This pce hummed with wrongness.

  I should’ve arm-wrestled fate into giving me a divination scroll before coming here. Not that I hadn’t tried. My request to Alice—"Can’t we divine the detective’s current state?"—had been met with her patient sigh. Divination doesn’t work on whispers and wishful thinking. No tether, no thread. No thread, no truth.

  Which is why I’d grilled Quickpaw about Greg’s ir earlier. A hairbrush, a sock, a coffee-stained case file—any relic Alice could’ve spun into golden insight. Instead, all I had was Whisper’s dossier, tossed my way by the gremlin with all the ceremony of a banana peel discard.

  Greg Whittaker. Human detective. A low yellow-core Earth Pathwalker. Well-known in the lower district of Varkaigrad. He’d made his name over five years, arriving here after leaving the Aurelia Empire. I didn’t know exactly what cases he took on, but now…

  Now he’d become a question mark wearing a trench coat.

  His house should’ve been a tomb.

  It wasn’t.

  The shapes I detected were clustered on the first floor, all seated in the same room, silent. Not moving. Not speaking. Just… waiting.

  That wasn’t normal.

  But the only way to get answers y ahead.

  Alice’s voice chimed softly in my mind. “I could make a quick divination to check for danger inside, Mistress.”

  I almost raised an eyebrow. I really needed to get into the habit of using divination more with Alice here. Plus, I had a grumpy badger strapped to my back… or maybe not. Belle was definitely asleep. Lazy badger. I really needed her to learn how to hide herself like Alice could.

  A micro-nod to Alice—Quickpaw wouldn’t spot it. The mana crystal emerged, its glow turning Alice’s blindfold into a ttice of liquid sunlight as she purified the air.

  “So…” Quickpaw drawled, spinning a dagger on her fingertip. “Squatter convention in there, yeah? Wager five silvers says they’ll bolt if I lick my bdes just so.”

  What lunar madness had birthed this greasy little gremlin?

  “We don’t know if they’re squatters, hired muscle, or grieving book club members.” My voice stayed syrup-smooth. “They could be Greg’s captors. Or his cairn.”

  Her grin sharpened. “Touché, gumshoe junior.”

  “Faux confusion,” Alice murmured. “Needle-sharp curiosity beneath. She’s taste-testing your resolve, Mistress.”

  Obviously. No gang viper survived this long without venom behind the vapid smiles.

  The divination crystal twitched like a hound on a scent. Alice’s porcein palm faced the house, her pendulum scribing warning glyphs in the air.

  "Peril nests here." "Peril nests here." "Peril nests here."

  The crystal shivered, then spun like a compass needle drunk on starlight. Clockwise.

  "Moderate threat tier," Alice transted. "Proceed—but let your knuckles kiss the door, not your neck."

  I turned to Quickpaw. “We’re model citizens today. No breaking, no entering—just polite inquiry.”

  Her gasp could’ve infted a hot air balloon. “Ooooh, straight-ced and saintly! Brilliant stratagem, oh fearless leader!”

  I let the “leader” jab slide. Three firm knocks rang out—judge’s gavel cadence.

  Quickpaw materialized at my elbow, a Cheshire shadow. Alice stood beside me like a wraith carved from moonlight.

  The figures inside stirred immediately. A rustling of movement—were they regrouping? One peeled away from the room on the first floor, descending the stairs, while four others slunk into the hallway, pressing themselves against the walls. My Air Sense couldn't catch what they exchanged, but I could picture it: silent signals, tension coiling like a sprung trap.

  Yeah. Bad feeling about this one.

  The door groaned open just a sliver, just enough for a sliver of polished steel-gray to gleam through—a uniform, rigid and pragmatic, all rivets and cold discipline. The Iron Pact’s Enforcers. A Drakkari stood behind it, his face cut from stone, eyes two slits of skeptical amber. A sigil on his pauldron gleamed: scales wrapped in chains. "Order Through Obedience." The Pact’s creed.

