Jet had a handful of not so kind words for you when you finally showed up to work the next day, first for being late and then for not seeking medical attention the night before.  

“If you are unable to handle a single threat independently,” Jet had seethed, emailing medical about your impending visit as he spoke, “then you might consider a change in title.”  

You didn’t say a thing in protest. You ignored the orders to report to medical, and instead made your way back to your desk in the bullpen, pulling up the open case file on your shitty, ancient desktop computer. You added new notes to the shade’s file, new findings on its abilities and appearance, and drafted an email to a magical expert on Death. Unfortunately, that expert lived in Tanzania, so you would have to find someone who could translate your message to Swahili, and his back to English for any of it to matter.  

You missed lunch entirely, too focused on the work in front of you to glance down at the desktop clock or the silver watch your father had given you last Christmas that you wore invariably. You only recognized that it was nearing one in the afternoon when a hand tapped your desk, drawing your attention away from your investigation for the first time in hours.  

Dr. Collins was an intimidating man. You weren’t afraid of him, per say, but you certainly didn’t want to end up on the bad side of his death glare. When you looked up, recognizing his Department emblazoned white coat and the irritated crinkle in his brow, you shifted your gaze from his silver eyes to the bridge of his alkaline nose.  

“Investigator,” Collins’ drawl clipped his words particularly aggressively, “care to tell me why I received a memo that you were reporting to my office hours ago only to find you at your desk, looking like you just got dragged back from Hell?”  

Doctor Sam Collins was one of the rare vampires employed by the Department’s medical division. He oversaw the onsite infirmary, headed the magical/medical research in the Department’s underground labs, and liaised with D.A.M.N. concerning their healing courses. The only reason he was afforded those positions, of course, was because of his incredible power pre-turning.  

I was a wolf, Milo had said. You wondered if Collins had that same sort of grief in his voice when talking about his power.  

“Probably because I was, Doc.” You shrugged, stretching your back for the first time in hours. A series of loud, obtrusive cracks echoed out through the nearly empty room. When had everybody else left? You checked your watch. Lunch. Right. 

“I told you you’d find them here.” An indignant huff from behind you. You whipped your head around, your neck popping audibly at the sudden movement. Cam was standing at the entrance of the bullpen, his hands on his hips. You’d never seen him look annoyed before. His face was usually blank and serene.  

“You were right.” Collins shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re lucky your friend has a good read on you, Investigator. I was fixing to sick your supervisor after you. And I’ve worked with Jet long enough to know how unpleasant that would be.”  

You groaned, your head falling back to rest against your stiff office chair. God, your head was pounding. Your throat felt like something had clawed its way out of it. Your stomach was still uneasy. Your muscles ached.  

“You look terrible.” Cam said, suddenly much closer to you. You jerked at his nearness, nearly toppling out of your chair. The Doctor’s unnatural reflexes saved you. All of the annoyance leaked from him at once as he knelt to begin examining you. His hands were cold when they rested on your forehead, tilted your face this way and that. You wondered if it was a result of his vampiric condition, or if it was because he was a doctor.  

“Double whammy.” You muttered, your eyes slipping closed.  

“You’re delirious.” Collins replied. Healing magic sparked around you, warm and bright like sunshine. You let it wash over your skin, not fighting against Collins’ assessment or Cam’s gentle, soothing touch.  

“Are you making me calmer?” You asked Cam, more accusatory than anything. He huffed, offended.  

“I wouldn’t without asking.” Cam assured you. “I think... you’re just too tired to fight back.”  

“Something got its hooks in you.” The Doctor added. Cool hands hovered over the skin of your neck. “I’m gonna touch, just for a second. Let’s take care of these bruises.” 

“Bruises?” You croaked, just as Collins’ hands slid around your neck. His magic swelled around you, and you swung out, pushed at his shoulders to try and get him away. Your heart began to race, your body suddenly awake and alert. You stood, pushing your chair away and stumbling back from Collins and Cam.  

