CHAPTER 1

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“I’m not an open book. In fact, I’m unreadable even to myself.” I shot a grin at the Arcane Investigations Bureau recruiter. “That’s why I read others. I want to know how their stories end. I was made for this.”

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A bit aggressive, Tess, but I stated my case as best as I could.

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The woman across the desk, her eyes polar icebergs, stared me down for a short eternity before offering the most theatrical yawn this side of Broadway. And… there went another job interview spiraling down the drain, courtesy of my sparkling response to the question, “Do you possess skills that would make you a fit for the unusual challenges of paranormal investigation?”

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And just like that, Recruiter – 1, Tess Hilliard – 0.

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Let’s slice it thin and serve it cold: At twenty-six, I was already stuck in the underbelly of this business, my name at the very bottom of the employee list at the Shadow Chasers Agency, taking on the cases that no one else would touch with a ten-foot pole, scraping by with meager paychecks, and dealing with colleagues who’d finish dead last at the Camaraderie Olympics.

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And maybe I deserved it all, considering my top selling point as a supernatural snoop and ghoul-hound was, uh, a Napoleonic chip on my shoulder caused by my nearly complete lack of the paranormal power possessed by all the big-time Chasers.

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I took a deep breath. It was no surprise I’d failed to impress her with my self-professed genius level ability to bluff my way out of any jam and spin trite sayings like plates of life-altering wisdom. Tempting as it was, I couldn’t spill my whole can of beans and lay out the truth entwined in my words—in fact, my life depended on the zipping of my lips. Being alive, after all, was essential to all my career goals.

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Standing outside my Agency, I couldn’t help but notice its dingy contrast with the flash and prestige of the Arcane Bureau. Sadly nestled between a laundromat and a falafel wrap takeout joint, our offices were in a nondescript two-story brick building with a cracked wooden awning that had paint peeling off it like sunburnt skin. The elements had had their way. The neon glow of an OPEN sign still flickered in the early morning haze.

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A washed-out gold plaque on the door read:

 

SHADOW CHASERS AGENCY INC.

Drawing back the shadows.

Mysteries solved. Items found.

Treasures won. Curses squashed.

Give those suspicions a HOME!

Understand the inexplicable!

Exorcise the paranormal!

Budget-friendly consultations.

 

Unlike the Bureau, all hush-hush and operating entirely under the radar, we were face forward, out in the open paranormal investigators, a beacon for those fragile souls drawn to the eerie and unlikely. Our neon light lured the gullible believers convinced that the creaking of their old homes was proof of poltergeists, that their neglected yards and fields were hotspots for alien abductions, or that their former neighbor’s grouchy spirit wanted a word.

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You know, people who were looking to chit-chat with the dead, or needed a bargain basement exorcism to chase away demonic rats, or a seer to divine the location of misplaced priceless heirlooms, that sort of thing. When the Arcane Bureau were generous enough to offload surplus cases our way, meaty cases involving supernatural perps or unexpected visitors from the multiverse, well, those cases hardly ever landed on my desk.

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No, I was pushed to the end of the bench, my unofficial title as Assistant to the Lead Investigators inked in permanent marker. I was stuck sorting out crackpots and lost possessions, while my teammates got to play on the fringe of the big league every now and then. Today promised to be like any other day in the life of Tess Hilliard, pseudo-professional ghost whisperer and amateur treasure hunter. Same as it ever was.

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But you know what they say about hindsight? They being the vaporous ectoplasmic tendrils of the human hive mind. Unfortunately, we live life moving forward. Looking back is not advised. Regret feeds the dark energies. I would say I wish I knew then what was coming, but that kind of thinking always ends with a bucket full of bad juju.

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The familiar hum of fluorescent lights and the reassuring aroma of cheap coffee welcomed me as I stepped inside the doors of 405½ South Few Street.

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Just down the hall, our Director, Abraham Pankowski, sat in his office looking uncomfortable in a now too tight suit. While he was growing thicker, his hair was growing thinner, forcing him to comb the remaining strands over bald spots. He was engaged in a conversation with his Chief Investigator.

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Gideon Crawford. Tall, all glower, sharp lines, and an attitude to match. Guy had the charisma of a piranha and the cordiality of a… well, piranha.

