sold my soul to a three piece

THE FLUSH CLIMBING JO'S NECK HADN'T ESCAPED HER. Neither had the way she'd stared. For someone who'd spent years assuming her magic would drive people away, watching wonder eclipse fear as she reached for the flowers was... almost intoxicating.

Leila wasn’t so naïve as to believe that this would solve everything between them. Still, it was a start.

A smile found her lips at the growl. She had felt it, the evening teetering precariously on the edge of yet another course. Of something heavier, harder to navigate. She was, she realized then, equal parts disappointed and relieved. Somehow, she wasn’t certain they could endure any further upheaval. Even as the words sat just beneath the surface. 

“I’ll make a note to diversify my approach,” a flicker of amusement softened the words. 

And then she was up, gathering both their bowls and carrying them to the microwave before Jo had a chance to protest. The microwave clicked open with a soft mechanical hum, settling the atmosphere in the room back toward the easy rhythm of most of Jo’s visits. 

With her back turned, she allowed herself a quieter moment — Jo's expression replaying in her mind. The unexpected rarity of it. Her words, both spoken and unspoken.

The mention of a movie was all the invitation Jo needed. "The one with Zoe Saldana firing a rocket launcher in the trailer?" she supplied, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. She stuck the still-blooming sprig of cilantro into her water glass and crossed to the couch. "The Losers." The television hummed to life with a soft click as Jo let herself drop onto the cushions, the shifting light washing across her face.

It was harder after that to take his words at face value, but his affection toward his son didn't seem manufactured. It was enough to elevate the witch from malicious to confused and severely out of his depth.

Overall it hadn't given Jo what she'd hoped for.

"Okay." Burying her disappointment behind a quiet sigh, Jo rose from her chair. She steepled her fingers lightly against the edge of his desk, lingering for only a second before meeting his eyes again. "A word of advice? The next time someone comes to your door claiming your son is innocent—whether you believe it or not," she paused, giving the slightest shake of her head, "don't argue."

IN HER OWN WAY, Jo had breathed a sense of normalcy back into the room. So far from where the evening had begun, and yet Leila had a sense that they would be better for it. Eventually, perhaps. They had to start somewhere. 

Rather than swatting the comment away, Leila tilted her head. “Did you?” She picked up the candy, meeting Jo’s stare with a challenge. “That is pretty rude of me.” She toyed with the wrapper, twisting and untwisting it as a smirk tugged at her lips. “I can demonstrate now, if you’d like.” She winked, finally flicking the candy back. It sailed neatly across the table. 

In exchange, Leila plucked a sprig of cilantro from atop the rice and rolled the stem between her fingers. “It feels like an extension of my fingertips,” she started, tracing the curve of a leaf. “Almost like a pulse that I can control and send outward.”

The plant stirred. Tiny white blossoms unfurled one by one along the stem.

She leaned forward, holding the flowers out to Jo. “Easy.” 

Jo's gaze dropped to Leila's fingers and stayed there. Her pupils dilated almost imperceptibly, lips parting slightly before she caught herself staring, watching those fingertips glide over the delicate leaves while Leila calmly explained what they could do with effortless confidence. Fuck. Jo swallowed, heat crept up the back of her neck with embarrassing speed as she became acutely aware of her own pulse thudding high in her chest. She was so screwed.

Then the cilantro moved, tiny blossoms coaxed into existence unfolding beneath Leila's fingertips. Jo leaned forward almost unconsciously, brown eyes fixed on the little green sprig with genuine awe. Of course this was how Leila used her magic. The same kind of magic Jo knew could be destructive. Could be used to intimidate. To maim. To hurt. To kill. This terrifying thing she had been hiding, and it was just... gentle. Deliberate. Patient. Beautiful.

Like the women before her.

Carefully, almost reverently, Jo reached across the table to take the little sprig, her fingertips brushing lightly against Leila's. She turned it once between her fingers, unable to stop the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I don't think anyone's ever tried to seduce me with herbs before." The line should've landed with the same easy bravado she'd opened with, but it came out warmer instead, the usual swagger softened by something she wasn't trying nearly hard enough to hide. "But…" She paused, her eyes lifting back to Leila's, words on the tip of her tongue she wouldn't be able to take back—

THE SCRAPE OF A CHAIR NEVER CAME. Neither did the slam of a door. And when she did look up, she didn’t find what she had braced for.  For a moment, all she could do was search Jo’s face for the catch. The hesitation. The polite lie. Some sign that she was softening the blow before retreating.

She found none. Something in her chest twisted.

The words lodged somewhere deep, catching against years of certainty. Against every carefully constructed reason she had for keeping this part of herself hidden. She had expected disbelief. Anger, perhaps. At the very least, dismissal. Not this.

You don’t scare me. Jo didn’t know what she was capable of, how thin the line could be between helping and hurting. Still, Leila believed her.

A small laugh escaped her then. “Not because of that,” she echoed, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself.

She hadn’t thought words could ever soften the sense of abandonment. So many had passed over her head through the years that it was easy to acknowledge them with a simple nod, allow them to graze the wound without ever truly touching it. But Jo’s words did.