“Easy!” The doctor said, his hands extended in front of him like he was surrendering. Cam had a strange, sad look to him. Pity. Your stomach turned.  

“I’m sick.” You snapped, shaking your hands out at your sides. You were suddenly filled with anxious energy. “The flu.”  

Cam said your name, so soft and cloying. You knew that tone. He was talking down to you, treating you like you couldn’t handle this. You could handle this.  

“I should go home.” You said. “Since I have the flu.” Doctor Collins squinted at you. Those silver eyes nearly pulled you in. Your hand twitched to your phone. You should call Milo.  

“Let someone take you.” He ordered. “I’d do it myself if the damn sun wasn’t still up. You’re lucky you work on this side of the building, or I wouldn’t have been able to come up and see you in person.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his body sagging a bit. He looked exhausted all of a sudden. What a waste, you thought. He can’t help me.  

“I’ll be fine.” You said, shaking your head. “I’ll get an Uber or something.”  

“Please wait,” Cam said, stepping forward, a hand outstretched towards you, “let me take you home.” 

“It’s fine, Cam,” you sighed, “you’ve gotta get back to work.”  

It was raining by the time you stepped outside, and the late-summer, early-fall chill left you shivering and soaked. You hadn’t bothered with a jacket when you came stumbling into work, and you hadn’t bothered to snag the umbrella you kept in your desk’s bottom drawer for days just like this. Summer in Dahlia meant sudden rainstorms and that damp sort of air that hurt to breathe.  

Well, breathing hurt in general, at that moment. You stalked down the sidewalk, soaked through, and tried to decide where you were going.  

Home was in the opposite direction, but you refused to turn back and be seen as wandering from the Department’s windows. You kept moving, calling up your known paths through the city, trying to remember where you could double back.  

A car pulled up beside you, low to the ground, shining, and blood red. You ignored it, crossed your arms over your chest, and kept moving. You had learned by this point in your life not to give catcallers the time of day.  

“Hey Sweetness,” the voice of this particular catcaller got your attention. You stopped short, turned. Milo’s car halted its crawl. The sedan behind him honked impatiently, but Milo paid them no mind. “Whatcha doing out here in the rain? Not that I’m complaining about the wet shirt part.”  

“Asshole.” You whispered, but you opened the passenger door and deposited yourself inside, dripping all over his leather interior. 

“Woah,” Milo said, his voice suddenly concerned, “you weren’t kidding about the flu. You look like shit.” 

“Gee,” you rolled your eyes, “you flirt. You sure know how to make someone blush.” 

“Hey,” Milo put his car into drive and peeled off of the curb, merging dangerously fast with traffic. He swerved skillfully between cars going too slow for his liking. Your stomach lurched. “I’m expressing concern over here.” 

“I don’t need concern.” You hissed. “If everybody would stop pitying me it would make my fucking day.” 

Milo’s mouth snapped shut. His anger was palpable. Good. You preferred anger to whatever else he was cooking up. Anger you could deal with. Anger was familiar. 

“I’m taking you to my place.” Milo said after a long silence. “I’ll… make you soup. Or something.” 

You sighed, resting your head back against the seat. Your head pounded. You didn’t fight sleep when it pressed against the back of your eyes. 

When you woke, you realized that Milo must have carried you inside. You were in the center of his sinfully soft, sinfully giant bed, tucked into his billion thread-count sheets. You sat up and groaned as your migraine made its presence known. You couldn’t have at least slept that off. That would make your life a fraction easier, and that wasn’t allowed. 

When you got your legs under you, shaky knees and all, you found yourself clad in an oversized tee and boxer shorts. They smelled like Milo, even if you couldn’t imagine him wearing something so casual and you knew he didn’t frequent underwear at all. Or maybe he just went commando when he knew he might get lucky. Either way, he’d gone through the trouble of pulling these out for you, undressing you, re-dressing you, tucking you lovingly in bed. The sentimentality of it all made your stomach flip. 