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They paused their conversation as I strolled by, Gideon’s eyes narrowing in a glare. He made no attempt to conceal his disdain. I returned the favor a hundredfold. I took my saccharine smile and moved on.

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My desk was cluttered with a hodgepodge of case files and unwashed coffee mugs. I settled in and rifled through a stack of papers, zeroing in on a new report resting on top of a half-eaten cinnamon muffin.

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“Hey, Tess. Yet another dud,” Izzy announced, dropping a manila folder onto my desk. Her steaming mug radiated warmth that cut through the chill of the office.

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Her magic trickled into me as I raised my focus from a particularly lurid file detailing a demonic possession that turned out to be nothing more than a bizarre fraternity hazing ritual. My nose twitched, threatening a sneeze. Izzy’s etheric essence always had that effect on me. My gaze momentarily snagged on the myriad of scars that crisscrossed my hands—an unwelcome reminder of my brush with the darker side of the supernatural. It was the other strange thing Izzy’s magic did to me. It revealed my meticulously hidden scars—thankfully to my eyes only.

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I surrendered to the sneeze and hummed the word calyptio under my breath. A veil of illusion wrapped around the scars, concealing them again. Izzy Everett was a skilled empath, and I could assimilate her etheric essence into mine within seconds, a secret I was keen to keep. This was why I found excuses to turn down every one of her social invitations. I couldn’t afford to get close to anyone, especially not an empathic mage who might sense my strange, not to mention outlawed, ability.

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Izzy was on the short side, but her fit, solid build and intense green eyes demanded your complete attention. Her curly hair was a fiery spectacle, not just red but a living blaze. Strands of deep auburn twirled with flashes of copper and scarlet that flickered with every tilt and turn of her head.

 

Her physical presence may have exuded strength, but it was her uncanny ability to sense and absorb the emotional energy around her that kept people in the office on their toes. With Izzy, a lie was as transparent as glass, and that made our co-workers tread carefully.

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I gestured to the empty chair across from me. “Yep, that dude was totally not a pyromancer. Not even a little. I doubt he could rub two matches together and get a spark.”

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The moment I arrived at the scene of the literal dumpster fire behind O’Malley’s Emporium, I knew that no magic was involved in the failed arson. The location had given off an initial whiff of the paranormal—after all, the Emporium had a reputation of attracting rogue mages and aspiring spell conjurers—but I would have sensed a fever print lingering, that heightened supernatural pheromonal scent that pyromancers leave behind.

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“I knew you knew,” Izzy agreed. “You always know. They should give you bigger cases. I wish you had been wrong though, because a rogue spell spinner would be a far more exciting Tuesday than a nut job with a shabby pipe bomb.”

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“So, they pulled the plug on the investigation?” I said, twirling a pen.

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She nodded. “Afraid so. It’s now strictly a police matter.”

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“Got anything else with a pulse?”

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Izzy, our resident empath, juggler of emotions and assigner of the less complex cases, eased into the chair I’d offered. The leather creaked beneath her as she set down her coffee and opened a worn notebook, its pages covered with hastily scribbled notes. She glanced up and bared her teeth, sheepishly.

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“Go ahead,” I encouraged her through a sigh.

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“It’s a, um… a haunted house,” she said, almost bracing for my response.

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Before I could advise her where to shove that haunted house, Director Pankowski approached with Gideon Crawford at his heels. They both had a puckered look, like they’d been sucking on lemons.

 

“Just had an interesting call from an associate, Tess,” the Director said, adjusting his midnight blue tie. “They work over at the Arcane Bureau.”

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Uh oh. That icy bitch. So much for confidentiality.

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Pankowski seemed to be clearing his thoughts and, thankfully, failed to notice my apprehension. “They curiously asked about you, they requested you specifically to consult on a case.”

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The hostile glare in Gideon’s eyes confirmed that this was no prank. My confusion matched both of theirs. A case from the Bureau. For me. My trainwreck of an interview must have made an impression.

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Ah, I see. They are trying to read my reaction.

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“Sleeping your way to the top, Hilliard?” Gideon hissed.

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“You’re so predictable, Crawford. It puts me to sleep.”

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He mean-mugged me, revealing his teeth. They were almost as pointed as his tongue. Pathetic. The big bad mage was trying to scare me.

