Chapter 3

Ch. 3: Julian

"Who was that?" I ask when Dane gets off the phone.

"Stephanie Wong," he says, swiping a hand over a chin rough with two days' growth of stubble. "Someone broke into her shop last night and stole some things."

"Our thief?" I ask, perking up. Across from me, Ingrid looks up from her toaster waffles. She'd taken a keen interest in our detective business, and offered to help however she could to earn her keep.

"Seems like it," Dane says.

"What will we do?"

He finishes a bite of waffles and takes a gulp of coffee before he speaks, probably giving himself time to think.

"We do our job," he says at last. "We investigate."

***

After convincing Ingrid to stay home and practice for her first meeting with the orchestra, Dane and I drive into town. Stephanie greets us when we arrive, wrapped in a loose cardigan and hugging herself against a nerve-induced chill.

Her shop is only a short distance down the street from the spot Dane and I had staked out the night before last, though the area is far more charming in the daytime.

Trees line the sidewalks, their leaves just turning from summer's green to autumn's brighter colors, and rustic brick and wood facades define the historic buildings. Usually, the large glass windows of the store-front displays are full of choice tourist-bait, but recently they've been empty or papered over; no one wants to tempt the thief. In the distance, the mountains rise, their tops capped with the remnants of last year's snow.

Per Dane's instructions, Stephanie has kept her store closed and held off on calling the police, leaving the scene undisturbed. She lets us in with her key, pushing open the old-fashioned door, painted bright red, and shakes her head.

"Who robs a thrift-shop?" she complains, waving a hand at the confines of her store. She wears comfortable slacks and slip-on shoes, and her casual attire reminds me that a lot of the shop-owners see their business as a second home. The sense of violation probably hurts more than the relatively minor financial loss. "And who steals costume jewelry?"

She leads us through the small, cluttered store to a glass display case. It's intact, but the sliding side panel is open and the case is empty.

"Maybe the thief didn't know the jewelry was fake," Dane suggests.

Stephanie laughs. "I think he'd know."

She pulls out her phone and shows us a picture. It's the display case, full of obviously fake jewelry: gaudy baubles, rhinestones, plastic painted to look like pearls and gold.

"I get a lot of customers who want costume pieces for Halloween, so I try to bulk up on the fake bling this time of year," she says.

"None of this was valuable?" Dane asks.

Stephanie shrugs. "Doing inventory in a thrift-shop is a pain in the ass. Unless it's something really special, I just take pictures when I change the display. I don't even know exactly what was in there, but none of it was worth more than five dollars."

"What else is missing?" I ask, scanning the shop. There's a little of everything: furniture, lamps, books, framed pictures, knickknacks, kitchenware, toys, clothing and accessories. Never having had much interest in antiques, I have no idea what's treasure and what's trash.

"Nothing," Stephanie says. "At least, nothing I've noticed so far. All the valuable stuff is accounted for."

"Does that camera work?" Dane asks, pointing to a small security feature mounted in the corner.

Stephanie shakes her head. "I wish. It was a donation, but it's broken so I couldn't sell it. I stuck it up there for effect."

Dane scratches behind his ear as he does when he's thinking. "No matter. Thompson, the local art dealer, had a real one, and it got nothing. Woulda been worth a look, though."

Stephanie wipes the pad of her thumb beneath her eyes and sniffs. "I'm sorry. Except for kids pocketing stuff on a dare, I never thought..."

"Not your fault," Dane reminds her. "You did nothing wrong."

She nods and takes a breath. "I just wish I could do more to help."

"Actually..." Dane rubs the back of his neck. "There is something you could do. Would you mind if we have a look around in private? We'll leave the scene as-is."

Stephanie frowns, but nods. "Sure. I'll head over to Danny's for a coffee. You two want anything?"

Dane shakes his head, but I pull a ten from my wallet and hand it over. "Sure. I'll have a latte and a scone. He'll have an iced espresso."

Stephanie blinks, probably not having expected us to take her up on the offer, but murmurs her agreement and departs.

"Julian, the client is supposed to pay us, remember?" Dane grumbles.

"Business expense," I counter. "We need to eat."

"We just ate."

I roll my eyes. "Fine. I did it to buy us more time. I happen to know Steph takes her coffee plain—she'd be in and out of there in two minutes. Meanwhile, that place makes a great latte, but it takes about a century to get your order. And don't even ask about their espresso machine."

Dane's gaze sharpens. "Okay, good thinking. What did you have in mind?"

Blushing like a teenager in love at his praise, I gesture around us. "Do you know how hard it is to pick up a single, accurate, focused impression in a place like this? It's full of previously owned things, all of which hold at least a small trace of their previous owner's energy. It's a psychic nightmare. I need to concentrate, and I do that best alone. Well, alone except for you."