The tragedy was always framed differently — the parents forced to leave their daughter, an unfortunate twist of fate, a choice to protect themselves that left a child to deal with the consequences. She had never seen it as a loss. As if she were something to miss out on.

It didn’t fix what had broken the day they left, or the lesson she’d learned from their absence, but it was a start. Jo still sat at the other end of the table, no longer reaching, yet also not retreating. The withdrawal echoed less; the fracture no longer widening beneath every glance and silence.

You don’t have to hide with me. Her breath faltered, the quiet gasp suspiciously close to a failed attempt not to cry. Green eyes flicked over her expression, this time not seeking a catch but instead committing it to memory. She wanted to remember this. So that her mind couldn’t corrupt the memory, poisoning this first genuine moment of honesty. The way Jo looked at her.

“You make that sound easy.” The words emerged quieter than intended. Her thumb traced the edge of her spoon. Once. Twice. “I don’t think I’ve ever known how.”  

A muscle twitched in her jaw. “But I’ll try.”

The silence that followed felt different from the one before. Less brittle. Less like standing on opposite sides of a crack in the ice waiting to see who fell through first. They were still fumbling for solid ground, unsure where to step, but at least they seemed to be standing on the same side of the fracture now.

Jo shifted in her chair and reached for one of the little extras that had come with their order, absently turning it between her fingers. "For the record," she said, leaning back slightly until she was balancing on the rear legs of her chair, "I've always suspected your hands were magical." The corner of her mouth twitched, brows raising with the unmistakable innuendo. "You just stubbornly refused to demonstrate." With that she flicked the small ginger candy lightly across the table toward Leila. "Rude, really."

Then, after a beat, Jo sighed and rubbed her hand across her forehead, briefly stopping to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Alright. Fine. I haven't been completely honest with you." The words came easy as her expression settled into something quieter, allowing the teasing to ebb away. "There is another reason I came over here."

"You remind me of someone I used to know." She let that hang for a second, her gaze settling on him once more. "But he hasn't been around in a while." Her eyes stayed on him, searching, weighing, waiting for something. "But you act nothing like him."

"Thursday, eleven, it is," they said with a sly smile. "And you know us, we're open all day and all night, especially for paying customers such as yourself."

Ayumu slid a hand in the pocket of their coat to retrieve a card that they held out to Jo between two fingers. "Send a message to the number on this card and we will take care of everything, Detective."

"That's a common trait with you inconsequential humans. Self-deprecation, self-flagellation... It's boring. Especially when your lives are so short and so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You're just gone in the blink of an eye. Why should I bother to pay you any mind?" And yet becoming human was something Matthew's past self wanted and it was something he paid dearly for.

"No," the syllable stretched and petered off into a breathy laugh as her head lolled to the side, her attention zeroing in on a loose thread at the side seam of her jeans. "I just prefer being in control. I'm already slave to one demon, I don't need another." The confession seemed just as inconsequential as everything else. If anything, his big-headed self would probably think she was talking about him.

The thought drifted away again almost immediately, her attention snagging instead on something else. She found herself looking at Matthew for a second longer than she'd intended. Then longer still. Something wasn't fitting. For all his complaining about humans and their shortcomings, he was taking an awful lot of them tonight. Usually there would've been shadows creeping along the walls and floor by now. Some display of power. Some threat. Some reminder that Matthew wasn't human and never would be.

But there was nothing.

Jo squinted at him. "What's wrong with you?"

IN THE STILLNESS OF THE ROOM, Leila felt something crack. Not all at once. The hairline fracture had formed the moment Jo told her about the runes, and now only seemed to widen.

She saw the way Jo shifted back. The absence of her leg against hers. The retreat of her hands. Small things, perhaps. Innocent things.

Her stomach dropped anyway.

She had known the withdrawal was coming, had foolishly hoped that she would be wrong. That it might be different with Jo. It didn’t even reach her as disappointment, rather recognition of a truth she’d always understood. That didn’t make the absence hurt any less.

The distance between them felt suddenly vast.

Why didn't you tell me? The irony of it nearly made her laugh. Because that had always been the question, hadn't it? As though it had ever been that simple.

“I haven’t told anyone.” A pause. “Hadn’t,” she corrected. How strange.

“You’re the first.”

Leila cleared her throat. There was no doubt in her mind that Jo believed her. And now there was no going back.

“I told you I was raised by my grandmother— and I was. She’s a midwife and an elemental witch.” Even now, her voice warmed with fondness/at the thought of the woman. “She taught me everything I know. Medicinal herbs, protection charms, how to heal the body.”

“But I did have parents. They didn’t die —or I don’t think they did. I never knew them, not really.” For years, she had told herself that she'd found peace with her parents’ choices, had learned the lesson, and could move forward with her life. That a five-year-old girl standing in a garden with dirt beneath her fingernails and magic in her veins no longer had any hold over her.

“They left me with her when my magic first manifested. I was five and had made a blackberry bush sprout.”

It was a trick she had practiced for weeks, curiosity after she managed to make a blade of grass sway, keeping her rooted to the garden whenever possible. Until one day, she focused hard enough and wiggled her fingers just so. Beaming with pride, she’d called for her mother.

