Sampson smiled and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Yup, detect. It’s right there in our ” name.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed myself out of my chair. “Okay. I’m going to run upstairs and get the briefing from the police department. Kind of nice, I guess. They work on the physical, we pick up the metaphysical.” I nodded again. “Kind of like a Batman-and-Robin kind of thing.”
Sampson stood. “No, not like that all. We’re strictly working our angle on this. We’re not trying to find the girl, we’re trying to find the coven.”
A bolt of something shot through me. “So my job is to stand by and look for flying brooms and eye of newt while a girl is missing?”
“The police are going to find Alyssa. They’re going to find Cathy’s killer. Our job is to make sure that if there is a coven involved, if anything has actually been summoned—or anyone is looking for girls to use as future sacrifices—we stop it. We’re doing this on our own. Do you understand that, Sophie?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and studied the office supplies on Sampson’s desk.
“Let the police do their job. You need to keep your nose out of the physical part of this case.”
Sampson eyed me and I broke his gaze, finding myself touching my fingertips to the tip of my nose. I didn’t stick my nose into things.
For me, it was pretty much a full-body kind of stick.
“I need your word, Sophie.”
“Okay, fine. You have my word.” Even as I nodded my agreement, my mind was racing: check evidence. Read autopsy reports. Wear black. Break into something. I wasn’t exactly lying to Sampson; I was simply covering all my supernatural bases. You’d be surprised how often a banshee shows up in a file folder.
I walked out of Sampson’s office feeling as though I had just sealed my fate. Each step back toward my office made my stomach sink lower, even as I edged around the hole in the linoleum where a wizard had blown himself up (eons ago—was anyone ever going to get around to that?). I was about to hightail it into the ladies’ room when I realized that part of the reason for the upswing in my stomach acids—and nausea—was standing on a chair, legs akimbo, facing me off in the hallway. I immediately started breathing through my mouth.
Steve.
Steve was our resident troll—resident, in that he was an independent contractor who never seemed to leave the confines of the Agency. Troll, as in, well, troll. He who resides underneath bridges, asks ridiculous questions, and desperately wishes to deposit his little troll babies deep in my lady parts.
He’s grey and vaguely scaly, is constantly showing off his tufts of lichen-green chest hair, and has a cache of dirty jokes and bad pickup lines that would make any honky-tonk or used car salesman envious. I should say that I have a soft spot for the little guy—he is mostly harmless (that stench did kill a few flowers) and he had been instrumental in saving my life. But the spot that was soft for him was growing a little harder each time he “bumped” into my backside or left me love notes that frankly should have started “Dear Penthouse Forum,” rather than “My Dear Sweet Sophie’s Legs.”
Steve grinned salaciously when he saw me, and he suddenly jumped off his chair, pushing it to the side.
“Steve thinks Sophie looks distressed.”
Also, Steve always referred to himself in the third person. I’m not totally sure that that’s a troll thing—I’m pretty sure (hopefully) that it’s purely a Steve thing.
“Would Sophie like to tell Steve all about it?”
I swung my head—and pinched my nose. “No thanks, Steve. It’s nothing.” I continued down the hallway and Steve trotted next to me, finally picking up speed and pushing his chair in front of him. He bumped it into my calves, jumped on it, and laid his swamp hands on my shoulders. “Steve is a very good listener. And he will give you massage. . . .”
Steve dug his thumbs into the meat above my shoulders, leaving two wet spots on my blouse.
“Soph—I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, but like I said, I can handle this one.” I tried to squirrel out of his grasp, but for three feet of lichen and swamp slime, he had an impressive grip. I softened, slightly, as he cocked his head and listened intently to me, his coal-black eyes registering nothing but sweet concern as his fingers moved little circles up toward the top of my shoulders. “Steve knows where a lady carries her stress. Steve studied reflexology.”
“Hey. HEY! Hands off you little swamp creep!”
Apparently, in Steve’s world, ladies carried most of their stress in their breasts.
Steve jumped off his chair and took off running down the hall.
“I’m going to call HR on you, you little pervert!”