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Intimidation was Gideon Crawford’s game. He was a kinetic mage who could absorb, store and release energy at will. It made him a formidable adversary in physical combat, like a wrecking ball in a tailored suit. I’d seen him punch through walls and blur across rooms in a blink.

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His talents didn’t end there. Gideon possessed persuasion magic and was known to bend wills when the circumstances were right. He could toy with a person’s psyche to incite fear, trust, or anger. A handy little trick, especially when he wanted to throw someone off balance. Too bad it never worked on me, a fact that frustrated him daily.

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I had no idea why Pankowski chose to trust Gideon. I mean, would he even know if Gideon planted that trust in him or not?

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“I’ll be off,” I said. “My talents are needed elsewhere.”

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“You’re the one,” Izzy said, her face beaming. “Show out, sis.”

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“Make it quick,” Pankowski called after me as I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. “I expect a full report!”

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Just for that, I’m taking my sweet time.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

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The four-story building loomed above, a monolith of gray concrete and black glass, standing stark against the foggy backdrop of Lake Mendota. The Bureau knew how to make an imposing impression.

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I pulled my jacket tight. Madison in mid-November was a city held by winter’s cold grip, the chilly wind a biting reminder of the freezing waters that would soon become the icy surfaces of its many lakes.

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The façade bore the inconspicuous name Mendota Research & Development Institute, but this was no ordinary research center. Beyond those ominous walls, the Arcane Investigations Bureau guarded the library portals that bridged parallel realms. They kept tabs on the fraying threads of the multiverse, safeguarding our world from the nastiest entities in dimensions near and far, threats both heinous and clever, both visible and veiled.

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Climbing the stairs was like trudging through a stream of sticky molasses. My scars tingled, a sure sign of overflowing power mojo in the air. I wrapped a shield around my etheric core to keep it from gulping down all that magic like a bad drunk at a cocktail party. Security wards, concealing endless spells and enchantments, formed an intricate web that turned the Bureau into an impenetrable fortress. Not even a sly thought could slither past this place’s defenses. It was less like walking into an office and more like trying to slip past a sleeping dragon—one false step and you were a kabob. Literally. But everyone has to earn their living, even those who flirt with dimensional gateways over morning coffee.

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Two agents breezed past me on the second floor. My nostrils twitched as I caught a whiff of their power, but I managed to hold back the sneeze: an electromancer and a sorcerer. Very on brand for the Bureau.

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I reached my third-floor destination. I paused, hand hovering over the brass doorknob, as I read the name on the metal placard: Special Agent Miles Donovan, Paranormal Investigations and Interactions Division Coordinator.

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I double-checked my phone, half-hoping for a mistake. Room 309. Nope. This was happening. I thought I might run into him in these halls one day, but him being my liaison for a case… that was a twist I had never imagined.

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This was going to be interesting, yet dread sunk into my bones. Every instinct warned that I was opening a portal into a world of trouble.

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How would he feel about partnering with me? I had ghosted him without a single word and he had not taken it well. He’d demanded answers via texts, DMs, and even telepathic messages he sent through a seer, until he had finally accepted that silence would be my only response.

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It’s been two years, Tess. He’s obviously over it. Get a grip!

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My heart jackhammered in my chest. Was I over it?

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Oh, hell. A deep breath. I knocked.

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“Yeah, come in.”

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The easy command of his deep voice soothed my nerves. I imagined him leaning back in his chair, the embodiment of confidence and grace.

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I pushed the door open.

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His friendly eyes welcomed me without a hint of surprise. “Tess,” he said with a handsome grin. “You can unclench your jaw. I promise not to bite.”

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Biting was not my concern. Miles was a powerful elemental mage. If he harnessed earth, wind, fire or water energy while in a sour mood, well, not much in the neighborhood would be left standing.

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“You got promoted,” I said. My tone was frostier than intended.

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“Does it surprise you?” he said, tapping a folder on his desk.

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“Surprise? No. I just never pegged you as a pencil pusher.”

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“A pencil is a reliable weapon. You can count on a pencil. It quite literally hangs on every word.”

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I felt my defenses tighten. Don’t let him drag me onto memory lane.

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He was the devil incarnate, not just in his sharply cut features and penetrating black eyes, but in his impertinent swagger and effortless charm. He hadn’t changed a bit. Not physically, not in his wickedly cool attitude—and not in the way he regarded me, as if he knew me better than I knew myself.