She would never forget the way the woman’s eyes widened, the catch of her breath, the frantic scratch of her voice as she called for her husband.

“Gran swore it wasn’t because of… that they just weren’t prepared to raise a witch.” She laughed, a humorless sound. “They hated me for my magic. I scared them.”

And could she blame them? Magic was a liability. It always had been, and untamed magic was the worst kind. Her gaze refocused, found Jo’s. She couldn’t quite bring herself to study her expression for long. Not when every crease in her expression screamed with mistrust.

Under the table, her knuckles were white beneath the force of her grip. She braced herself for the scrape of Jo’s chair against the floor, a swift departure to mark the end of yet another chapter.

The image wouldn't leave her alone. A five-year-old girl standing in a garden, knobby-kneed and wide-eyed, proud of something she'd done. Excited enough to call for her parents. Certain they'd be proud too.

And instead—

Jo understood all too well how that could mess up a person. Understood how a parent could fail you completely and still matter. How they could abandon you or hurt you, and you could still spend years wanting their love. Wishing things had been different. Desperately trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you.

"You don't scare me." The words came out before Jo could think too hard about them. "Or, well," she amended quietly, her gaze slipping away for half a second, "not because of that at least." She wanted to reach for Leila. To hold her. To fix whatever had splintered and broken between them. The urge was almost painfully strong, but Jo didn't know what to do with it. The distance between them felt strange now—smaller in some ways, impossibly large in others. "And I could never hate you."

"I'm sorry. About your parents." The words felt woefully inadequate. She paused, jaw working slightly as she searched for what to say. Leila had cracked herself open for her, and she could barely string a coherent sentence together. "That sucks." Her throat felt strangely tight, panic rearing its head as she could practically feel Leila slipping away. "For them, mostly. Because they never got to know you."

Silence settled between them, and Jo's gaze dropped to the table, her hands curling into fists as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. The next words caught somewhere on the way out, stubborn in a way that had nothing to do with uncertainty and everything to do with how rarely she allowed herself to say things like this. When she looked back at Leila, there was no trace of the earlier retreat left in her expression, only something quieter and far more exposed. "You don't have to hide with me."

He stayed still for her examination but raised an eyebrow at her 'off the record' request. It would have been better to ask that question before the conversation had become so catty, but Elijah was equally responsible for that. In the future he needed to work on keeping his own emotions and annoyance in check when it came to his family. Still, he spread his hands and sat back in his chair. "You're welcome to ask anything you'd like." Personal questions tended to have a chance that he would answer honestly if it wouldn't reveal any secrets.

"Right," she replied in the same measured tone despite his apparent animosity, deciding not to pursue the topic any further. She had said her piece, had done what they had sent her to do. So far all he had done was implicate his son and prove himself to be a liar—only one of which would make it into her report. Whether he chose to pass the police's message along mattered little to her as a person.

The question she was about to ask him was one Jo knew he was likely to take as a slight against him—and perhaps, on some level, it was—but her interest was a much more personal one. "Do you love your son?"

LEILA WASN’T HAPPY. In fact, she was conflicted. She watched the way Jo shifted, leaned forward as if this was the one break she needed. Whispers of what magic had cost her echoed in the silence. She had grown in her parents' absence, come to appreciate the talents that set her apart. Magic was beautiful, in its own way, and she counted herself lucky to possess it. Not everyone agreed. If Jo didn’t… well.

The rising panic didn’t quite survive the nickname. Li.

Jo hadn't questioned her motives. Hadn't asked why the source wanted anonymity or what they stood to gain. She'd agreed without hesitation. Leila knew it then. Whatever she said next, Jo would believe her. She still had an out. An intermediary. A friend of a friend. Some conveniently distant source she could point to instead.

She could handle it being off the record. Using magic to heal unsuspecting patients likely fell into a legal grey area—particularly when it saved their lives. Yet that was the least of her concerns. The space between them felt steadier than she expected—which somehow made it worse. Because the question was no longer whether Jo would believe her. It was what happened after she did.

Leila didn’t move away. If anything, the steady press of Jo’s leg against hers was an anchor. “Is it cheap if it works?” she smiled despite herself. It was a reminder that this was still Jo. Who had so firmly placed her trust in her… she deserved the same.

She watched with faint amusement as Jo tried the curry. “Ecstatic.” Her fingers tightened once around the spoon before she set it down entirely. “And no… I didn’t mean to make you wait. I just—” She ducked her head, studying the curry as though it might offer a solution. “Can’t say I’ve ever had this conversation before.”

The words caught for only a moment.

“I’m the informant.” Her eyes found Jo’s. “I’m a witch, Jo.”

The admission settled between them. Not comfortably — something sharper, more fragile—  but left her feeling lighter all the same. Somehow, in a city where she’d embraced Leila, she’d never felt more like Líadan. “I can’t say I’ll be able to explain everything,” she said quietly. Then, after a breath, she corrected herself, softer but clearer. “But I’ll do what I can.”

Then Leila told her she was a witch.

The smile slipped away first, faded slowly as the words settled somewhere deeper than Jo had expected them to.

