Grimoires and Where to Find Them by Raconteur, Honor (ebook reader for laptop .txt) 📕

can see that, actually.” Foster slowed for a stop sign, looked both ways, then went through the four-way intersection. “And he would have been good at it. I know a few of my superiors have made noises about you and Doctor Davenforth joining the kingsmen. Do you think that will happen?”

“Eh, not anytime soon. I’ve really just hit my stride at the station. I’m not really in a hurry to leave it yet.”

“I’m glad. I think you’re doing a lot of good where you are. Although I’d be happy to see you join us, too.”

Something about the way he said that made me realize. “You know, don’t you?”

“That you’re not from this planet?” he responded calmly, with only a glance towards me. “Yes. I know.”

“Kingsman security clearance,” I muttered to myself.

Dummy, dummy, dummy. I should have realized long before this. Of course he could pull my file and read through it if he wanted to. He had the clearance to do so and nothing to stop his curiosity.

“When did you read my file?”

“After the first day I worked with you on our previous case.” He shrugged, a little abashed. “I realize now I should have asked. But…I couldn’t put the pieces together. You knew so much, so many things I’d never heard a hint about. And every person we worked with deferred to your knowledge, even experts in their field. There had to be a reason. And—don’t take this the wrong way—you don’t quite look like the other humans from this world.”

“It’s my skin tone,” I admitted easily. “My mother’s from a people that have an olive skin tone that doesn’t really exist in this world. Sometimes I think people assume I’m really, really tan or something. I let them think what they like because I really don’t want to explain my story over and over. They know too much of it as it is.”

“That they do. I didn’t tell anyone else what I read. I kept that confidence, as I felt bad about even reading the file.”

Foster really was a good guy. I wanted to hug him. “I appreciate that, thanks.”

His brows lifted slightly. “But it mentioned in your file that you know a unique fighting style. Can I possibly ask for a sparring match?”

“Why is it that whenever the guys learn I know how to beat people up, they volunteer themselves for a match?” I shook my head, laughing. “Sure, Foster. I like to spar with the kingsmen about once a week, anyway. Come with me sometime, and I’ll introduce your arse to the mats.”

He grinned from ear to ear, happy as a clam. “I look forward to it.”

Well, at least I won’t ever be short on sparring partners. There’s that, right?

Foster confidently took us into the correct neighborhood, and it didn’t take long for us to get on the right street. The houses here were nicer townhomes, not upper class, but a good two steps up from lower class. We pulled up to the right door and I slid out, making sure my badge was handy.

The front yard of the townhome had a clutter of bikes and discarded toys, which I noted as I went up the sidewalk. The place was in that state of not-quite-maintained, a sign of a young family. I got the impression of parents constantly trying to keep things clean and organized but getting distracted by children. The front door was a cherry red—cheerful—and I gave it a sound knock, then stepped back, waiting at Foster’s side.

It opened a moment later, a werefox mother with a kit on her hip, looking stressed out and sleep deprived. The kit was fussy, with a runny nose—clearly fighting a cold. The mother’s alarm was clear on her face when she saw Foster’s red kingsman uniform.

I threw up a hand to forestall this. “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am. We’re here trying to find a witness, no one is in trouble. I’m Detective Edwards, this is Kingsman Foster. We’re looking for Nye Abbott.”

She blinked at me, liquid brown eyes confused. “I’m sorry, Detective, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“What about Samuel Laughlin?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Searle Massimo?” That last one was a bit of a stretch.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Hmm. Alright, switch tactics. “Ma’am, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, about…four years?” She thought about it, then nodded, agreeing with her own assessment. “Yes, that sounds right. Before that, it was my grandmother’s place. We bought it from the family and moved in as newlyweds.”

“Can I have your name?”

“It’s Bella Evans. Do you need to see my ID card?”

“If you don’t mind. I have to jot down who I spoke to.”

“Of course, just one moment. I have to put him down.” She turned and stepped into the house, calling over her shoulder, “Please come in for a moment. I’m sorry there’s no real place to sit.”

She was not kidding. Toys, blankets, and general stuff covered every surface. I had a feeling both mama and baby had been sick for several days. She put her child down into a bassinet near the kitchen table, then turned and dug in her purse, fetching out the thin, tin ID with her information imprinted on it. She came back and handed it over with a worried smile.

I took it, looked it over, and jotted down her info in my notebook. Not that it couldn’t have been faked as well, but I doubted the housewife in front of me was involved in a nefarious book theft.

Foster spoke to the woman in a warm, patient tone. “We were given this address as a reference. We’re trying to find Nye Abbott. You’re not implicated in any way. We were pretty sure before coming here that Nye Abbott doesn’t even exist.”

I wanted to insert some sarcasm here so badly. I mean, the family who lived here were werefoxes, our suspect is human—pretty obvious these guys weren’t related. If they were acquaintances, that sure didn’t show, either. I didn’t see a single book in this house. I handed the