You could smell something cooking and followed your nose down the stairs and through the twisting halls of Milo’s giant house. Said giant house included a kitchen that gave you a stab of jealousy when you first saw it. Milo wasn’t using it, not for much, anyway. He had an extensive bar cart in one corner, his giant, state of the art fridge was stocked entirely with blood, and his walk-in pantry had one corner filled with sugar snacks. He seemed to only keep food for his fuck buddies. You shivered at the idea of anybody else utilizing those. You would have to start keeping track of them, just to be sure. 

Milo was standing over the stove, a brand new wooden spoon in one hand, his phone pressed to his ear in the other. 

“Davey,” he hissed, “I’m not asking for a lecture. I’m asking how to make it just a little more palatable.” You could hear a deep voice rumble on the other side, but couldn’t make out any words. “Jesus Christ, I should have never called you! I’m not gonna make a fucking bone broth when Cambles so helpfully provides soup in nice little cans.” His eyes flicked to you, whether it was your heartbeat or your snickering that gave you away. He extended one finger to you, as if to say I’ll deal with you in a minute. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, you pretentious asshole.” He hung up. 

“House member?” You asked, crossing to the large island that filled up the middle of the spacious kitchen. There were plastic bags from some pharmacy or another littered around it. You poked around, nosey as ever. Generic painkillers. Three cans of chicken noodle soup. A dozen Gatorades of different flavors. A smattering of cold and flu medicines. Cough drops. He must have grabbed anything he thought might help. Cute. 

“Old friend.” He corrected, turning back to the little pot on the stove in front of him. “Davey doesn’t believe canned soup is a valid form of food. I thought he might have a few ideas on how to improve it. Turns out all he was interested in was telling me off for even buying it.” 

“I can eat canned soup.” You shrugged. “It’s all the same stuff.” 

“Exactly.” Milo huffed. He turned off his burner and started to pour the soup from the pot into one of his sleek, black ceramic bowls. Even his dishware looked expensive. “You get it.” 

He walked the bowl over to you, handed you a spoon, and directed you to one of the stools pushed up under the island. You sat down heavily, snagged a green Gatorade, and downed the soup like a starving man. 

“There’s more.” Milo said, sitting next to you. “And some stuff in the pantry. I just grabbed a buncha’ shit. Don’t know what you like.” 

“You didn’t have to do all that.” You shook your head. Milo refilled your bowl before you could blink. You didn’t protest. 

“Well, you looked like you needed it.” He shrugged. He was trying to act casual, but you could feel him observing you, taking in every detail, like he was waiting for you to keel over. 

Funnily enough, once you scraped your bowl and went to stand, your knees buckled. He caught you, of course. He bundled you into his chest, your cheek pressed against the exposed skin of his peck. Stupid, silken shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Stupid pretty silver necklaces, cold without any body heat of his own. Stupid little shake in his chest as he steadied you. 

“Easy, Sweets.” He said. “Just- will you take it easy? Let me help you.” He was exasperated. Frustrated. 

You pushed back, stumbling away from him. 

“I don’t-“ you shook your head, pressed your hands into the kitchen island and braced yourself. “I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit.” Milo spat. “You look like death warmed over. I can help! Let me help!” 

“I don’t need your help!” You shouted. Your voice rose out of you, anger and stubbornness filling you with newfound energy. “I can handle this! I don’t care what bullshit they put me through, I can handle it!” 

Milo was quiet. He held your gaze. You held his. Your brain screamed to look away, but you couldn’t. He hadn’t even tranced you, but you were trapped. 

“Did-“ he pursed his lips. “What did D.U.M.P. get you into?” 

He read you like a book. You gave too much away. 

“Where are my clothes?” You asked instead of answering him. He huffed, his hands falling to his hips. His stupid, pretty hands. His stupid, muscly hips. You didn’t know if you wanted to hit him or kiss him. 

“No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“What do you mean ‘no?’” 