Her gaze followed, lowering to somewhere between Leila's hands and the nearly untouched food sitting between them. She shifted back in her chair without seeming to realize she was doing it, drawing her leg away beneath the table. The movement was small, almost absentminded, but the contact disappeared as she pulled back beneath the shelter of her own chair. A second later her hands followed, retreating from the table to settle in her lap. For the first time since she'd arrived, Jo seemed unsure what to do with herself.

Because she hadn't seen it. Not once.

She opened her mouth, stopped, then tried again. Nothing came out. Questions crowded against one another behind her eyes, half-formed and impossible to separate.

She had spent months collecting details about Leila without meaning to. The way her accent thickened when she was tired or upset. The books she read and reread. The foods she ordered. The shape of her handwriting. The place at the base of her neck where tension always gathered after long study sessions. The look she got whenever Jo showed up bruised and pretended she wasn't.

And somehow none of it had been enough.

The thought lodged itself uncomfortably beneath her ribs and refused to move.

Maybe she hadn't been paying attention.

Maybe she'd gotten careless.

Maybe she'd mistaken familiarity for closeness.

Maybe she'd built a version of their friendship in her head that had never really existed.

The conclusion sat heavy in her chest. Because Jo knew what it was like to keep parts of yourself hidden. She knew what it was like to carry something ugly or complicated and decide it was easier not to let people see it. Knew what it was like to look someone in the eye and choose silence.

But she would've thought—

She would've hoped—

That she was someone Leila could tell.

Maybe that was unfair. Leila hadn't done anything wrong. She didn't owe anyone her secrets. And she was telling her now.

But that didn't make it hurt less.

It would've been easier to leave it there. To swallow the hurt, let it settle somewhere private and move on. She was good at that. Most people would've never known it was there. But Jo couldn't seem to make herself look away from it. The case had vanished completely from her mind. The marks. The murders. The possible demon connection. All of it. Leila had just handed her exactly what she'd been looking for and Jo couldn't seem to reach for it. None of it seemed particularly important right now.

He shrugged, not missing the way she corrected him about using her name rather than her title but deciding not to harp on it. "I'm happy to throw a message into the void but I can't guarantee anything. You might have more luck putting something up on bulletin boards around town or posting it somewhere norex recommends. It might even sound better coming from another human rather from someone supernatural. Possibly even more so if it seems to come from you directly rather than the police" If Elijah was their most direct link to Eiji, then that presumably meant that they weren't looking at Rei as a link. He would prefer to keep it that way. "What sort of message would you want me to send?"

"That is simply not how these things work." The suggestion of bulletin boards and public posts was so spectacularly counterproductive that for a second she wasn't entirely sure whether he understood what she was offering or whether he was deliberately pretending not to. "I'm not asking you to publicly advocate on behalf of the police. I'm asking you to discreetly pass along a message." Her expression remained neutral. "The department is willing to talk. That's it. If Eiji wants nothing to do with us, then he can ignore it. If he wants to hear what we have to say, then he can make that decision himself. Either way, broadcasting it to the whole city completely defeats the purpose. The second that offer becomes public, it's worthless. Best case scenario, Artemis decides he's become a liability. Worst case..." She paused. "It gets him killed."

“SMART,” LEILA COMMENTED, quietly impressed by Jo’s foresight. The more she spoke about it, the more apparent it became that this wasn’t a passing suspicion. How long had she been building this case? Her eyes narrowed at the marks. Demons. The only species she was dubious about, although she did her best to remain impartial. The same could be said of her coven’s affinity for black magic, the necromancers who had already taught her a plethora about toeing the line between life and death. So, she held a quiet respect for demons. Perhaps there was a good reason behind the markings… but there was only one way to know for sure.

“No, they’re not,” she agreed. And not without reason. Suspicion often surrounded the supernatural community, whether there was a reason for it or not. Her own family had once been easily swayed against her kind. This case was different, however. Sigils, patterns, it was all too obvious. “And I’d imagine if said well-connected businessman were tied to a demon, they would go to great lengths to hide it.” Or retaliate against any overly curious officers who tried to uncover it.

As soon as she thought it, the answer became obvious. Somehow it felt as though she was hurtling toward an impasse; Jo already knew her by her real name —the one so many struggled over— and trusted her enough to let her tend to scrapes and bruises, even if the latter had initially taken some convincing. She might as well know how those bruises seemed to heal so quickly.

And if it meant saving a man from spending the rest of his life in prison and returning a father to his family, she could do it. For Jo. “I might know someone who can help."

Underneath the table, her thumb pressed into her thigh, the food on her plate losing its appeal. “So long as you promise to keep your informant anonymous.” The corner of her lips quirked up, faintly strained beneath the attempt at levity, “And try the curry before you start your questioning.”

The moment Leila said she might know someone who could help, everything else ceased to exist. The food in front of her was forgotten. The conversation around them disappeared beneath the rush of possibility. "You do?" The question came quieter than the shift in her posture suggested, interest pulling her forward in her seat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, it felt like she might actually be looking at a way through the wall she'd been throwing herself against. "Li, if you have someone who can—"

Jo caught herself when the conditions followed, nodding once without hesitation. "Done." There was a not unsubstantial chance that agreeing so readily would come back to bite her later, but anonymous sources only became a problem when the evidence behind them couldn't survive scrutiny. "I'll keep it entirely off the record. You have my word."