  “State your business.” His voice grated like rusted gears.

  Alice’s whisper feathered my ear. “Irritation simmers beneath his protocol, mistress. He anticipated quarry… smaller. Hostility muzzled, not decwed.”

  I csped my hands—all innocence and apple pie. “We’re investigating Greg Whittaker’s disappearance. As concerned—”

  “Licensed investigators,” Quickpaw interjected, shouldering forward. She produced a copper badge stamped with a two-headed hawk, brandishing it like a royal flush. Still not sure if her detective credentials were real or just some of Whisper’s forgeries. Knowing Whisper, she probably had an entire fake career built around it.

  “Casefile 43-B, Missing Meatbags Cuse. You’ve read the civic harmony pamphlets, yeah? Py nice, get nice?”

  The enforcer’s gaze flickered to the shadows where his men lurked—one coiled in the closet, two perched ceilingward like stone gargoyles. My Air Sense tingled as they repositioned. Since when did evidence sweeps require ambush formations?

  “Credentials,” the Drakkari growled.

  Quickpaw was already smug, spinning the badge between her fingers. “Vyra Vasaio, Varkaigrad’s finest—well, third-finest snoop, after Greg and Miss Great Lysska herself. This is my associate.” A casual thumb jerked in my direction. “J—” She paused a beat. “Venam! Yeah, she’s Venam.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Really? That’s what we were going with? But fine. I rolled with it.

  Belle stirred zily against my back before promptly deciding whatever was happening wasn’t worth her time.

  The enforcer studied the badge, nostrils fring with the acrid scent of burnt oil. Not doubt—rage.

  “His orders,” Alice murmured, “are written in vanishing ink. Denial would require… creativity he cks.”

  After a gcial pause, the enforcer stepped aside, hinges screeching protest. “Five minutes. Disturb nothing. This is Pact-scoured ground.”

  “A lie pted in rust,” Alice breathed.

  Didn’t need her to tell me that.

  I hesitated. Quickpaw, of course, didn’t. She grinned and sauntered in like she owned the pce.

  The door swung wide, revealing a foyer steeped in dust and the sour tang of neglect. Normal enough. But I didn’t trust the shadows here—not with four stealthy bastards wedged into them. And Quickpaw’s absolute gremlin energy wasn’t exactly helping.

  “Cheers, tinman!” she chirped. “We’ll be sublimely discreet.”

  If gres could kill, Quickpaw would’ve been vaporized on the spot. But they couldn’t, so we moved in.

  Alice walked beside me. “His gaze bores into your back, mistress. Spoiling for justification. Tread as though the floor’s eggshells id by vipers.”

  The floorpn mocked simplicity—lobby, office, kitchen, stairs to a threadbare life above. All I needed was one strand of Greg’s essence: a toothbrush, a nail clipping, a love letter to his barber. Alice could spin a breadcrumb into a banquet.

  Should’ve been easy.

  If not for the four Pact-shaped tumors metastasizing in the walls.

  Were they even Iron Pact? Because I had a really, really bad feeling about this.

  The bedroom door hulked at the top of the stairs, its wood grain sweating unease. The enforcer trailed us, knuckles bleaching around his sword’s grip.

  I pyed the oblivious tourist.

  The search began immediately. I went for the bed first, rifling through sheets and pillows with methodical intent. Quickpaw hovered nearby, looking like she wanted to ask what I was after but kept quiet—probably reassured by the confidence in my movements.

  The enforcer was right beside her now.

  Needles of instinct jabbed my spine. I whirled—just as his bde became a mercury streak aimed at Quickpaw’s jugur.

  “WATCH OUT!”

  Too slow.

  Oh, Thador.

  But then—her grin widened a fraction before her form scattered into shimmering motes of light. The sword sliced through empty air. An illusion. The enforcer, thrown off by the momentum, stumbled forward.

  I couldn’t see her, but I knew. Quickpaw had slipped right under his strike, reappearing behind him in the next instant. Only now, she wasn’t unarmed.

