by Amir Lane
The barrier protected me from the worst of the fire, but the heat and the smoke still reached me. I pressed my face to my shoulder, coughing into it and squeezing my eyes shut. The palms of my hands began to blister. I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up.
Arms wrapped around my waist, the fingers extending into long, thin branches for a better grip, and pulled me back as the barrier collapsed.
“Rowan!”
Fear for my partner’s safety made me irrational for a moment. Fire was dangerous for almost anyone, but especially for dryads. I didn't want him getting any closer to it than entirely necessary.
“Everyone’s clear,” Rowan shouted over the roar of the flames.
He set me down well out of their reach. The sirens grew in volume. I hoped there was an ambulance in there for the injured officer. My hands would be fine with some aloe. It felt like a bad sunburn. I would live.
We stared at the dying fire. A firetruck pulled up nearby, but by the time they got the hose hooked up to the hydrant, the fire was out, the body was gone, and the organs were an incinerated mess.
“A fucking phoenix,” Rowan muttered. “Can you even murder a phoenix?”
“It doesn’t matter. This is definitely our sort of case.”
Chapter Two
There was an Arabic expression my mother always used, y’ilab t’ilab, which translated to something like, he who works, plays. I always translated it more as, you can take a break when you’re dead. It wasn’t exactly the best translation to throw around as a former Homicide detective, or the healthiest attitude. But given that I fell right into the doughnut-eating stereotype — baklawa was my pastry of choice — I wasn't always the healthiest person.
I'd told myself when I quit Homicide ten months ago that I wasn't going to bring work home anymore.
That hadn’t even lasted 24 hours.
Cases stuck with me. I couldn't help it. Back in Homicide, every day a case stayed open meant the killer could get away with it or, worse, another victim could turn up. I'd never felt comfortable calling it a night while there was still work to be done. The victims always seemed to stay in my head. And the victim that wouldn't leave my head right now was the phoenix.
No body meant no murder, but no body didn't mean no crime. The precinct was full of speculation as to whether or not one could even murder a phoenix. The general consensus was that if they didn't know they were killing a phoenix, it was murder. If they did, it was attempted murder or battery. That said, not everyone seemed to believe phoenixes were even real. One officer was bold enough to even accuse me of lying right to my face. I ignored it. The burns on my palms were more than enough to convince me of what I'd seen.
No body might not have meant no crime, but it did mean no evidence, or at least substantially less evidence.
It wasn't making my stack of cases any shorter, cases which would be much easier to close. I could have made the argument to my Sergeant that the case should be dropped. No body, no evidence, no case. But the brutality of it gnawed at my conscience.
How was I to say the phoenix’s attacker wouldn't go after someone else?
Staff Sergeant Sabine Beaupré didn't care.
“I said no, Fairuz,” she said in that tone that made me feel like I was being scolded by my mother.
Even after ten years with the Toronto police, she still had her Québécois French accent. I was sure my accent was just as bad, if not worse. Her voice bounced off the walls of the cramped office. It was barely more than a closet. The ratty old desk was pushed flush against the wall, boxing her in, and her two filing cabinets were wedged between it and the other wall. One day, this might be my office, I thought. I wasn't claustrophobic, but I almost didn’t want it. I ground my teeth together and forced myself to look into her blue-grey eyes.
“Just hear me out,” I started.
Sabine lowered her narrow, frameless glasses and stared up at me with a steely gaze. I almost shivered.
“Fairuz,” she said, not exactly patiently, “you are a good detective. But this isn't Homicide. Not all cases can be cases.”
There was no way I heard that right. Someone had murdered a guy and taken his eyes and organs. How could that not be a case?
“But—”
“I like you, so I’m going to tell you something I wish someone had told me when I was your age. Don't make waves. Do your job, and when your sergeant tells you do drop a case, you drop the case.”