The promise of anonymity dissolved into a long-suffering groan at the mention of curry, whatever questions Jo had intended to ask held at bay only by the look Leila was giving her, whatever might've briefly snagged her attention in Leila’s phrasing sliding off before it could land anywhere solid. She nudged her foot against Leila's calf beneath the table in silent protest, the gesture carrying considerably more complaint than actual annoyance. "That's a cheap move." The contact should have ended there. Instead, her leg remained where it was, resting lightly against Leila's, the contact as incidental as the kiss she brushed against her friend's cheek in lieu of a thank you whenever Leila patched her up.

When that failed to produce the desired result, Jo's expression flattened. "You're really going to make me wait, aren't you?" There was no real irritation behind it, her sigh deliberately exaggerated as she reached across the table to steal a taste of the curry before pointing vaguely in Leila's direction. "Happy?"

"And I thought you'd know by now that I'm always unpleasant. Comes with the territory, especially when it comes to humans like yourself..." What was one more human lying bleeding and dying in an alley anyway? Matthew did not owe any of them anything, least of all one who was as annoying as Joanna Darling.

The fallen deity watched as Joanna's head lolled backwards and she floated on the euphoria that being fed from had brought her. It was a familiar feeling, one that Matthew chased more often than not himself, one that he was there that night to engage in as well. But Joanna did not have a demon's physical disposition and to a human like her, it was courting death. And perhaps in Matthew's current depowered state, would it be the same for him too?

The smile lingered a second before her attention drifted elsewhere, following lights she wasn't entirely sure were moving before it returned to Matthew. "Why? I mean, I get it. You have a stick up your ass the size of the Eiffel Tower, but why? Aren't we just kind of… inconsequential to you? Isn't everyone?" The observation arrived without any real bite behind it. More curiosity than accusation. More the sort of thing that slipped out when her usual filter had packed up and gone home.

LEILA TOOK THE MINOR VICTORY GRACEFULLY, watching with restrained amusement as Jo broke her stare. As content as she was to know she’d met the challenge, she much preferred the understanding it brought. The way Jo’s words seemed to contradict themselves. How readily she flirted and made jokes to deflect, only for her voice to soften and lose its teasing edge when she allowed herself sincerity. She was far more serious than Leila had initially given her credit for, something that became clearer the longer Jo talked her through her suspicions.

Green eyes flicked to her wrist, the swipe of her thumb against the delicate skin. It wasn’t the first time that evening that Jo had favored it. On the couch, when Leila was meant to be engrossed in vascular anatomy, Jo had flinched. It was subtle, a shift of weight to her other side, perhaps she didn’t even notice that she’d done it. The spot was tender. Leila had played doctor to her before, at first only at her own insistence, but gradually Jo trusted her enough to seek her out. There was a physicality to her work, an accepted risk that came with being a police officer, so the brunette never passed judgment.

Still, she didn’t like the frequency. Was this more of the same?

Just as she suspected that complacency wasn’t the cause for Jo’s injuries, it didn’t explain Lahey’s case. Not when his ‘murder’s’ social media told such a different story. She frowned at the photo. “He wouldn’t risk losing them.” Were Lahey to be believed, where there should have stood a grizzled murderer, instead stood a devoted family man.

“What could he even gain from the murders? Anything is possible, but…” she pinched the screen to zoom in on the man’s face, careful not to react to the post. “This man doesn’t strike me as a mercenary.” Instead, her eyes narrowed on Rourke’s grin. On its surface, there was nothing inherently wrong with the developer’s aspirations, the proud gleam of perfectly straight teeth. Still, she caught on the way the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“He’s covering his tracks the best way he knows how.” But it didn’t explain how the two would have met, or where. On the surface, their circles couldn’t be further apart.

But Jo was right. Supernatural involvement couldn’t be dismissed. There were corners of the city where long shadows were cast, where people went to disappear. Or to make deals. As many supernaturals as there were in Vievecor, the city was not infallible. Corruption still thrived, perhaps more so than in other cities, as it had an additional population to exploit. Many of the city’s species would go to great lengths to maintain their secrecy.

Wasn’t that why she only visited her coven in the early mornings, slipping away just as the crowds began their commute so she could disappear among them unnoticed?

She had noted the way Jo didn’t recoil from the folklore. The concept was difficult for others to grasp: how ingrained the legends of the faire folk were in her upbringing. If Jo could accept the Féth Fíada… would it be such a reach to accept cailleach phiseogach?

Her thoughts lingered on the topic long after their food was delivered.

"It's not the files that are the problem." A small shrug followed. "I made copies of what I could before they closed it. Reports. Photos. Statements." She took a bite before continuing. "Enough to keep working." The admission came easily and Jo didn't look particularly guilty about it. "It's everything around them." She leaned back slightly in her chair, absently pushing a piece of food around her plate, her appetite already losing ground to the conversation. "I just keep running into things I can't verify. There are these weird marks at some of the scenes. Patterns that repeat. Witness statements that stop making sense when you line them up next to each other." Her jaw shifted slightly. "Enough that I don't think I'm imagining it. Not enough that I can officially accuse a well-connected businessman of making sacrifices to a demon." The words were delivered dryly enough that they almost sounded like a joke. Almost.

