“No. I got it from Rico before coming here. You…don’t stop by the Sixth Precinct often, Detective.”
“I’m working,” he responded.
There weren’t that many crimes bad enough to warrant the involvement of the Sixth Precinct. For that reason, he spent the bulk of his time at HQ, doing interviews and documentation for lesser cases. With the Lifetaker captured, and then another case solved after that, it had been a solid two weeks since he’d swung by the precinct.
“So what was urgent enough that Rico actually shared that with you?”
“So, um, Detective, are you in need of assistance?”
“Not really.”
“Anything at all! Cooking? Cleaning?”
Catherine’s eyes settled on the top of his head. What is she looking at? He reached up and felt around—then realized that he hadn’t fixed his bedhead yet. And was still in his pajamas.
“Uh, come on in,” he said, looking away awkwardly.
Catherine’s face brightened up. She let out a puff of white breath and said, “Thanks for having me!”
He handed her some guest slippers and led her into the living room.
“So this is where you live!” she exclaimed.
The situation was weirdly uncomfortable for him. He wasn’t a slob or anything—his place should be neat and tidy…
There was a couch with a coffee table in front of it, and across from that was a television with a sigil built in. He rarely used the thing. It was as clean as the day he’d bought the remote.
“Did you eat yet?” she asked.
“Nah, I was about to make something,” Rogue said.
He saw the Saint’s eyebrows perk up, like she’d just had a brilliant idea.
“Then allow me to help!”
“I can handle—”
His protest came too late. The Saint was already in his kitchen. He heard an egg crack. She was humming. He gave up.
Even the Saint was unlikely to try poisoning him. He let her cook.
“Ah! Don’t run away! Come back here!”
Sausages, an omelet, bacon—they were all impressively tossed higher than the countertop.
“……”
“I won’t let this get me down!”
A circus performance was going on behind that counter. She caught a flying pancake in a frying pan, put out a fire (how had that even started?), and slid across the floor to catch a plate before it hit the floor.
_____Good lord.
It was far worse than he’d imagined. He wondered if he was dreaming again.
As his mind attempted to flee reality, Catherine announced, “Here you are, Detective!”
Wiping the sweat from her brow, she brought a tray to the coffee table. Steam was rising from an omelet. Crispy bacon and sausage. Three pancakes in a pile. And a glass of milk.
“Dig in!”
Catherine settled down by the table, waving Rogue to the couch.
“Uh, right.”
For lack of better options, he sat down. Despite all the fuss she’d made, it looked normal enough. He shot her a searching glance, and she seemed very pleased with herself.
Steeling himself, he grabbed a fork and took a bite of omelet.
Hmm?
“Well?”
“……It’s good.”
A solid match for anything a diner might serve. Why did this require acrobatics?
“I am an excellent cook,” Catherine said, puffing up her chest.
It certainly filled him up, but not with answers to his questions.
He couldn’t figure out why the Saint was there at all. She’d already betrayed him once. And not just Rogue—she had apparently wiped out her own hometown. Plus, she’d successfully hidden her true nature so thoroughly that even in the prison, only Rogue actually knew the truth.
It was natural to assume she had ulterior motives.
When he finished eating, he did the dishes, insisting she stay put. He didn’t need another round of pandemonium.
When he got back to the coffee table, he said, “So what are you really after?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, baffled.
“You wouldn’t come here for nothing.”
Catherine grew even more perplexed.
“Um…I actually did.”
It sure didn’t seem like a performance. Rogue couldn’t get a read on her. He shook his head.
“Then…you really only showed up because we’re partners?”
“Exactly!” Catherine cried.
That floored him. Just that?
“……There’s gotta be something else.”
“Um. Sorry, there isn’t.” Catherine drooped visibly. “I simply wanted to be of some use to you. I’ve been alive a long time, so I can handle most things and thought I could make your life a little easier. Is that so wrong?”
“I wouldn’t say that…”
He was starting to wonder if she’d read too much into the word partner. All it truly meant was moving in pairs to increase safety on an investigation.
But what now? It didn’t feel right to send her packing. But he wasn’t comfortable just letting her sit here.
Then the phone on the table vibrated. An incoming call. Both their gazes lit on it.
“Go ahead,” Catherine said.
His boss’s name was on the screen. He caught a strong whiff of trouble. This morning was off to a fine start.
“……Hello?”
“Why, hellooo, Rogue.” A sickly sweet voice emerged from the speaker.
“……Good morning, Chief.”
