locket. A key artifact for tracking certain Fae bloodlines. Its theft was a deep insult. Its link to a murder with forbidden blood magic demands our action."
He moved closer into the small office, making it feel tighter. "The Seattle Police must help, but your role in this specific case is... less important." His tone dripped with disdain.
Jones’s jaw tightened, but he knew he couldn’t fight this. Supernatural rules were a headache.
Lysander’s focus shifted fully to me. His gaze was heavy, searching. "Elara Vance. The storm witch investigator. Your name is known. I trust you won’t block the Courts’ work." It wasn’t a question. It was a warning dressed in smooth words.
"I search for the truth," I said, keeping my voice steady.
"Respectable," he replied, cold as ever. "Then you’ll see why our main suspect must be handed over for questioning now. The evidence, the stolen item, the type of magic... it all points to one person."
He paused, letting the silence grow thick before hitting hard. "We demand Kaelen Thorne."
Jones cursed under his breath. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t just getting bigger. It was blowing up. The Fae wanting the Vampire Alpha? This could start a war.
Lysander gave a short, stiff nod. "Tell him. The Courts expect his... agreement." He turned and left as quietly as he came, leaving tension and a faint smell of storm and winter behind.
Jones stared at the empty doorway, then looked at me, his face dark. "Well, damn."
There wasn’t much else to say. I left Jones sitting in his coffee-stinking gloom and stepped out into the endless rain. The Fae demanding Kaelen. Kaelen asking me to dig quietly. And someone using old Fae magic to kill vampires.
I needed space to think. Pike Place Market was close, its usual mess often a comfort. Fish soared through the air, tourists bumped around, vendors shouted their goods. The noise, the smells, the raw humanness of it sometimes steadied me.
But not today.
As I walked through the crowd, past stalls of bright flowers and fresh food, the feeling hit again. Stronger. Nearer.
Eyes on me. Not just random looks. Sharp, purposeful watching.
I slowed near a fish stall, acting like I was checking the salmon, using the wet glass to peek at the crowd behind me. Rain dripped on coats, hoods hid faces, everything blurred in the gray light.
Nothing clear. No one obviously following.
But the feeling stayed, a cold weight between my shoulders. Someone was on my trail. Was it Lysander’s crew? Kaelen’s? Or the killer?
Trapped. That’s how I felt. Caught between a pushy Fae envoy, a risky vampire lord, and an invisible watcher in the rainy crowd. The storm wasn’t just above me anymore. It was crashing down, and I was right in the middle.