"Usually when something brushes up against the supernatural, the department has people we can ask." She paused. "I obviously can't do that. I could try to ask around, but you might've noticed that most supernaturals aren't exactly eager to work with law enforcement."

"If you don't know, then you should." Ezra's head tilts briefly. "You're beautiful, Joanna. And in a perfect position to be of use to me. But... there's countless others in this city who possess such qualities, if I cared to look." His eyes remain locked to hers, careful. "Your intelligence, the way you see things - those traits are rarer, and of much more value to me. You should always take care to keep that mind of yours sharp. For your sake, and your brother's."

Was there, perhaps, in some small hidden crevice of what had once been his soul, a part of him that wished his hand could linger a little longer against her warmth? He was not a fool, he knew without their agreement she would spend not a moment longer at his side. And still, there were some moments she drew a second glance from him, something more than the usual disdain, even if he would never allow her to see it.

Any real meaning quickly vanishes, however, as he flashes her a hard grin. He notes the way words snag in her throat, the insult she throws carelessly in his direction. "You should watch yourself, Darling." The words aren't quite a threat, but they're icier than before - the brief warmth she'd seen covered with the usual demon mask. "You can thank my inflated ego for keeping your brother alive. For keeping you alive, on more than one occasion." His eyes narrow. "You'd do well to remember that gifts given can be just as easily taken away."

Still, a small slither of amusement does return as she mentions the ring, a brow arching. "I wasn't aware you enjoyed our... arrangement so much. If you wanted another engagement ring from me, Joanna, all you had to do was ask."

Ezra watches Jo closely, listens to her words without interruption or sarcasm, for once. Even with the sharpness to her tone, he does not rise to it, no immediate bite to meet hers.

"Your soul is who you are, Joanna. Everything you've been, everything you will become." He nears her, just slightly, enough so he can lower his voice. "You signed that all away to me. Don't make the mistake of believing there's any part of you left that I cannot see." After a moment his brows furrow, a glance back out to the crowd. "And who's to say it's all so terrible? You've seen things most humans can only dream of." A pause. "And I am always watching over you, in some way - keeping you safe, when nobody else can."

Ezra watches the expression on her face as she takes his hand with visible amusement, doing little to disguise the entertainment her clear contempt provides. His hand closes around hers firmly, and without a further word he guides her out - once again passing through the crowd without a touch, bodies seeming to open up around them until they reach the exit, and the cold air of the night greets them.

---

It's only a short walk to their destination. He remains quiet, though his hand remains on hers. To anyone watching, they would seem almost ordinary - a young couple making their way home after a night out together.

Ezra had long owned many buildings in the city, under many names. The skyrise a few blocks over happened to be one of them. As he guides her to the entrance, doormen cast the glass panes of the entryway open wide before he says a word. Smoothly he makes his way to the elevator, soon pressing the button to reach the roof.

"I've never brought anyone here before." Ezra muses as the elevator rises, more to himself than her, though he does briefly glance in her direction just as they reach their destination. The immaculate metal of the doors open before them - revealing a picture of what could have been taken from a wildlife magazine rather than a skyrise in Vievecor City.

A glass dome encloses the rooftop, the air warm and faintly humid. Vines and flowering plants twist around dark metal beams overhead, thick with greenery. Somewhere deeper within the foliage comes the distant chirp of tropical birds. It feels less like stepping onto a rooftop, and more like entering a hidden botanical garden suspended above the city.

Slowly, Ezra guides her along a stone path winding between flowerbeds. Ahead, illuminated by candelight, waits a carefully set table - two chairs arranged opposite each other, looking down over the city below.

"I come here sometimes. When the city has worn me down." Ezra glances out at the skyline of the city through the glass, the dimmed light of the stars above them. Even for its height, the rooftop is oddly silent - only the rustle of leaves and the occasional call of unseen birds disturbing the stillness. Magic, woven into the space long ago, muffling the endless noise of the city beneath them. "It's one of the few places I can find peace."

Finally, he turns back to her, one arm gesturing casually toward the table.

"Please, take a seat, if you wish. I have a surprise for you, assuming you're willing to stay a little longer." An almost gentle smile makes an appearance, as if some guard has been lowered in this space, a sanctuary no one else is usually ever permitted to see.

And then he yanks the thread so forcefully, she wants to sever it completely—cripple them both—just to spite him. There are rules and boundaries to magic, to demon contracts, but he is old as the night is dark and she has been waiting for him to reveal some catch, some loophole since the moment their deal had been struck. It's a trade, not a gift, she wants to argue, and he isn't half as interested in keeping her alive as he is in keeping their arrangement going. But she has already pushed him far enough for one night. As eager as she is to risk her life, she cannot risk Nathan.

Jo's mouth twists when he mentions getting her another ring. She scoffs, still bitter at the—not entirely unprovoked—reminder that everything can be taken away. She doesn't believe that he understands the concept. That it is meant to be a promise, not yet another leash and collar.

