“I’m not a fan.”
She looked up at him through her lashes.
“……So why are you forgiving me?”
He didn’t think he was, but he rolled with it for now.
“Well, someone else changed my mind. Don’t care what you witches think—I ain’t ready to quit just yet.”
Catherine hung her head, gnashing her teeth.
“……You’ll be living in fear of your life. Does that not bother you?”
“What about it? I’m gonna work you all to the bone, witches or not. Once you’re healed up, you’ll be back on the job.”
That seemed to finally make her mind up.
“……I want to be there when you die,” Catherine said. “Until then, I’ll make myself useful.”
How he wished she was joking, but Catherine clearly meant every word.
But when she thought about it, that was like a con artist telling their mark they were about to run a con. Realizing that, Catherine turned red and got very shifty. “I want to be there when you die” was a pretty cringe pronouncement.
They drove another fifteen minutes, and as they neared the Sixth Precinct, he got an alert on his phone from Velladonna.
A murder on a golf course in the Third Ward. Using a spell the likes of which they’d never seen, so she was requesting the Sixth Precinct’s assistance.
Damn, no rest for the wicked.
A short, black-haired officer was their guide at the golf course. Maybe the officer was a newbie, because his voice cracked.
“This way!”
A male golfer was lying on the green.
“I have no clue what’s going on!”
The man’s body covered the whole green. The same body, repeating, arranged neatly like a jigsaw puzzle.
A duplication spell? But what for? No, duplication spells can’t copy anything biological, so what else could this be?
As Rogue scowled, the officer stammered, “Er, um…are you the one they call Bloody Rogue?”
“Yeah, that’d be me.”
He’d almost forgotten that name.
“Um”—the officer bowed—“I’m a fan! Can I get your autograph?”
“Huh?”
Rogue was stunned.
“I keep a scrapbook of all the cases you’ve solved, Detective! You do such brilliant work. I really respect you!”
“R-right…”
The officer had a card made of colored paper, and a pen. All ready for his autograph.
Rogue glanced at Catherine, but she was asking Forensics where the restrooms were. Perhaps the bodies had made her ill. The forensics officer led her away, and the other officers on scene were busy numbering the bodies, some distance from them.
The gleam in this officer’s eyes broke through Rogue’s reluctance. No one was looking—might as well just get it over with.
“Why not?”
He took the pen, then popped the cap off, and as he signed the card, the officer asked, “Um, is that a choker?” pointing at Rogue’s wrist.
The collar had peeped out from his shirt.
“Yeah…gift from a friend.”
“It’s kinda cute.”
Rogue nodded and looked back at the card.
“Right, what’s your name? Should I make it out to you?”
“Oh, sorry, I completely forgot!”
In the corner of his eye, he saw the officer bow again.
“My name’s Miseria! If you could write ‘Miseria, keep working hard!’ on it, that’d be swell!”
His heart skipped a beat.
“Mis…eria?”
He looked up.
“Yep! That’d be me!”
The officer swept off his cap, then gripped his black hair and flung it away. The white hair hidden beneath the wig came tumbling free.
Rogue froze to the spot.
“Cat got your tongue, Detective?” the officer asked, removing some colored contacts. Blue eyes pierced through him. “Keep those hands moving! Best to get that signed before anyone else comes over here.”
The officer’s voice had changed completely from a young man’s pitch to a girl’s.
“Or will you not sign it unless I call you Rogue?”
“……You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Hmm. I expected you to shed tears of joy!”
His voice rasped. “……I’m not crying.”
“Aww! Even though you’ve turned my collar into a keepsake? A ‘gift from a friend,’ was it?”
“……Shush.”
“I had no idea you thought so highly of me. I’m touched!”
Miseria cackled. That mocking tone was clearly the witch’s own.
Rogue let out a long sigh.
“……You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Roger that! First, I did die. My body crumbled to dust; no healing spell could possibly help. So why am I hunky-dory? Can you guess, Rogue?”
Miseria was clearly hell-bent on making him participate.
She was definitely done for. If she came back from that… A resurrection? Rogue felt suddenly very dumb. Why hadn’t I noticed?
Miseria picked up on his train of thought.
“Figured it out?”
“Yeah. You carved Control into yourself, right? Once you were dead, you reversed the flow of time, restoring your body.” He pressed the autographed card against her. “Right?”
“Got it in one!” Miseria clapped for him with a spitefully dazzling smile. Unlike incantations, a spell cast via sigil could be activated after a delay. If she gave orders to the spell in advance, it would still kick in even if she was dead. “What now? Are you mad at me?”
Miseria studied his face.
“Shush.”
He knew the answer, but it didn’t sit right. Something was bugging him at the back of his mind. Why hadn’t Miseria cast Control while she was still alive? If she was so certain Control could heal her, why let herself die first? Miseria had chosen to die, but what for?
Miseria was just smiling, watching him. There was more to this.
She had a goal in mind. Something she had to die to accomplish.
The answer was on the tip of his tongue.
He raised his left hand, brushing back his hair. The goal likely wasn’t anything that complicated. It wouldn’t take more than a few words to convey. Before the other cops came over.
Something simple…that a witch like Miseria would want…
His gaze landed on his wrist.
And he had his answer.
Rogue sighed.
“You let yourself die to get the collar off?”
“Well done,” Miseria said with a vicious smirk.
In hindsight, it was obvious. The collar would only come off when she was dead. To get it off, she had to die. The motive was even more transparent—the collar was robbing her of her power and freedom. No one would let a chance to escape slip through their fingers.
“So the reason you were so hell-bent on getting me out of there was so I wouldn’t see the collar come off when you died?”
“Clever boy. Exactly,” Miseria said. “I’d successfully put the collar out of your mind, but if you saw it roll away, you might well have worked out my intent.”
She’d expected he would try to save her. How long had she been planning this collar trick? He felt betrayed—and his tongue and throat were very dry.
She sure was a witch.
“……This was your goal all along?”
“What if it was?”
“……I thought you hated liars.”
“I do.”
Miseria merrily skipped away. Then she turned back to him.
“I did have a lot of fun with you. That’s why I put in an appearance here.”
Rogue said nothing.
Instead, he took a step toward her. She showed no signs of budging.
“You’re not running?”
“You’re not arresting me?”
Again. She was still testing him.
Rogue bit his lip and moved close enough to grab her.
“……Puppeteer Miseria. You’re under arrest.”
“Go right ahead.”
Miseria held out her wrists. Like she meant it. Was escaping the collar not her goal? My head hurts. Argh, she is so—
Rogue turned to his left toward the field of corpses. He could no longer see the witch’s face.
“Rogue?” she sounded puzzled.
“You wanted out, right? Go on, get. Before I change my mind.”
“Er, no, I was more here to enjoy your befuddlement.”
“My mind’s made up. Scram.”
She’d sounded genuinely rattled, and he was enjoying that.