I took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten. Ashra, tis’a, thmanya… As I exhaled, I unclenched my fists and flattened my palms against my black slacks. Blood rushed back into the spots where my fake nails had dug.
“So that's it? We let a murderer get away?”
It took everything I had not to yell.
“You worked Homicide, Fairuz. You know how it is. Why open a case we can't close?”
It sounded like she was quoting somebody. I was contemplating homicide myself right about then. The whole reason I'd accepted Sabine’s offer to join this district’s Special Crimes division was because she wasn’t the kind of person who brushed cases aside, no matter how small they were.
That, and because I didn't want my girlfriend to leave me. But it was mostly because I was sick of the hypocritical bullshit.
I knew Special Crimes had lower solve rates than any other divisions. Part of that was because we did most of the investigation, while the ‘right department’ swooped in at the end to close it. Sometimes it seemed we were set up to fail from the start. And on the one hand, I understood why she didn't want to make our numbers worse. On the other hand…
“You're kidding me.”
Sabine’s expression hardened, her thin mouth pinching into a tight line. I clenched my hand into a reflexive fist, preparing to throw up a barrier on the off chance she attacked me. She didn't.
“Get out of my office,” she said in a low hiss. “You have enough cases. Work on those.”
Short as they were, my acrylic nails bit painfully into my skin. I had to get out of there before I threw something at her. With how I felt, it was probably going to be one of those filing cabinets. I turned on my flat heels and stormed out of tiny office. The distance to the door was so short, I slammed it shut to drive home how not happy I was with this development.
Not all cases can be cases, I mimicked as I dropped into my chair.
If Sabine’s office was cramped, the bullpen was worse. Two sets of desks were pressed together with barely enough space between them to walk. Stacks of files and papers got knocked over on a regular basis. If I pushed my chair out, I would hit a metal filing cabinet like the ones in Sabine’s office, and I always had to move if someone needed to get into it.
I chanced a glance up and saw a couple detectives from Guns, Gangs, and Covens eyeing me cautiously, almost suspiciously, and muttering between themselves. What? I wasn't allowed to lose my temper?
A fresh mug of coffee sat on my desk next to my outdated computer that still ran on Windows Vista. I took the white ceramic in my hands and inhaled deeply. This was coffee.
“Thank you,” I said, tipping my head to grin at Kieron sitting at the desk next to mine.
Kieron Harper, a 6-foot-something Irishman, was what he called a kitchen witch. I still wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but he made the second best coffee in the world next to my dad. He started in Special Crimes the year I made detective in Homicide. That was three years ago.
Despite his massive build, Kieron was the softest man I knew. The man’s desk was covered in pictures of his daughter, boyfriend, and nephew. He'd been an Irish step-dancer before becoming a sniper in the Irish military. I couldn't imagine him as a sniper. For God’s sake, his powers were keeping house. All the ‘kitchen witches’ I knew worked in hospitality. He wasn't meant to be a sniper. I wasn't sure he was even meant to be a cop, no matter how good at it he was. On the rare occasion he talked about his time in the military, I could see in his eyes he hated it.
Funny, I thoug
ht, how I knew more about Kieron than my own regular partner. Rowan wasn't as open as Kieron, but I knew him well enough to trust him. I had to. When we went out there together, there was nobody watching my back but him, and nobody watching his but me.
I sipped at my coffee, trying to think of anything but Sabine and the phoenix. Looking around, I noticed neither of our partners’ jackets were there. I nodded toward Rowan’s chair.
“Where are the boys?” I asked.
Kieron glanced over as though he hadn't noticed their absences and shrugged.
“Running down a lead on a missing siren. Indira’s got that natural immunity to ‘em, so Missing Persons called him in for help,” Kieron said in a faded Irish accent. “And he asked for Rowan’s help.”
I nodded. Indira Krishnamurthy-King was an alkonost, the cousin to the siren. The four of us, with Rowan, made up the precinct’s Special Crimes command. People called us the Diversity Division. It did seem like we checked most of the boxes.