Your soul is who you are, he says and she couldn't disagree more, but before her protest can take form, it withers and dies at the back of her throat. The part that catches her is simpler than that. Don't make the mistake of believing there's any part of you left that I cannot see. He delivers it like a threat but watches her like he already knows the outcome. The words settle somewhere beneath her ribs with all the grace of a knife. Jo looks away first, jaw tightening as a shiver works its way down her spine anyway, her gaze drifting back toward the sea of strangers around them. She should hate hearing it. Maybe part of her still does. But for all the ways he has ruined her life, Mikah is also one of the only constants left in it. He sees the parts of her she spends most of her time trying to outrun and somehow continues looking at her as though none of it changes anything.

Jo expects shadows when he leads her away. Darkness. A tear in reality. A display of power. Something theatrical enough to remind her exactly what he is. Remind her of the glaring power imbalance between them. Instead he simply walks. Leads her through the crowd, through the noise and music, the bodies packed shoulder to shoulder beneath strings of festival lights. His hand remains closed around hers as though there is nothing remarkable about it, and she makes no move to pull away either. She follows him without question. Maybe because she's tired. Maybe because she's drunk. Maybe because she's had enough. Whatever the reason, by the time the elevator doors slide open again she still hasn't thought to ask where they're going.

-

The rooftop isn't remotely what she expected either. She comes to a stop the second she steps through the doorway, her eyes sweeping across the glass dome, the climbing vines, the impossible abundance of green stretching above the city skyline. Warm air brushes against her skin carrying the scent of damp earth and growing things. For a moment she simply stares. This place is alive in a way she never would've associated with him. She would've expected stone. Shadows. Something buried underground where sunlight couldn't reach. Something cold and still and ancient. Instead she finds flowers and greenery and the careful evidence of something tended over time.

Her gaze drifts sideways toward him, the echo of his earlier words lingering in her mind. It's one of the few places I can find peace. A statement she had considered absurd. Still considers absurd. For a brief second she wonders whether she stumbled and hit her head somewhere during the evening and this entire night is an elaborate hallucination. Whether she'll wake up in her apartment tomorrow morning with a splitting headache and no memory of how she got there. The thought nearly earns a laugh. Instead she digs her nails lightly into her palm, grounding herself in the faint sting, and lets her attention return to him. Dream, hallucination, cruel joke—whatever this turns out to be—she doesn't want to know.

She doesn't want to know whether this version of him is real. Whether the softness is genuine or calculated. Whether this is another manipulation, another lesson, another carefully arranged situation where he'll eventually remind her just how thoroughly she belongs to him. She is tired of pulling things apart. Tired of looking for the catch. If it's a lie, then let him lie. If it's a performance, let him perform.

The chair scrapes softly against the stone as she pushes it back to sit. Her gaze lingers briefly on the city beyond the glass, then lifts to him. "You know I hate surprises."

He kept his face in a neutral sort of smile while Jo started talking more about Eiji. He actually found her assertion that Eiji was just a pawn in everything artemis was doing and didn't have a part in planning any of it vaguely insulting. The hacks made much more sense if Eiji had been one of the masterminds, but that wasn't a sentiment he was planning to share. "That sounds more like a referendum on my parenting than any sort of investigative strategy. You could get all of that from the rumor mill without having to talk to me."

"I don't control him, Jo. At this point I think you'd do a better job getting through to him or other artemis members. You're a human who sees supernatural messes all the time, you probably understand their points better than any of us." He remembered Jo not being happy with the supernatural and wanted to see if he could lure her into revealing something.

The faint tightening at the corners of Elijah's eyes told her she'd struck a nerve despite the carefully maintained smile. He was better at controlling his reactions than most people, but not nearly as good as he seemed to think he was. The offense appeared and disappeared in the space of a heartbeat, buried beneath a change in subject. At least he wasn't dumb enough to argue the scale of his son's involvement for the sake of his own vanity. Still, she had practically handed him an excuse. A way to minimize Eiji's role. A way to frame him as manipulated rather than culpable. Most parents would've taken it immediately. But not Elijah Remington. "That's a little dramatic, don't you think?" she replied when he called it a referendum on his parenting. If it were, the verdict would've been far less flattering than the version she'd just handed him. "And we're not in the habit of building cases on rumors."

"Detective," she corrected lightly though her expression remained neutral, "and my personal opinions are not relevant to this investigation." Jo uncrossed one leg and leaned back slightly, settling into the chair without surrendering an ounce of her focus. "I think you misunderstand why I am here, Professor. I'm not asking you to control Eiji. I'm asking you to deliver a message. You say you already sent several. Messages you believed he might eventually see, even if he hasn't responded." She let that hang for a moment. "At this point in time, you are our most direct link." He wasn't. But the alternative had never found its way into an official report.

LEILA SAW THE WORDS COMING BEFORE SHE HEARD THEM, the telltale twitch of Jo’s lips dragging her gaze downward for a brief moment. I always thought playing doctor was supposed to be a more pleasurable experience. She rolled her eyes, though there was no heat behind it. Always an incorrigible flirt.