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“I was sure my interview was a disaster,” I said. “Wasn’t it?”

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He raised his eyebrows. “You interviewed with the Bureau?”

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Ah, there it was, a spark of genuine surprise in his eyes, but something else there, too. A sly hope that I was trying to worm my way back to him.

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As if.

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“If not that, then why am I here, Miles?” I shot back, not in the mood for any of his games.

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“Didn’t they tell you? I requested you consult on a case.”

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“Me? Come on, you’re the bigshot kingfish of paranormal investigations. You have your pick of agents.”

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His eyes flickered, unapologetic. “I need someone I can trust.”

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“Or someone who won’t ask questions,” I countered, not missing a beat.

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“That, but also the trust thing. Complete discretion is required.” He pushed back from his desk, rising with a grace that was almost predatory. The perfect lines of his suit hugged his sinewy form, a shade of dark that matched his slick black hair, a look so polished it was sinful. “You will talk to no one about the case but me,” he said, as if all had been decided. “Something’s off with the Bureau. We need to get to the bottom of it. If my hunch proves out, this will be trouble for all the worlds and time’s not on our side.”

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A multiverse crisis. Of course. Together again for another shit show.

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Contact with parallel universes was becoming as common as morning traffic in Madison, and the Bureau was the bulwark against all those worlds spilling into ours. What chaos such a spillover would bring was anyone’s guess, and trust me, nobody wanted to find out whose guess was right.

 

Our eyes met from inches away. I took a step back. Too close for comfort, his powerful stare. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was about more than a case. It was a challenge, an invitation to duel, a chance to prove my mettle.

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And damn his arrogance, he knew I would accept.

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His composure seemed tightly held. I knew him too well to miss the coiled tension in his shoulders, the vein popping in his rigid neck. Or was it all projection? The past could cloud one’s judgment. Either way, I was all in.

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“Sounds serious,” I said. “Are you sure I’m the wingman you need?”

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“You’re the only one, Tess. Most people are goddamned useless in a crisis—you’re not. Believe me, I wish there was someone else.”

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Not exactly glowing praise. Sheesh.

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I stared at him. “My powers are unsubstantial, they’re on par with a stray mutt stealing magic breadcrumbs.”

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He gave me that half-cocked, oh-please look. “First, why do you always sell yourself short? Second, I might need those breadcrumbs.”

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“Do share that opinion with my Bureau interviewer. Third try and I’m not sure she even knew I was in the room.”

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“You’re holding back, Tess. That much I know.”

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If he learned the truth, which of us would be left standing?

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“Then you know nothing, Miles. Not one crumb.”

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His expression hardened. “Don’t be coy. I was there when you took down that ten-foot-tall Gryphalion at Hawthorne Library before it could stampede out onto East Washington Avenue, remember? The abundance of power you summoned was no parlor trick.”

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That’s because you were there next to me, you fool. I siphoned a chunk of YOUR power juice.

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“Pure adrenaline, Miles. Survival instinct. It was either that or become breakfast for a hungry lion. And, actually, it was a Gryphatiger.”

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He looked down at me. “Shadow Chasers may not be the Ritz of paranormal agencies, but they don’t hire amateurs.”

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Ah, the emotional landmine. “Let’s be real. We both know the only reason I got the gig was the fact Mom and Dad worked there when—”

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…when they were alive.

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My parents were wind mages, the real deal. Director Pankowski figured I was a chip off the old block—potential yet to be tapped. Little did Miles or Pankowski know I was an illusion mage. Little did they know that when I stood next to a dynamo like Miles, I was immediately filled with elemental magic and only pretended to be tapping into a feeble wind energy resource inherited from my parents. Made me look almost competent but not flashy. The problem with the Gryphatiger situation was I unleashed a tad more energy drawn from Miles than I should have.

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Blame the adrenaline.

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I was playing a deadly game of hide and seek, a game I one day expected to lose. I clung to my anonymity, because the day my secret got out would be the day my life under 24/7 surveillance as a VIP member of a watchlist would begin. And that was a best-case scenario.