“You sound so gloomy! Cheer up! It’s your beloved Vella.”
“……It’s my day off,” he tried.
“Rogue, honey. You know better. Detective’s days off are more fragile than any snowflake. Our cases wait for no man.”
“I know…”
He heard her laughing.
“Get yourself to the Sixth Precinct. I’ll fill you in there.”
“…You’re at the precinct now?”
“I am. So get here fast before the witches eat me up,” the voice on the line pleaded.
He almost blurted, “You’ll live,” but caught himself.
“Fine,” he said instead. “I’m on my way.”
Then the voice said, “Oh, and bring that witch back with you.”
That made him look up. His eyes met Catherine’s, and she blushed. This is not the situation for that.
“……Did you bug her?” Rogue asked his boss.
“Of course not. Rico simply filled me in. Said the Saint was headed your way.”
“Well, she was.”
“Exactly. Buh-bye, Rogue. See you soon!”
She hung up.
His heart was sinking. Nothing that hit the Sixth Precinct was ever trifling. The last case—the one he and Catherine had solved—had left its marks on him, too.
“Um, Detective,” Catherine said.
“You heard the lady. I know you just got here, but we’ve gotta head out.”
“No, um, if you need to change, I can turn my back.”
Catherine hustled over to the corner, facing it. That had been the last thing on Rogue’s mind, and it took him a long moment to recover.
The dorm was in the Third Ward. Due north from there was a high-end residential area. It featured upscale condos with nice views surrounded by luxury-brand shops, museums, and art galleries—all the status symbols a person could desire.
Through those gleaming streets to the edge of town was a dingy church covered in vines. No one but Rogue’s associates ever ventured there.
He parked the car on the gravel driveway, then got out and opened the church door. The interior yawned open, and no pews remained within. He moved to the altar and waited a minute.
“Identity verified. Please enter,” a girl said flatly.
The door behind the altar slid open. A few meters farther in was an elevator, leading underground. Rogue and Catherine stepped into it. A floating sensation began in the pit of his stomach, like he was being flung into a hole. He would never get used to that. Scowling, he endured it until the doors opened again.
The witches’ prison—the Sixth Precinct.
This was the entrance hall.
“Welcome back, Detective Rogue.”
The Sixth Precinct’s sole staff member—and maid for the witches—was standing by the elevator doors. She was Rico Raina, the girl with the flat voice. She was always impassive; he’d never seen her gaze so much as waver.
“Rico, where’s the chief?”
“Over there,” she said, and a new voice called out.
“Rogue! You’re laaaate!”
At the back of the hall by a round table sat the chief of the Elayl Branch, Velladonna Villard.
Several buttons were undone on her shirt, and she wore a very short skirt with a slit up the side. It was far too salacious for a bureau job, but one did not become chief just by dressing sexy. She was appropriately underhanded. Rogue had learned that lesson the hard way.
Velladonna beckoned to him. “Get over here, and I’ll brief you.”
“We came as fast as we could,” he grumbled.
He and Catherine sat down; Rico put her back to the wall and did not move again.
Velladonna made a show of crossing her legs.
“So how was your tryst with this witch?”
“It was hardly that. And I sense you put her up to it.”
“Did I? Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it? Now that the Puppeteer is dead, you need to forge bonds of trust with your new partner.”
When she said, “Puppeteer,” Rogue’s brow twitched.
“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ll do what’s necessary.”
“You treat my Rogue well, dear,” Velladonna said, turning her gaze toward Catherine.
“Why, of course!” Catherine said, smiling politely.
“Excellent. If only everyone listened to me the way you do.”
“I’m surprised you don’t get a lot more friction,” Rogue said.
“Oh?” Velladonna looked baffled. “Whatever do you mean?”
“……Your attitude.”
She snorted.
“There’s a trick to it, Rogue. It’s a delicate line, to be sure, but once you master it, it’s easy. I mean…”
She glanced at the other tables. Several witches were seated there, eyes on her, sitting with their backs upright.
“…I’m here being myself, and they’re allowing it.”
“Sure they’re not just waiting for you to blow it?” Rogue suggested.
“Right you are. You predecessor’s predecessor was sent packing after less than half an hour here.”
“……Alive?” Rogue growled.
“What do you think?” Velladonna smirked.
“……Doesn’t matter. You’re just making it up.” He sighed.
“Not entirely,” she purred. “He did come right back. But only technically alive—he was in the hospital for a month and then resigned. So!”
She clapped once, changing the subject.