Not that she minded, the lines never worked anyway. At first, she merely saw them as distractions, blinders that simply got in the way of parsing her true thoughts. Eventually, she’d begrudgingly come to find them endearing. She’d always had a soft spot for bangs. “It is.” A wolfish grin spread across her lips. “For the doctor, anyway.”

She hummed. “Obviously, can’t protect the city with tight shoulders.” The joke lingered only briefly before Jo relented, her quiet exhale shifting the room’s levity into something more serious. It was her turn to fall silent, watching Jo instead, struck by the way her mind shifted gears so cleanly—humor giving way to a sharp, disciplined focus. The back of her neck warmed under her stare. What was behind that fire, she wondered. It was more than a simple desire to be right, or some contrarian impulse against authority. Her determination held steady even in the face of dismissal, the set of her jaw betraying devotion to something grander than ego: the truth.

Above all, Leila was inclined to trust Jo’s instinct. She had the mind of a detective, and it was impossible to hide the quiet smoldering of admiration beneath her gaze. God help the man on the wrong side of Jo’s determination.

“Not to question the chief,” she began, careful to tread lightly where Jo’s father was concerned. She would like to believe that the man might give credence to his daughter’s concerns, even if she had little reason to think that. “But you’re right. There’s no telling what could have been done or said to coerce a confession, especially if he has a record. If the case is truly that airtight, and he confessed…” She was far from being an expert; at best, she was a devoted amateur true crime TV viewer, but the facts didn’t sit right with her either. “What if Lahey found the evidence a little too conveniently? I’d imagine someone careful enough to extend their crime spree across multiple districts wouldn’t be so willing to hand themselves over.”

The mention of supernaturals gave her pause. Leila hadn’t divulged her own ties to the supernatural, and, not for the first time, she considered telling Jo the truth. It was an unusual sway towards honesty, and she swallowed it down. “It would be… naive to assume there isn’t a supernatural element at play, especially here.” She chose her words carefully, fingers toying with the fraying edge of one of her papers. “We have a myth in Ireland called the Féth Fíada. It’s an enchanted mist given to the druids and the Tuatha Dé Danann — the god-folk,” she clarified for Jo’s benefit. “They used it as a veil to conceal themselves and walk undetected in the realm of men.” Her gaze rose from the table, the light catching the glint in her eye. “Whether it’s true or not, it’s said the veil separates the magical world from the mortal one. I would argue it’s thinnest in a city like Vievecor.”

The heavier turn in conversation came easier with her than it did with most people. Leila never recoiled from the ugly parts once Jo stopped sanding the edges off of them. Never gave her that strained look people got when discussions drifted too close to violence or coercion or the uglier realities of the city they lived in. She listened. Thought about it. Followed the logic instead of dismissing it outright, and Jo could feel some tight knot in her chest loosen slightly as Leila picked apart the same details that had been needling at her for weeks now. Even the way Leila skirted around mentioning the chief directly sat strangely soft against old bruises Jo had only ever let her near.

“That’s what bothers me,” she admitted, quieter now, gaze drifting back toward the papers scattered across the table. “It’s too clean. Too convenient.” Her thumb rubbed absently against the side of her wrist before she caught herself and let her arms fold again instead. “Lahey’s been doing this for decades. He’s not stupid. Which means either he missed something huge...” Her jaw shifted faintly. “Or he didn’t.”

The mention of old Irish myths drew her attention fully back toward Leila then, the idea fitting almost too neatly into the reality of Vievecor to ignore. A city built on concealment. Every species had its own way of bending perception, slipping past notice, making humans doubt what they’d seen. As Leila spoke, Jo found herself watching her again with that same helpless focus she always seemed to slip into around her eventually, tracking the movement of her hands, the shape of her mouth as the Irish curled softly off her tongue, her accent thickening around the unfamiliar words in a way Jo found distractingly beautiful. “Yeah,” she said quietly once Leila finished, nodding more to herself than anything. “I think the veil’s probably threadbare here.”

At the question about his prior convictions, Jo exhaled softly through her nose before pushing herself upright off the table. “They were desperate,” she said, crossing back toward her phone. “Petty theft. Breaking and entering. Fraud.” The kind of crimes committed by someone life had backed hard enough into a corner, not someone who enjoyed hurting people. She unlocked the screen and pulled up a social media profile before stepping back toward Leila, angling it so she could see. “He’s got three kids,” she said, pulling up a photo. A little girl missing her front teeth sat on a man’s shoulders while two younger boys clung to either side of him, all grinning at some county fair. “His wife’s been sick for years. Their medical debt is through the roof. Half the stuff on his record started after that.” Her thumb tapped once lightly against the edge of the screen to keep it lit. “I can absolutely believe he stole for them. I can believe he confessed for them too. But this—” She shook her head. "Those murders were gratuitous, almost ritualistic."

Her expression tightened faintly as she switched to another article. Another man stared back from the screen—Magnus Rourke, all tailored suits and polished smiles beside headlines about development projects and expanding investments throughout Vievecor. Jo scrolled once more, revealing a photograph lower in the article of Rourke beside Lahey at some private club event, whiskey glasses in hand.