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Illusion mages were not just watch-listed—they tagged us as the highest possible threat. We could absorb magic like a sponge, then twist it, weave it into anything we fancied and spit it out as our own, and that included magic from other dimensions. The Bureau recognized our value but also that we were too hazardous to be handled without gloves. By law, our whereabouts must be known. One mistake, one impulsive outburst of power, and we may never walk free again.

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I could hardly blame the Bureau. When illusion mages let their guard down, they quickly got drunk on magic and mayhem soon followed. Every now and then, one went rogue and nearly blew the cover off the magic world.

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One mage practically made the Statue of Liberty dance the Macarena for every Joe Schmoe to see. And the Alice-in-Wonderland transformation of the Vegas Strip caused enormous headaches. Thousands of tourists, thinking they were tripping out on spiked drinks, suddenly needed a memory wipe.

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Because, no surprise, our only true innate ability is crafting illusions.

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Except, unlike the rest of my kind, I wasn’t born this way. No, I was an anomaly. An illusion mage had forced this high-risk, high-reward gift upon me after killing my parents. It came with a slew of bodily scars and a warning to stay silent or others I cared for would die too.

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Why had he done this to me? I had not one foggy fucking clue. Either way, I was stuck with powers and secrets I did not want.

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Surfacing from my pity party, I shifted gears. “So, what do you think you’re sniffing out? An insurgency of rowdy unicorns? A backdoor portal to the island of lost Bogeymen?”

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He exhaled, shifting back to business mode in a nanosecond. “I wish it were something that absurd. We have a rogue beast hopping library portals. The eggheads in tracking have it slated to pop up over at Sun Prairie Public…” He checked his phone. “T-minus fifty-five minutes.”

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“Wait, what type of beast? A furry bigfoot or a scaly cold-blooded—”

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“Something like that,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “We’ve only got a blurry heat image from the other side, but it’s massive, it’s nasty, and it’s coming this way.”

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He laughed, apparently finding my concerned face amusing.

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“I’m sorry,” he said, getting serious. “It’s a pomdor.”

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“A pomdor? You just said it was massive. Those critters are pocket-sized. Oh. You were trying to be funny. Which part was the joke, because pomdors are five realms away and there are no direct portals between their dimension and ours.”

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“It’s a pomdor. How could it portal jump that far?”

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I shook my head. “It can’t.”

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A pomdor taking a multi-dimensional road trip was as likely as a chicken penning The Grapes of Wrath.

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“Someone’s driving this,” I calculated. “Pomdors stumbling through one secret portal is a fluke, but five? That’s a planned invasion.”

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His eyes met mine. “Right. And so, we need to find out who’s doing the planning, because I, too, hold a low opinion of Pomdor intellectual capacity.”

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“Someone who would enjoy the sinister absurdity of enlisting pomdors as foot soldiers,” I offered.

 

Miles reached for his coat—the material a posh blend of fine wool and cashmere. Broad lapels and silver-lined cuffs and collar screamed authority and old money. Even the buttons offered the kind of refined detail that only came with a hefty price tag. Miles was insecure despite his good looks and forever adorned himself in high fashion.

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“Still remember how to seal and unseal portals?” he said.

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Memories flashed of lessons under lamplights, practicing in hidden corners of the city outside official Academy hours. Miles guiding, coaching, demanding perfection... and then declaring his feelings for me.

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“I remember.”

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There was a challenging glint in his eyes. “Am I right to trust you?”

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The sharp jab caught me off guard. “Okay, I woke up one day and broke it off. That’s it. Nothing more.”

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His gaze didn’t waver. “People grow apart, I get it. You were young, maybe you met someone, maybe you lost your nerve. Doesn’t matter. When it comes to the job, I trust your determination and discretion. This is a professional commitment. It’s not personal. Friendship is not a requisite.”

 

His words hung in the air like a dull ache. “Does the Bureau Director know I’m shadowing you today?”

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He grinned, leading the way to the elevator. “I have broad authority, Tess. I operate above and beyond any office politics.”

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We descended into the underground parking. Miles had suggested there was something nefarious afoot at the Bureau, but my every instinct suggested that he, too, was not himself. He claimed to trust me, but should I trust him?

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If only I could get him into a room with Izzy and borrow her empath skills, then I could get to his truth, discover what really was at the center of Miles Donovan’s heart. You know… regarding the case.

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Copyright Stella Fitzsimons, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

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