Dane shifts his weight as if he'd like to argue, but nods. "How can I help?"

I wave him off. "I don't know—do your werewolf thing. Sniff around."

He still gets jumpy when I use my abilities. He's witnessed me react badly to a reading in the past, but I have much better control now that I know I'm Fae. It's actually the 'Fae' part that bothers him: he thinks that me using my abilities will lead to me disappearing into thin air, never to return. I suppose I can't blame him, since I did disappear for six months a while back. I tend to forget, since for me it was only three days. Time is weird in Faerie.

"I'll be fine," I say. "Stop worrying. I got this."

He gives me a look, but goes about his own business. From previous experience, I doubt he'll find anything—our thief hasn't left so much as a crumb behind so far. Then again, I doubt I'll find much, either, but I still want to try.

I begin by shutting my eyes and taking a few slow, deep breaths, focusing my awareness and clearing my mind—techniques I'd honed when I thought I was just a guy with an unusual gift.

When my mind is still, ready and receptive as blank paper, I open myself to impressions and let my senses expand.

A kaleidoscopic swirl of sensation washes over me, as if I've stepped from a quiet place into the world's noisiest restaurant. My ears ring with phantom sounds, images flash before my eyes as if on a screen, a medley of smells assaults my nose, and ghostly touches make my skin crawl.

For a moment, I'm nearly overwhelmed; I can't differentiate between one impression and another, and my senses begin to register the over-stimulation as pain. Forcing myself to take a careful, deep breath, I relax and, little by little, the chaos calms.

I allow myself a smile; there was a time I wouldn't have dared open myself to impressions in a place like this. I'd have left with nothing but a psychic hangover and a massive migraine. Now—like I told Dane—I got this.

With my center restored, I tune my senses to ignore what doesn't interest me. It's like being in a crowded room full of loud voices, which gradually goes quiet as people fall silent, until I can hear what interests me.

Turning my attention to the display case, I rest my hands on the glass.

Glass doesn't hold energy well—like light, things pass right through it—so I get almost nothing from the case. There's a very slight impression around the lock—the sort of boring comfort of a daily routine, which probably comes from Stephanie.

Ignoring that, I let my senses open to their fullest, seeking anything that stands out as different, recent, and fresh: a sense of excitement or triumph; a fear of being caught; the need to hurry or hide. Things a thief might feel, in other words.

I get nothing, and after a minute, I admit defeat. I may have more control than I used to, but I can still give myself a headache if I'm not careful.

Withdrawing my attention back into myself, I slowly dial my receptiveness down to a normal level, until I can sift through a box of antiques and pick up nothing but some dust and a musty smell—same as everyone else.

I open my eyes and find Dane watching me while pretending to investigate the carpet nearby.

"Get anything?" he asks.

I shake my head, but smile. Every time I use my abilities like this and maintain control, I count it as a win.

"Nope. Not for this case, anyway. Pretty sure there are at least three murder weapons in here somewhere, though."

His attention sharpens. "Really?"

I laugh. "No, not really. Maybe one. What about you? Anything?"

He gives me a look and shakes his head. "Not a thing. It's like this guy's a ghost."

"Nah. I'd probably pick up more if he was." I glance around. Stephanie has yet to raise the blinds blocking the windows, and knowing that espresso machine, she'll be gone another ten minutes, at least.

"You wanna Shift?" I ask. "Sniff around as a Wolf? You might pick up more that way."

He shakes his head. "Too risky. The last thing we need is a client walking in on me naked."

I snort. "I'm sure we could explain it somehow."

"Uh-huh." He rolls his eyes.

We spend the next quarter hour poking around, examining every nook and cranny, and continuing to turn up heaps of nothing. Finally, Stephanie reappears, bearing a tray of drinks and looking flustered.

"Sorry," she says, handing us our coffees. "I think a bunch of snails could make a latte faster. What did you find?"

I leave the explanations and apologies to Dane, and make one last circuit of the store, with a different eye this time. There's some nice stuff in here.

As I listen to Dane advising Stephanie to call the cops as soon as we leave, I stop to admire a small side-table with a drawer. Then I check the price-tag and sigh; even thrift-shop furniture is out of our budget right now.

I'm about to turn away when something else catches my attention—a small symbol drawn on the wall. It's the size of a quarter and about at chest height, and appears to be drawn with green marker to blend with the paint. My first thought is that it might have something to do with Feng Shui, which is Stephanie's other business, but it looks more like a rune than a Chinese character.

There's something vaguely familiar about it, though I'm almost certain I've never seen it before.

Curious, I reach out and trace it with my fingertips.

I don't even have time to register my mistake. Psychically speaking, it's like someone puts a gun to my head and pulls the trigger.

There's a brilliant flash of pain, and then nothing.