“I mean I’m not gonna let you go back into whatever the fuck you’re dealing with alone.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he extended that finger again. You didn’t care for that one fucking bit. “And I know you could handle it, Sweetness, you are a force of fucking nature. But you’re not being given the resources you need, and it’s clearly affecting you. So tell me what you need and I will give it to you, Sweetheart!”

“What I need,” you spat, “is for you to stop calling me that!”

“What?” 

“Sweetheart.” You poorly imitated his accent. He huffed out a short laugh. “Sweetness. All those stupid, cute nicknames.”

“Oh, so you think I’m cute?” He crossed his arms over his chest. His face smoothed over into a smile, but you could see the tension in his body. He was giving you an out, a way to step away from the argument before you said something you would regret. 

Fuck him. You would say what you wanted to say. 

“You’re not my boyfriend.” You growled. “And I’m not your mate.” 

It was a calculated killing blow. You knew as it left your tongue that it would hurt, that it would cut him to the bone. The two of you had fucked a handful of times, talked even less, but he, for some goddam reason, had shown you the parts of him that still bled. You hadn’t wanted to use them against him, but you had no choice. Your own weaknesses were so obvious, so clear to the eye, and anybody could use them against you. He was luring you in with all coddling and sweet talking. He didn’t care about you. You wouldn’t let him back you into a corner when you knew how to get away. 

Milo’s face went slack, his whole body rearing back from that word. Your gut twisted with something like guilt. You wouldn’t have that. You twisted your fingers into the collar of his oversized shirt and held on for dear life. This was survival, simple as that. Nothing personal. That was something that Milo of all people would understand. 

“Out.” He hissed finally, breaking the silence that had overtaken the kitchen. Milo’s eyes were dark, darker than they usually were. His pupils had blown to encompass his silver irises. His face went horrific in a split second. Your body reminded you that you were facing down a monster. 

He moved very suddenly, disrupting the air in the room. Your breath caught as his hands landed on you. Your clothes were pulled off before you could protest. Your heart seized in your chest, but as that word pressed at the back of your teeth, you were redressed in the blink of an eye. Your work clothes, still warm from the dryer, were buttoned and tucked before the cool air of Milo’s kitchen could touch your skin. Your shoes were on your feet. Milo’s hands landed on your shoulders and he began to steer you towards the door. Even this angry, his touch was gentle, feather light, like he was afraid to hurt you. 

And fuck, if that didn’t make you that much more angry. 

You were out the door, unsure if you’d even managed a single independent step. Milo’s touch left you immediately. Your phone, keys, wallet were in your hands. You spun around and saw your shitty sedan parked next to one of Milo’s six priceless sports cars in the driveway. He must have picked it up while you were sleeping. Your stomach flipped. 

You turned back around. Milo was hovering in the doorway, shadows cast across his face from the low light of his house. His eyes were glazed over entirely black now. His fangs were extended, pressing into his pretty, full lips. 

“I shared that with you,” Milo said, his voice tinged with something animalistic, something wild, “as a show of trust. I told that to you because I know that I have a lot of power. I told you something that I knew could hurt me, because I know it’s not easy to do that.” His face twisted up. You were terrified, for a moment, that he would cry. “Fuck you. Fuck you for using that to hurt me.” 

“You could hurt me without even trying!” You seethed. You wrapped your arms around your middle, trying to hold yourself up. 

“Yeah.” Milo nodded. “I could. But I didn’t.” 

The door shut in your face. You stared at the stained mahogany like it might have answers for you. You screamed until your chest gave way to stuttered, panicked gasps. You got in your car and drove away. 

Your desk was waiting for you when you made it back to the office. Jet’s office was darkened, and only a handful of other investigators remained at their desks. It was late evening, bordering on much too late to be here. You sat down anyway and started working. 

By the time morning came round, you had far more information than you did at the start of the day before. For one, you had a rudimentary understanding of Swahili, and had managed to properly convey what you needed from your expert using a few online dictionaries and whatever Google Translate had to offer. He was a pleasant guy, if your translations were correct, and had affirmed that he would send a statement your way within the next few days with everything he knew about shades broken down into simple enough terms for the Department to work with. 

