“I think we can assume you’ll die.”
“Such a pure soul. Witches are ideal pawns in life-threatening situations. Nothing for you to wring your hands about.”
“……”
That didn’t sit right.
Rogue’s morals went against her words.
“You look disgruntled.”
“Go talk to any man on the street. They’ll look just as peeved.”
“Ha-ha, perhaps they would.”
“……Hmph.”
He turned his back, but Miseria just stalked around to the fore, shoes tapping.
“You know what to do?” she asked.
“……What?” he said, wary.
Miseria smiled, like teasing him was a source of infinite delight.
“Exactly what you’ve been doing. Let us spin your head around and give us all a good laugh. Keep right on flailing.”
She held out her hand.
Rogue glared down at it. Pale, delicate. Yet it had slain any number of people. Not a hand he should ever shake. Perhaps this was a deal with the devil. Once he signed it, the path ahead of him would be a sickening one.
And yet…
“This one’s real?” he said, taking her hand. “Then I’ll be your damn clown. Just make sure you help me back.”
“You’re such a worrywart.” Miseria winced.
“With good reason. I nearly died myself.”
“Just you wait. When we’re motivated, we can accomplish anything.”
“There you have it. Find this mark, paint it over. Make sure it’s totally ruined,” Rogue said, printout in hand.
About twenty youths were before him in street clothes, none of them looking like they were listening to a word he said.
“Yo, Humafu, can we really trust them?” he whispered.
“Relax, they’re my posse. They’ll do whatever I say.”
This corner of the Fifth Ward housed a ruined textile factory—now a gang hideout. Humafu had taken Rogue there, saying she had a plan. Naturally, he wasn’t in uniform and had taken steps to disguise himself, so he had no concerns on that front.
“We’re giving gang members information on an active crime.”
“They’re the ones graffitiing these sigils. Even if they know they’re gates, they can’t make use of ’em.”
Humafu seemed really confident, but Rogue wore a permanent frown.
They may be juveniles, but they’re still criminals. I dunno about this…
“That hard to believe, Detective?” she asked.
“Yeah, well.”
“Then watch me handle ’em.”
Humafu stepped up to the line of gang members, hands on her hips.
“Shitbirds, do this right, or your heads roll!”
A stir ran through the crowd.
“You know damn well I don’t make idle threats! What I say goes!”
Some of them were outright trembling. No one dared argue. Clearly, she had them scared shitless.
“Cool,” Humafu said, pleased. But as she started to turn—
“We ain’t your slaves! I can take this bitch!”
—a musclebound man pushed through the crowds, pointing a gun at her. Rogue started to act, but Humafu waved him off.
“You stay put,” she said, stepping forward.
Her eyes were on the man with the gun.
“Taking a shot at me, are ya?”
“Don’t you move!”
The gun went off, opening a hole in the factory wall.
“Your aim sucks!” Humafu said. “Try that a little closer.”
A second later, she was right up against him, her hand on his wrist, pointing the barrel at her forehead.
“Pull that trigger. You can’t miss.”
“Th-the hell is your problem?!”
“Shoot me.”
Her lips curled in a grin below those sunglasses.
Bam!
Humafu’s head snapped back.
Rogue almost yelped.
But she didn’t go down.
Her back arched, her hair dangled—and she slowly, dramatically straightened herself up.
“Ah…ah…augh…!”
Horrified, the man fell on his rear.
“You new here? You all gotta educate! Recruits gotta know who I am! Or…”
Two fruit knives flew out from behind her, slicing through the gun in the man’s hands like it was made of plastic. A few snicks later, and a pile of scraps lay at his feet—impossible to tell they’d ever been a gun.
“…they’ll get themselves killed.”
No one dared move a muscle. Humafu slapped Rogue on the back.
“Let’s beat it,” she said. “I’m sleepy as all hell.”
“Are you…hurt?”
“Hng.” Humafu pulled up her bangs, revealing her forehead. “Not a scratch.”
Like she said, her smooth, pale forehead was unblemished.
“How’s that work?”
“I’m cursed.”
“By who?”
“Does it matter? I’m cursed as shit,” Humafu swore, kicking the door open. “Means not only can I not sleep, but I can’t even die.”
She spat something out into her palm.
The bullet that had been fired into her forehead.
Humafu looked up at Rogue and flicked away the blood-covered bullet, raising an eyebrow.
“Good for putting the fear of god in people, at least.”
“……How did it even get to your mouth?”
“Through the brain.”
“……”
An answer so blunt, he didn’t know what to do with it. He awkwardly reached for the car door.
“……If your gang does their thing and takes out the gates, that’ll cut off the Lifetaker’s escape route. But—”
“But?”
Once he was sure Humafu was strapped in, Rogue hit the gas.
“—the Lifetaker’s killing indiscriminately. We’ve got no way to pin down their next target. No telling how many more victims they’ll claim.”
