“This is Marigold from the Union Investigative Department. How may I help you?” she answered in a sing-song voice.
“The guy isn’t here,” I barked back.
“Oh! Hello, Aster. How’s your first solo job going?”
I growled into the receiver. “The petitioner isn’t here, Marigold!”
“Well, he checked the box, darling. Guidelines state that you must make contact,” she replied.
“I know that.”
She sighed. “Did you bring a hammer?”
I pulled the phone away and stared in confusion, as if checking that Marigold was really on the line and not some idiot alien. I placed it back to my ear. “No, you beautiful pile of brainless mush, I didn’t bring my hammer. Or my crane. Or my electrician. Or my sewing kit. Or my sandwich meat. Or my friendly neighborhood yeti. Or —”
“All right, all right,” she said soothingly. “No need to upset yourself, Aster. I know this must be stressful for you.”
I gasped, horrified. “How dare you? I am never stressed.”
“Get into the house, dear. Check all the rooms. If he isn’t there, mark it in the paperwork and come home. Enjoy!”
Click. The line went dead.
Sometimes, I thought Marigold was my friend. But in times like these…
I shoved my phone into my pocket and gritted my teeth. I pounded on the door again. “Mr. Creed! It’s Aster King from the Union! You requested me for a report! Please open up!”
Nothing.
I examined the window facing out from his apartment. I clapped my hands and wedged my fingers into a tiny crack. He hadn’t shut the window all the way closed. It looked like the screen had been taken off, too.
I was extremely proud of myself when the window slid open.
Ingenious? I think so.
Any other novice would have banged at the door for several more minutes like a moron.
The apartment was dark and smelled of burnt dust. My grandma had a vacation mobile home out in a desert retirement park that we visited every few years for Thanksgiving. We’d walk in to the stuffy aroma of overheated dirt, old carpet and stale water from the buckets on the floor, left there to keep moisture in the air. Couldn’t have such luxurious 1970’s wood paneling dry out when we locked up for the season.
That’s what this apartment reminded me of.
But it was so dark. And I was suddenly not very confident.
“Mr. Creed?” I stage-whispered while searching for a light.
I took a step forward and then tripped over something.
Something that felt like either the body of a huge dead dog, or a body of a smaller, also-dead person.
I held out my hands and managed to catch myself against the wall, but not before my head hit a wooden shelf. I cursed, rubbing at my temple. Finally, I found the light switch.
I did not, in fact, trip over a huge dead dog, or a smaller, also-dead human.
It was a dead pig.
The pig was pink with black spots, and was lying on its side, legs sticking straight out. Gross.
I looked around the apartment, expecting to see a man lying on the ground too.
I eyed the pig suspiciously. Maybe it ate Mr. Creed. Pigs will consume anything, after all. My Aunt Matilda had a pig once. Across its lifetime, it ate several pairs of shoes, her wig, her favorite chinchilla, two thousand dollars in cash, several dozen books, the neighbor’s cat, and an entire pumpkin pie meant for a wake.
But I didn’t see any signs of Mr. Creed in the tiny apartment. No spare human fingers or blood. No man-like leftovers for hungry pigs.
I crept silently down the single hallway and checked each of the rooms. One was a bathroom, and the two others were bedrooms. All of them were empty.
When I approached the very last door, I paused. I checked over my shoulder to make sure the dead pig wasn’t actually a hungry zombie pig who just woke up from a nap and decided it wanted a snack — me.
I snapped myself Unnoticeable.
There were real invisible people out there. They could flip their switch and poof! They disappeared.
Invisible people got great contract work.
Unnoticeable people like me? Not so much.
Sure, I was invisible to cameras and other tech. But I really just turned into the equivalent of a boring movie extra. I blended into crowds, murals, piles of garbage. You get the gist.
I was the human chameleon. The ugly sister in the spy division of magical abilities. The left testicle that sort of shrinks up to one side because it’s smaller than the stronger, more intimidating right testicle.
The only problem? Any shifter worth their weight in Himalayan sheep wool could smell me out. Vampires, too. Witches sensed my magical presence with ease.
That didn’t make sneaky work very possible.
Invisible people? They could cloak all of that. For shorter periods of time, but still. It’s enough to make them the most sought-after contract workers. They were the top agents in the Union. Sometimes, even the vamps, witches and shifters hired them.
Yeah, they’re that cool.
I reached out, turned the knob, and stared, mouth hanging open.
I was met with a long stairwell that went so far down, the hallway light didn’t reach the bottom.
My stomach dipped with sudden nerves.
If I didn’t go down there, I’d have to submit an incomplete report. Kiki loathed incomplete reports. They required extra paperwork and she just didn’t have any time for that. I had to stay on her good side. I needed to finish this job, whether I made contact with Mr. Creed or not.
Even if that meant exploring a creepy basement. Gods, why were people allowed to have these?
Of course, I could lie and say I had searched every room. But if they followed up with Mr. Creed, and he revealed he had an interior security camera that showed me distinctly not checking this basement, I’d be in trouble. People who were caught filling out falsified reports got booted from the Union all the time. They were stricter than cult leaders.
I checked the hallway. The walls, corners and ceiling were all blank, but that wasn’t unexpected. Anyone could buy tiny camera systems with runes in their hardware to help hide the lens.
The basement’s darkness yawned below me. I touched my throat and swallowed.
This was the part of the movie where the dumb girl gets decapitated by a weak-chinned man with a machete. Arteries severed. Blood drenching the wall quicker than a hose on high.
But perhaps Mr. Creed was down there, just working on a special thing. Like a sculpture or underground laser tag maze.
I took a deep breath, made a tiny scream at the back of my throat, then went down those stairs to try and get my damn paycheck because I was a ladyboss who needed her cheesecake.
Well, and rent money.
3
The stairs were concrete. They didn’t creak and give my position away. As I descended, my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Once I reached the bottom, it was clear where the light was coming from. A single torch hung on the wall across the room. The flame was small and dim, like it was only minutes away from dying.
I clutched my briefcase in my hand and walked forward. I winced when my feet started crunching on metal pieces on the floor. They clinked beneath my boots as I passed the dying torch. I turned in a circle, searching for anything in the blackness, and then sighed.
The darkness was too heavy, and I was pretty sure I covered my room-checking requirements. This was the end of the road, and it was time to head back.