  A gcial battle-axe, taller than her wiry frame, materialized in her hands. Frost cascaded from its rune-etched edge, almost crystallizing the air.

  “Swing and a miss, rust-bucket!” she crowed. The axe descended in a cerulean crescent.

  The Drakkari enforcer reacted fast, tapping his buckler. A shield of light flickered to life just in time—but the supernatural cold of Quickpaw’s weapon fsh-froze everything on impact. With a fluid twist of her wrists, she redirected her swing upward. The shield shattered into icy shrapnel, shards peppering his exposed forearm.

  It all happened in seconds.

  More shadows stirred beyond the doorway. I didn’t need Air Sense to hear them moving in.

  Fuck.

  What made him attack us now? The theory that these weren’t Iron Pact enforcers was starting to make a disturbing amount of sense. That Drakkari boy—the one Greg worked with—had mentioned something simir, hadn’t he? Someone in Iron Pact gear had been waiting at Greg’s usual meeting pce, then chased him down afterward.

  Focus. Theorizing could wait.

  Frost veins spidered across the floor as Quickpaw pirouetted, axe trailing frostfire. The enforcer tracked her next swing, wide-eyed—then raised his bare hand like a shield.

  Idiot.

  Frost met flesh. A severed hand cttered to the floor, followed by a howl. Quickpaw flipped her axe mid-swing, its blunt pommel kissing his temple.

  He crumpled like a marionette with severed strings.

  Two more imposters oozed from the shadows. One’s spiked chain slithered like a metal serpent; the other’s wrist-crossbow bore a bolt that simmered with alchemical spite.

  I cracked my knuckles, mana prickling at my fingertips. So much for diplomatic inquiries.

  Then again—what harm in a little violence between acquaintances?

  The crossbowman didn’t hesitate. His weapon hissed as it leveled at Quickpaw’s spine, the golden bolt humming with malignant light.

  My will surged. Neural pathways ignited in my mind like a spiderweb struck by lightning. His nervous system bent to my grip.

  Twist.

  His wrist jerked sideways with a sick pop.

  CRACK!

  The bolt veered wildly, impaling a moth-eaten tapestry of some long-dead noble’s hunting triumph. A stag’s embroidered eye smoldered where the projectile lodged.

  “Terrible aim,” I tutted, brushing dust from my sleeve. “Do the Pact skimp on crossbow lessons… or are you just naturally talentless?”

  Alice’s ughter chimed like silverware dropped down a well. The second assaint lunged, his chain now writhing with spectral fmes—a serpent of fire coiling toward my legs.

  I retreated toward the bedframe, luring him into the room’s cramped throat. Fmes licked the air, singeing the wallpaper to charcoal curls.

  He stepped closer, chain whirling. Predictable.

  I feigned a stumble, clutching the bedpost. His lips split into a grin full of crooked, yellowed teeth.

  Idiot.

  Quick Dash.

  Stamina fred. One heartbeat, I was faltering. The next—nose-to-nose with him, close enough to smell the rot on his breath.

  “Knock knock,” I whispered.

  His chain arm froze mid-swing. I seized his wrist, fingers vise-locking around grimy armor. He snarled, yanking backward—but my grip was stone, blood, iron.

  Crunch.

  The sound of his metacarpals colpsing was a symphony: a walnut shell in a god’s fist. His scream cwed the air, raw and wet.

  I leaned in. “Shhh. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

  My fist buried itself in his gut. He folded like a puppet with cut strings, hurtling backward into a dresser. Porcein shepherdesses exploded—a pastoral apocalypse of jagged shards.

  “Oops.” I flicked ceramic dust from my knuckles. “Hope those weren’t heirlooms.”

  The crossbowman stared, pupils blown wide. Sweat gleamed on his brow. Delicious.

  Across the room, frost devoured the walls. Quickpaw’s afterimages flickered—three mirrored smirks taunting the remaining enforcers. Their armor wept ice, joints creaking like ancient trees.

