“The Sixth Precinct’s detectives never last long. They either run away or meet an untimely demise. It’s a revolving door. Some of them don’t even manage to solve a single case. But so far, that hasn’t applied to you.”
“So far,” Rogue said with a grunt.
“Yes. So far. But, Rogue? You lasted a whole month despite dealing with a case dramatic enough that it left one of the witches held here dead.”
She applauded performatively.
“And for that, you’ve been lauded by the Two Great Houses.”
The Two Great Houses—a term for the Drakenia and Ligton noble families. The former held sway over the Magic Crimes Bureau, and it had been their idea to get witches involved in the investigations.
Velladonna was now reading their message.
“‘Rogue Macabesta, you have achieved considerable success managing the witches and bringing Chronos Drakenia to justice, with casualties limited to the Puppeteer alone. We hereby express our profound gratitude for your achievements.’”
“……Nothing good comes from associating with nobility.” Rogue sighed again. It was his honest opinion.
They cared far more about losing one of their captive witches than having Chronos arrested—specifically calling her out here was clearly an act of spite.
Velladonna grinned like a cat.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Be grateful.”
“……Sorry.”
“Are you? Then how about a date?”
She recrossed her legs, holding out a hand to him. They were too far apart for him to take it, but she curled up her fingers in a gesture that was somehow flirtatious.
Exactly my point.
Velladonna had made it clear that his looks had caught her interest. He’d certainly benefitted from her favor…but would rather she keep things strictly professional.
While he was struggling to keep a lid on his emotions, Catherine spoke up.
“Chief Velladonna, you must not joke about these things. This is our workplace.”
She was on her feet, shaking her head like she was talking to a naughty child. That made Velladonna’s eyes widen, but she soon pursed her lips.
“‘Joke’? When was I joking?”
Catherine stuck to her guns.
“Statements that run against public decency. You occasionally cross that line.”
Only occasionally? Rogue thought.
The witches didn’t exactly see her all that often, and yet they were still of that opinion. Nervous, he let this clash play out.
“You realize, Saint,” Velladonna said, her smirk growing, “by your own logic, it’s perfectly okay as long as we’re not working.”
“Th-that doesn’t even make sense!” Catherine insisted.
Velladonna cupped her own cheek, tilting her head.
“If that doesn’t make sense, then I can’t do anything at all. Vella weeps!”
“I—I don’t see a single tear!”
“I’m crying on the inside.”
Catherine opened and closed her lips like she wanted to argue but couldn’t think of any good comebacks. She soon hung her head.
“……You used to be so nice. What happened to you?”
“People grow.” With that, Velladonna turned his way.
“Any questions, Rogue?”
“How do you turn on a dime like that?” he asked, sighing.
“It’s one of my strengths. I suggest you learn from my example.”
She brushed back her wavy hair theatrically. There was nothing he could learn from her.
“So what case do you need us on?” Rogue asked.
“Don’t rush me.” Velladonna heaved a sigh of her own. “There was an explosion in the museum in the Third Ward last night. The man responsible turned himself into a bomb and went kablooey all over an exhibit. Quite a lot of victims. I’ll send you the details later.”
“The culprit blew himself up?”
“He did. Puncture or Bloom, I suspect? Between the security cameras and the time his ID was checked, we know who he was, but without that, we would be clueless. He’s in smithereens, and there was nothing that could be pieced together.”
“An ID check… You mean he worked there?”
“Security.”
Velladonna held up her phone.
It displayed a photo of a man in his twenties.
“I want you to find out why he became a bomb. Was this a one-man job? Or was there some other motive in play? If this was a systematic thing, we’ll need you to put a stop to it.”
Explosive magic could well mean organized terrorism. It was more than enough reason to get the Sixth Precinct involved. This was the second big case since Rogue had taken over.
“You in, Catherine?” he asked.
“Of course,” the Saint replied. “Leave it to me. Let me prove what I can do.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, nodding.
“I’m so pleased to hear you’re motivated,” Velladonna purred. “Good luck out there. I’m gonna kick back here a while longer.”
“……You could help work the case,” he said.
Velladonna recrossed her legs.
“Never. I have my own work to do. You get out there and play your part, Rogue. Guide these witches.”
Armed with their marching orders from Velladonna, they were at the scene in thirty minutes. Leaving the car in the museum lot, they moved to the front doors.