“Hmm, you think?”
“I do. This just makes things even.”
“Victims… Yawn!”
That was a big one. Humafu swayed, banging her head on the dash. And didn’t move again.
“Wake up.”
“I ain’t asleep. Just sleepy. Mmmph…”
“You seem like you’re five seconds from passing out.”
“Mmph…hwa!” Humafu snapped up. “Where are we? Are we home yet?”
“Uh…I’m really starting to have doubts about this sleepless thing.”
“I can’t sleep, man. Ain’t slept in five hundred years. Focus on the case! Quit running your mouth! Eyes on the road!”
“……”
“Here I am, willing to help—don’t you let me down.”
“………………”
Don’t snap at her. Don’t. She is a witch.
Rogue took a deep breath.
Humafu had her arms folded, leaning back against the headrest like a boss. The exact attitude that led her to form a posse from local hoodlums.
“……If we could just find a pattern.”
That was the crux of the matter.
Disguise spells were common as muck. Their first line of defense was physical evidence—trace mana—and the second was security cameras. But that did them no good if they didn’t know what the perp looked like before the spell. This left them searching through the victims’ contacts, but that accomplished nothing if the targets were random.
Where do we even start?
Frowning, he groaned.
“Here,” Humafu said, eyes front, reluctantly showing him her phone. There was a map of the city on it, with six red dots. Spaced out, avoiding clustering.
“What am I looking at?”
“Where the perp did the kills. His hideouts.”
Rogue was so shocked, he almost ran someone over. He looked at Humafu, and she only said, “Steady.”
“You can’t just drop critical intel on me!”
“It don’t matter how I say it.”
“……And you’ve been with me this whole time! When did you work this out?”
“Quit yelling. This’ll move the case along! Bow before me!” Then she added quietly, “It’s Angene’s work, though.”
“Don’t steal her credit.”
Humafu yawned. It looked totally natural.
She had some nerve.
“So? How’d she do it?”
“List of empty properties and the like. She sorted out what was borrowed in someone else’s name, sent ’em a virus that siphoned their personal data, listed up the likely suspects.”
“……You people can do anything.”
He was half appalled. Miseria had promised as much, but this was going too smoothly, and it unnerved him. If the witches applied themselves, any case was a trifle. What good did regular detectives do?
“Ain’t nothing witches can’t do, Detective.” Humafu’s voice reached his ears. “All you can do is cower in fear.”
“……Not about to,” he croaked, which earned him a snort.
“Fine. Look at me.”
Humafu turned, taking off the sunglasses. Her eyelids slowly opened, looking right at Rogue. But those droopy eyes were just adorable, like a kitten’s. They were bleary from sleep deprivation, and the sunlight was sparkling in them—not the least bit intimidating.
“……”
They really didn’t suit her character.
“Don’t forget, we can take you out any time.”
“……Uh-huh.”
He shifted slightly.
“Ha! Don’t you run.”
Humafu leaned in, peering up at him. Her brow furrowed—that alone had some power to it, but the eyes ruined it. It was all he could do not to grin.
“That’s more like it. Either way, it ends the same. Do what I say, or else.”
“……Sure.”
“Don’t you get on my bad side.”
“……Mm-hmm.”
She hissed, and he turned his attention to the road—which was blessedly empty. He offered a silent prayer that the rest of the drive back would be equally empty banter.
Rogue was leaning against a wall in the Sixth Precinct living areas, the rooms where the witches lived. He’d been there a solid half hour, checking his e-mail and fighting off the urge to yawn. At last, a door opened.
“Thanks for waiting. Sleep is a powerful foe,” Miseria said, shaking her head. “A concern since the dawn of civilization. One humanity may never fully solve.”
“Only you think that.”
It’s too early for this.
Is she like this year round? Perish the thought.
If they stood around talking, it might never end, so Rogue started walking.
“Think we’ll find any bodies?” he asked.
“Odds are not high.”
“But it’s worth checking out.”
“That it is. You’re in touch with the other witches?”
“About to. Doubt they’ll follow my orders.”
Miseria chuckled. “You’re a doubting soul. I told you, you passed the test.”
“The endurance test for your new toy.”
“A clever way of putting it. You understand your position well.”
“Wish I didn’t,” he growled, then pressed the button for the elevator.
Not the one from the church to the Sixth Precinct, but the one for switching floors within the precinct itself.
Only twelve people lived there, but it was a rather large elevator. Everything there was roomy. It was built like they expected to entertain visiting dignitaries. He assumed this was to keep the witches happy—it made him want to find who’d budgeted for this and chew their head off.
“But your concern is appropriate,” Miseria said, tapping one foot. “Purehearted, honest witches like myself will help. But there are many kinds of witches.”
“‘Pure,’ my ass.”
“Don’t I look the part?” the witch boasted, hand on her hip, smiling an extrafishy smile.
But it didn’t matter.
He rolled his eyes at her.