The witch/non-human partner combination was a coincidence. Kieron was the first detective to join this precinct’s division, then Indira. Rowan had alternated between working alone or with one of them until I started. The partnerships weren't set in stone; we mixed it up or even worked alone when we needed to. We all worked well together. It was more than I could say about Homicide.
I struggled to get through the stack of cases on my desk but my thoughts kept going back to the phoenix. Why take his eyes? Revenge? It could have been a revenge thing. Kieron used to work in Guns, Gangs, and Covens, maybe he would know if this was some group’s signature. Or I could run it by some of my old contacts from Homicide. Maybe there was a serial killer with a thing for eyes on the loose I hadn’t heard about yet.
I looked back at Sabine through the glass walls of her office. One of the blinds were down but I could still see her. She was so still, I wondered if the rumours were true that gargouilles could really turn to stone. Then she looked up at me and gave a small shake of her head as if she knew what I was thinking.
I pursed my lips together and forced myself to focus on the files in front of me. Someone was selling bad love spells again. Probably the same someone as last time. When I called Rowan, his voicemail greeted me.
“Rowan Oak, Special Crimes. Leave a message.”
A man of many words. Through the phone, his voice sounded more strained than usual. It took practice to drop one’s voice. Maybe that was why he didn't talk much.
“It's Fairuz. I want to visit our favourite spell shop on Townsley. They might be selling those bad spells again. Let me know if you want to meet me there when you're done with your missing siren, or if you want to come to the precinct first. Bye.”
I always hated leaving voicemails. I never knew what to say, and it made me feel like an idiot. While I waited for his reply, I scrolled through my contacts to find Levingston, Oscar. Oscar had been my mentor in Homicide and, though we hadn't spoken since I’d transferred, we'd always gotten along and we parted on good terms. Good enough it wouldn't be terribly odd for me to text him out of the blue.
Hi oscar. It's Fairuz. Want 2 meet for coffee? Been awhile.
Just as I set my phone down, it started vibrating in a staccato rhythm. Rowan's name lit up the screen.
“Hey,” I said into the receiver.
“Hey. I'm just finishing up with Indira. We’re getting nowhere here.” Rowan sighed. I could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose and scowling in that way he did. “I can get dropped off at the place, and you can meet me there. On Townsley, right?”
I clicked my mouse a few times to double-check the address, swearing under my breath when the whole thing froze. I flipped through the sheets of paper until I found a sticky note stuck to my desk with the address.
“That’s right.”
“I can be there in— Indira! How far are we from Townsley? Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes.”
I nodded and fished for my keys.
“It'll take me longer. Is an hour okay?” I asked.
“Sure. Did Kieron make coffee? Bring some for me. My thermos is on my desk.”
I told him I would if there was any left and hung up. Rowan's desk was a mess. There were papers everywhere. Sticky notes lined his monitor and the twin picture frames that held photographs of his cats. His handwriting made it hard to tell if the notes were even in English. The metal travel mug was between a reusable water bottle that boasted a capacity of 2.2 litres and a small potted plant, and holding down yesterday's newspaper. When I lifted it, I found a small sticky note with a phone number and words that were definitely not English. The area code didn't look like a Toronto one. Before I could give it much thought, my phone buzzed again. A message from Oscar.
U Free 2Nite? Im Free After 7. Dinner Gud?
I scowled a little as I struggled to decipher his message. He was the worst texter I had ever met. I replied, telling him dinner was fine and I'd call him on my way home. The drive from the precinct to my house wasn’t very long, only about ten minutes depending on traffic, but Oscar wasn’t much of a talker. I had a funny track record of quiet partners. It didn’t bother me. At work, it paid to be straight to the point. I tucked my phone into my pocket and met Sabine’s eyes again. The warning was still in them: Drop the case.
I was dropping it. There was no rule that said I couldn't have dinner with an old partner.