Your back ached and your stomach was still in knots, but you felt much better than you had the day before. Whatever affects the shade’s life-sucking-bullshit left its victims with wore off with time and rest. You added it to your notes, and sent a quick email to Collins to report your improved health. The sun had started to rise when you received a message back. 

Report to medical for field clearance. Don’t make me sick Jet on you. 

You sighed, scrubbing at your tired eyes. You knew it was pointless to resist. Collins would get you down there eventually, one way or another. It looked better for you if you went voluntarily. 

Hey, Dad. Just checking in. 

Hey kiddo! It’s been a few weeks. Honestly, I was starting to get worried. 

Sorry. Work. I’ve been busy. 

But safe, right?

Yeah.

Because you promised me you would be when you took this job.

I know, Dad. I promise I can handle whatever DUMP throws at me. 

So could your mother.

Dad. 

I’m sorry. I just worry. You got her strength and tenacity, but you also got her bullheadedness. And I’m sorry to say that’s what got her killed. I worry because I know you won’t reach out for help when you need it.

Then what do you call this?

Do you need help? Kiddo, if you’re in trouble, just say the word. I will DESCEND!!

I’m fine, Dad. Just wanted to say I love you.

You locked your phone before his frantic typing could culminate into a panicked reply and pointedly ignored the insistent buzz of your phone in your coat pocket. That had been more of a tell than you’d intended, but the thought of walking into this kind of trouble without telling him made your throat close with grief. You didn’t say ‘I love you’ often, and you didn’t say it without reason. 

Your mom used to say it liberally. She said it when she woke you up for school in the morning, when tucking you into bed, when you made her laugh, when you broke her heart. She had a lot of late nights, and you never slept when she was away. You would pretend to when she snuck into your room in the wee hours of the night or morning. She would bend over you, smelling like sweat and blood and expended magic. You stayed still and silent as she pressed her thin, shaking lips to the crown of your head and whispered it into you;

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” 

Like a promise. Like a prayer. 

Your chest ached with the absence of her. 

By the time you found it again, the shade had become fully corporeal. Dahlia was a great town for it, full of powerful, magical people, and stupid, stupid college kids who would brush off its after effects as a bad hangover. 

It was actually a rather clever method, how you found it. You got access to D.A.M.N.’s clinic records through less than legal means, thanks to a friend of a friend who didn’t ask questions when fifty bucks were involved. You tracked the shade’s effects through a half dozen students, found a few of them who also folded at the offer of another fifty bucks and found out their frequent haunts. You formed a geo profile (something you’d learned in the Academy but had never had occasion to use, much less with a proper paper map and pins) and triangulated an area where the shade was most likely to be. 

Now, you had an area of about three city blocks to patrol, you were dodging non-stop calls from both your father and Jet, and you were flat broke from all of your very illegal bribes. 

You were considering becoming a private eye. If this was how effective you were with no oversight, you’d have finished this case up in a matter of days. 

Although, you weren’t actually sure how many days it had been. You weren’t exactly sleeping regularly. 

When you cornered it, it was in a little park just off of college town. It was barely a park, really, more of a very large median. It was a stretch of poorly maintained grass, a smattering of small, young trees, and exactly three benches. On one of said benches, there was a crumpled form, curled over one of the arm rests of hostile design, obscured by layers and layers of ratty clothing. When you spotted them, you cloaked without even thinking. Your magic fell over you like a blanket and smothered out a handful of the sensory indicators around you. That was the downside of cloaking, afterall. Your senses weren’t entirely stolen, just dampened. But in your line of work, that could be the difference between life and death. 

The closer you got, the more you convinced yourself that the figure was just someone trying to sleep in a dry, semi safe place. The rounded armrests that cut up the bench were designed to deter this, but something digging into you only worked so long when you were bone tired. You didn’t think it would do much to you at the moment. 

You placed one hand on their shoulder and slowly, as though not to startle them, rolled it back to reveal their face and chest. 

