The five agents who were in the doghouse were wearing suits that screamed “feds”—at least that’s what they said to me based on my TV viewing. The other five agents—three men and two women, and presumably the ones tasked with cleaning up the Suits’ mess, were casually dressed. This included Ian Byrne. I hadn’t been sure what was considered approved SPI seer attire, so I went with slacks, blouse, blazer, nice pumps, along with a small silver crucifix and a water pistol filled with holy water—supernatural business casual.
Alain Moreau—aka my manager, the vampire—was standing preternaturally still and silent at the front of the room. In addition to being my manager, Alain Moreau was SPI’s chief legal counsel, second-in-charge, and Vivienne Sagadraco’s go-to guy. He wore an elegant black suit that probably cost more than my first car. His white-blond hair, pale skin, and light blue eyes reminded me of Anderson Cooper, minus the giggling and sense of humor.
After being hired and introduced to him, I’d immediately put a permanent park on any urges involving blood-sucking lawyer jokes.
Moreau quickly made the introductions. Since the Suits were in the meeting, presumably they were being given a chance to redeem themselves. That said good things about my new employer. I tried for a friendly smile at each handshake. Four of the Suits smiled back, apparently willing to let bygones be bygones. The last one decided that crushing my hand would make his ego feel better. I squeezed right back, managed not to wince, and kept right on smiling.
Asshat.
Then Moreau introduced me to the “Casuals.” Two of the men and one of the women were elves, and the remaining man and woman were human. A lot of elves found their way into police and federal agency work. For some reason, they had a thing for law and order. All of these agents seemed perfectly nice; and even better, none tried to break my fingers.
The ogre stepped forward. “Some background on tonight’s . . . challenge.”
He said that last word in a way that would easily translate to “fiasco.” Some of the Casuals were having trouble stopping smiles at the Suits’ collective expense. With the exception of the Hand Crusher, the others took the ribbing with good humor.
“Normally, SPI is not in the bodyguard business, but as a favor to the local Seelie Court, we escorted a soon-to-be-married leprechaun prince and his bachelor party buddies for a night on the town.” He glared briefly at the Suits. “Apparently, the prince didn’t want bodyguards.
“Our agents were tasked with keeping the prince and his party where we could see them,” the ogre continued. “As a refresher, a human’s gaze can hold a leprechaun prisoner. However, the instant the human looks away, the leprechaun can vanish. So where was the first place the prince and his roving bachelor party wanted to go? A strip club.” The ogre shot a glance at Alain Moreau. It was almost apologetic. “SPI prides itself on agents that are highly trained and disciplined.” He scowled. “Obviously putting five male agents in a strip club and telling them they can’t look proves that there’s been a training oversight on the discipline side because the prince and his boys flew the coop before the first G-string dropped.”
The Casuals couldn’t hold it in any longer. Snorts and snickers filled the room. Personally, I thought the biggest mistake had been sending in five straight male agents.
Hand Crusher had a red face. “Like you would do any better.” His comment was directed at a stylish red-haired woman sitting next to him.
“We can and we will,” she assured him. “Sir,” she said to the ogre, “never send a man to do a woman’s job.”
“Settle down, people.” The ogre’s voice went low, gravelly, vibrated the floor under my feet, and clearly meant business. “Leprechauns are masters of disguise and can make themselves look like anyone. We now have five magically disguised leprechauns running amok and unguarded through New York’s adult entertainment establishments.” He leveled those yellow eyes on every agent in the room, Suits and Casuals alike. “The prince made no secret of his bachelor party plans. And in the Seelie Court, information is just as big of a commodity as gold. Even if he’d tried to keep it secret, it wouldn’t have stayed that way for long. We have to find them before the opposition does.”
The ogre did some click and drag, and the SPI monster eye logo was replaced by five completely average-looking human men on the screen. There was a name below each photo.
“These are our subjects’ usual glamours.”
“Any chance they’ll still be using them?” Ian asked.
“Better than average. The agents originally assigned to the prince and his party will be deployed to the less likely but still viable clubs. They might get lucky.”
“That thinking’s what got them in trouble last time,” Ian muttered.
“What other form can they take?” the redhead asked. “Male? Female? Animal, vegetable, mineral?”
“First two, yes. Last three, unknown.”
“So we’re looking for a male or female who may or may not turn into something with four legs, roots, or a rock.”
That earned her some chuckles.