The Stolaleid Museum—a massive art museum with millions of pieces on the first and second floors alone. It was as imposing as any temple, and many tourists came just to see the facade. But now the police had barrier tape across the entrance, keeping out the public.
Rogue introduced himself as a detective under the Elayl branch chief and Catherine as a civilian aide—a cover story he was getting used to—and they were let in.
They went across the lobby, down the hall, into the exhibit on the left.
The space had once housed statues.
There had been stalwart warriors and women wreathed in veils, and many pedestals had displayed only the statue’s surviving head. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and there was an atrium above, so on a good day, patrons could have perused the gallery with a pleasant feeling in their hearts. But now half the statues were demolished, in pieces—and those that remained intact had bits of flesh stuck to them.
“……How horrid,” Catherine said.
The victims’ bodies had already been taken to the morgue, but the scene remained gruesome.
Can’t argue with that assessment. What drove the bomber to do it?
The worst damage was at the center of the exhibit. The floor had been blown up, a gouge dug into it.
Rogue pulled up a file on his phone.
The incident had occurred at 8:40 PM.
It had been a Saturday night, so the museum was open late; crowds weren’t as bad as the middle of the day, but there had still been over twenty people in the vicinity. That’s when John Brown had jumped over the second-story railing. The blast had blown eleven people away, but their bodies had acted as dampeners, and a few people had emerged unscathed.
Scrolling further down, Rogue found something that gave him pause.
“……What the…?”
“Something bothering you, Detective?” Catherine asked.
“No…just…we’ve got nothing on the bomber’s possessions.”
“Is that remarkable?” she inquired, head tilted.
“The forensics team is top-notch. It’d be weird if they didn’t find anything.”
“Ah,” Catherine said, catching up. “That’d be because he cast Bloom on his entire body. Nothing gets left behind.”
Now it was Rogue’s turn to crook his head.
“His entire body?”
I mean, that’s physically possible…
“Why do things that way? Why not just an arm or…? You wouldn’t even need to cast it on yourself. You could just carve a sigil into something.”
“Well,” Catherine said, a finger to her chin. “I’d assume the goal was to increase the force of the blast. The spell turns objects into explosives, so the bigger the object, the bigger the boom. But you do raise a good point. Ordinarily, the pain would be unendurable.”
“The pain?” he asked.
Catherine looked surprised. “Didn’t you know? Casting any transformation spells on your own body causes excruciating pain. Even just changing your pinky is unbearable. I mean, your blood and bones—everything becomes something else. It’s like stuffing hot sand into yourself.”
Just imagining that was unpleasant. Sand could easily get over two hundred degrees, and stuffing that inside oneself unthinkable. Rogue shuddered.
But that raised further questions.
“……So our bomber specifically chose an approach knowing it would be agonizing?”
“Yep!” Catherine said.
Either this guy was a glutton for punishment or he had a cause.
“……Why do you know about the pain?”
Catherine’s eyes got very shifty.
“I swear, I have never accidentally cast a spell on myself! Not once!”
“……”
Rogue chose to disregard that she was telling on herself, moving right along. He made a circuit of the exhibit room, then headed back to the entrance.
There was still time before their appointment. He’d wrapped up faster than expected. Worth taking another look around? As he pondered that, his gaze landed on a statue near the entrance.
A hawk, wings outstretched. It was unharmed—perhaps it had been too far from the blast.
The lights around him dimmed. Why? Electrical trouble? No, only the area around him was affected. The shadow was spreading. Something big was falling toward him. By the time he realized it—
“Detective!”
—he was flung aside.
As he rolled across the floor, he caught sight of the girl who’d pushed him—Catherine—and heard a massive boom.
There was now a huge hole in the stone wall. The hawk statue had been blown to smithereens.
Rogue righted himself. Catherine was already back up, staring at the dust. There was a figure at the center of the cloud, on their knees, not moving. Rogue looked past them and found the railing on the second floor bent. Had they jumped from there?
He looked back to the hole in the wall, and the figure in the cloud was getting up. But when they emerged from the dust—Rogue gaped.
The figure was revealed to be a knight in armor.
No other descriptor applied.
They were like something that ought to be on display in this museum, covered from head to foot in metal armor, with the visor on their helmet hiding their face. He could tell they were massive—long arms, long legs—but his attention was forcibly diverted by the knight’s sword. It was longer than Rogue was tall.