He wasn’t sleeping. You knew as soon as you saw his skin, dewy and gray, that he was dead. Two, ratty jackets pulled back to reveal a slim frame and a drawn, boyish face. As you disturbed him, his body let loose the torrent of blood that his crumpled rib cage was holding in. It spilled, still hot, over your shoes. 

He was young. Barely eighteen, if that. Thick glasses, dusty hair, a smattering of freckles across his nose. Everything he had on him was packed into a well-loved, bright green Jansport backpack. He was a kid, just a kid. 

He had been empowered. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did. It was some sort of absence, you thought, some emptiness where he had once been so full. Your threads strummed uneasily towards him, but found no reply. 

He looked so small, curled in on himself on that park bench. 

Your mom had looked small too. She was an exceedingly lively woman, and a fire elemental so powerful that she had struggled to contain her heat even when not impacted by her emotions. Her aura felt visible at times, tangible, like you could wrap your chubby toddler fingers around her power and pull.

It was a closed-casket funeral. The shifter that had killed her very nearly tore her apart. Your father had her buried in a white button up, slacks, something your older brother had snagged from her closet without thinking. You figured that your dad wanted it over with, wanted her in the ground. He had to identify the body. You remembered sitting in the waiting room while he went in to see her. You could hear his wails through the walls. You’d be surprised if anybody in the hospital, anybody in Dahlia, anybody in the world was saved from his screams. 

The doctors did everything medically possible, but there was only so much one could do to make such a mangled corpse look normal, look human. There were thick, medical staples stitching her demure features into another face entirely, lopsided and strange. You had stared at her in the visitation room, tearless, for half an hour before some well-meaning relative or another pulled you away. Your brother and sister had refused to look at her, your father couldn’t stop sobbing long enough to do it, but you couldn’t look away. There was something enticing about it, looking at her and trying to find all of the bits that were missing, to decipher the riddle of her glued-shut eyelids, the hollow, serene pose of her always moving, always working body. There was something powerful about her. Even her corpse held an echo of it. 

You numbly retrieved your phone from your coat pocket and found Jet’s contact. He answered on the first ring and let out a string of protests and admonishments that he must have started long before your call came through, judging by the hoarse quality of his voice. 

“I’ve got a body.” You said, reported. The Investigator overstock you, forcing out the emotion that threatened to topple you and replacing it with the familiar cadence of your crisis training. You felt for his pulse, found nothing. You sent a static shock of magic into him to see if pain or stimulus would rouse him. It did not. 

“What are you talking about?” Jet snapped. “You need-” 

“I’m in the park off Jackson.” You interrupted. “I’ve got a body. Slashed, but not a shifter.” You knew what it looked like when a shifter killed. “I need a unit out here immediately. The shade is corporeal.”

“Investigator,” Jet balked, “you are not cleared for duty. Dr. Collins is calling for a psych eval. Do not tell me you’re still working your case.” 

“Well, I don’t like to lie to superiors.” You sighed. You stood and forced yourself to turn away from the kid- the body, you reminded yourself- taking in your surroundings. It was dark. Shades could hide in the shadows nearly as well as you could. You re-upped cloak, let your magic ripple through your clothes, your phone, muffle the sound of your voice and heartbeat. “Regardless of my clearance, this thing has killed and I intend to finish my work.”

“You’re in over your head.” Jet snapped. “And if you don’t disengage and report back to HQ immediately-”

“Jet, I’m in the heart of college town right now!” you seethed through gritted teeth, “If I leave it, it’s going to cut down a dozen college students before anybody bothers to deal with it. Send backup or don’t. I’m not letting it kill anybody else.” 

You were shaking with rage or panic, which you didn’t know. You turned on your heel, towards the scant tree line, and started walking. The only evidence of you was the bloody footprints you left in the grass. 

You pulled up Milo’s contact in your phone. You typed out your dad’s phone number and sent it without allowing yourself to overthink it. 

That’s my dad’s number. If anybody happens to me, please don’t let him be the one to identify my body.