  One swung at the left illusion. His bde passed through smoke. The other hacked at air, steel biting nothing.

  The real Quickpaw materialized behind them, a specter in a frost-trimmed cloak. Her boot cracked into the first enforcer’s knee.

  SNAP.

  The joint bent backward, a chicken wing torn from its socket.

  “Tsk. Forgot to limber up?” She twirled her axe, its edge singing. “Rigidity’s a fw, tin-can.”

  The blunt side hammered his temple. He dropped like a sack of anvils.

  The second enforcer slipped on ice-slick boards, cursing. Quickpaw’s axe hooked his ankle.

  Yank.

  He fell hard, chin bouncing off the floor. A tooth skittered into the shadows.

  “Oopsie.” She pressed a boot to his spine, voice syrup-sweet. “Should’ve worn… traction.”

  The axe’s pommel ended him.

  Only the crossbowman remained, backpedaling toward the door. Piss darkened his leggings. The room’s cold gnawed his resolve to kindling.

  Quickpaw blurred. Her axe shrieked as ice geysered from the floor, entombing his boots.

  “NononoNONO—”

  She sprang onto the bedframe, a winter revenant poised for sughter. The axe plunged—

  And froze.

  The bde hovered a hair’s breadth from his jugur, its edge kissing a bead of blood.

  “...Boo,” she breathed, breath frosting the air.

  His whimper was a rat’s death rattle.

  Then—the axe twisted, momentum defying physics. The blunt edge smmed his skull with a wet THUD.

  He crumpled.

  Quickpaw crouched over him, tilting her head. “Aw. Didn’t even scream.” She pouted. “Rude.”

  The whole exchange hadn’t sted more than a few minutes.

  I gnced around.

  Five would-be enforcers littered the floor like broken marionettes—groaning, twitching, or blissfully unconscious. Quickpaw twirled a lock of her hair, her grin sharp enough to carve runes.

  I arched a brow at her. “Let me guess—you expected this and pnned for it?”

  “Pnned? Pfft. Pns are for alchemists and tax collectors.” She leaned casually against a frost-rimed bedpost, her axe dissolving into consteltions of starlight. “But hey, improv’s my specialty! Like a… chaos ballet. With more stabbing.”

  I eyed her warily. Her power simmered beneath the surface, a gcier hiding its depth. Low red-core? High yellow? Impossible to tell—she’d barely broken a sweat.

  She nudged a mercenary’s limp boot with her toe. “Sooooo… Iron Pact posers, right? No backup horns. No sigil fres. Just discount thugs in shiny cospy.”

  “Mercenaries,” I corrected, kneeling beside the crossbowman. His eyelids fluttered—consciousness returning in ragged gasps. “Paid to mimic Pact protocol. Badly.”

  Quickpaw crouched beside me, elbows on knees. “Wanna make ’em sing? I’ve got methods.” Her fingers mimed plucking violin strings. “Twist a finger here, snap a toe there—presto! Human jukebox.”

  “No.”

  “Boooo. You’re no fun.”

  “Fun’s overrated. This is cleaner.” I retrieved a vial from my cloak’s hidden lining. Inside swirled a cerulean elixir threaded with argent stardust—truth serum brewed under the weeping moon, untouched since its creation.

  Quickpaw’s nose wrinkled. “Ooooh, fancy kool-aid. What’s it do? Make ’em recite childhood trauma in iambic pentameter?”

  “Quieter than your methods.” I uncorked the vial. The liquid hissed faintly, releasing a scent of frozen mint and iron.

  The crossbowman’s eyes shot open. He tried to recoil, but Quickpaw pinned his shoulders with effortless glee. “Hold still, sunshine. This’ll sting… psychically.”

  I tilted three drops onto his tongue. The serum ignited like swallowed lightning. His back arched, veins fluorescing cobalt beneath his skin. A guttural groan escaped him—half agony, half involuntary confession.

  “There we go,” I murmured. “Now… let’s chat about who hired you.”