I could play by her rules. That didn't mean I had to make it easy for her.
Or my killer.
Chapter Three
It took me almost the full hour to get to the spell shop rather than the half hour it should have taken, and all we had to do was flash our badges to get the kid behind the cash register to tell us everything. The owner was taken in, processed, and that was that. It was the Crown Attorney office’s problem now. I swore, that woman never learned.
Rowan was quiet on the drive back to the precinct.
“Are you all right?” I asked, looking over my shoulder as I changed lanes.
I was barely in the lane when someone cut me off. The taillight of a black Mazda 3 nearly grazed my front light. My hand fell against the horn and my foot came down on the brakes hard enough to slow down and avoid crushing my car, but not hard enough to make the car behind hit me.
“Khara al methabek!”
The driver in the car ahead of me stuck their arm out the window and flipped me off. Toronto had some of the worst drivers I had ever seen, and that was saying something. I cussed the guy out a little more until it was sufficiently out of my system while Rowan did nothing but laugh. I was sure it was absolutely hilarious to him. He wasn’t the one who would have to deal with the insurance if we crashed.
“So,” I said once I was back in control of myself, “are you okay? You look tired.”
“I'm fine. Just haven't been sleeping well, is all.”
Sometimes when he spoke, I thought I caught the remnants of an accent. I could have been wrong, though. All English sounded accented to me. I knew he wasn't born in this country — none of us but Sabine and Indira were — but I didn't know his native tongue. He’d been born somewhere in Eastern Europe and had moved as a child, but he’d never said which country and I’d never asked. It had taken me months to learn that month. I did know he’d lived in Alberta before moving to Toronto. He went to the Calgary Stampede and visited his dad every year.
“Anything you want to talk about?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Just… some things that stuck with me. You know how it is,” he said, offering me a tired grin.
I did know. The Lebanese Civil War had ended only a few years after I was born. After that, Israeli forces occupied south Lebanon until 2000, while Syria occupied the rest. The military presences and massive shifts in power gave way to the rise of extremists. It was a familiar story across the Middle East. Sidon, where I grew up, was fought over during the Civil War despite sitting on the border with the Mediterranean Sea. When I was eleven, my cousin Imaan and I had
been walking to school when a car bomb went off. We were far enough from it that I’d had a half second to shield her with my body on pure instinct. Something inside me had sparked to light that day and protected us from the shrapnel.
It was this gift I had inside me, the same one my paternal grandmother had, the one my parents told me was a gift from God.
They had talked about leaving Lebanon after that in hushed whispers when they thought we couldn’t hear. My older brother was the first to leave to go to medical school in Boston. When it was time for me to start looking at universities, they pushed me to look overseas, too.
I haven’t been back to Lebanon in years, and I never told anyone about how my powers emerged. Not even my parents, though they had pieced it together on their own. I still got nightmares about it sometimes, and fireworks made me anxious. And that was before I started working in Homicide.
Rowan had worked in Sex Crimes before Special Crimes, and that was reputed to be even worse than Homicide. Whatever demons Rowan lived with, I understood.
Rowan never talked about anything that happened to him before he joined Toronto PD. I knew he'd transitioned before making detective, and I knew working in Sex Crimes hadn't been easy on him. He didn't talk much about his family, either, only briefly mentioning his dad. I'd seen the scars on his arms that weren't from any surgery. The tattoos on his forearms, matching black trees with a skull woven into the branches, covered some of them, but not all.
All of that was to assume he wasn't talking about something job related. He could have been talking about any number of Sex Crimes cases, or even the suspect he'd killed ten months ago. He'd been forced to speak to a psychiatrist after that, but who knew how much it helped.
The point was, we both carried things with us we couldn’t share with just anyone.
Instead of saying any of that, I nodded, pretending I was too busy looking at traffic to speak. Without knowing what he'd run from, I couldn't be sure I wouldn't make it worse.