Chapter 2

Tiffany stumbled going up the stairs to her apartment. She loathed wearing heels, but she’d been in them for almost four hours now, and the light outside her apartment had gone out almost two months ago. She needed to call the super about it, but she’d barely been home enough to make the phone call. Maybe it would’ve made more sense to fly, but she felt bone weary, and using her powers took effort. With the traffic around Stamford, the drive out to her sister’s place had taken almost two hours, and then she’d needed to summon the energy to look happy watching all those mindless suburban housewives fawn endlessly over Dorothea’s pregnant belly.

But that wasn’t fair, was it? Those women weren’t stupid or even vapid. Some of them were smart, surely, or accomplished in their own right. They just weren’t agents in the FBI. Instead, their lives revolved around sippy-cups and playdates and the mundanity of suburban life in northern Westchester County. 

That wasn’t a bad thing. But it also wasn’t a life that Tiffany had ever understood.

At last, Tiffany reached her front door. She turned her key in the lock, opened it, and called out, “I’m home!” 

Neither of her cats stood waiting, however, and even calling out like that took more effort than Tiffany felt like she had to give right then.

She let herself slump against the doorframe. Dorothea had a house, a husband, and furniture that matched. Soon, she’d have a full-on family. By comparison, Tiffany still lived in the same two-bedroom walk-up she and Dorothea had shared back when Dorothea had been a student at the University of New Haven. Back when Oberon had still been Tiffany’s handsome superhero boyfriend. After all that time, Tiffany had two cats, a cheap sofa, and a bed that still felt too big for just her. Sure, she could’ve afforded more on her FBI salary — a bigger place and matching furniture, too — but when would she have needed it? 

No one on Earth could ever replace Oberon. No one else could ever feel that much larger than life. No one could make her feel that safe and that special. Tiffany wished that she didn’t know that as well as she did.

She threw her keys down and shook her head, hurrying across the room. She grabbed a glass off the shelf, opened her fridge, and tapped the box of Sauvignon Blanc that was her refrigerator’s only edible occupant. The wine tasted stiff but drinkable even after two weeks — three cheers for vacuum packaging! — and with an effort, she pushed the past away. She kicked her heels off and focused what little energy remained within her. With a grunt, she jumped and left the ground, gliding like a queen with her arms outstretched. She crossed her living room in style, floating some six inches off the ground. 

So what if Dorothea is having a baby? she told herself. I’m still the only one in this family who can fly.

She landed lightly on her couch, put her feet up, and finally let herself relax. She’d need to get out of her dress eventually, but for now that seemed like entirely too much effort. Her feet hurt, and her head hurt. She never wanted to go anywhere, ever again. She took a long pull from her wine glass and luxuriated in the exquisite feeling of not having to be anywhere.

Her phone rang. She picked it up reluctantly. 

“Hello?”

“Good evening, ma’am. This is Lieutenant Blaine Winters, EFD special liaison to the FBI field office in Manhattan. Is Special Agent Tiffany Trujillo available?”

He sounded impossibly young, even over the phone.

Tiffany lay back and closed her eyes. “This is Trujillo, lieutenant. Do you know what time it is?”

“It’s twelve-fifteen a.m., ma’am. Sorry for calling so late.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Tomorrow — check that, today — is supposed to be the first day I’ve had off in two weeks. What the hell do you want, Winters?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am, but SAC Casey Walcott directed me to call you about this evening’s incident at the Manhattan Diamond Exchange. He said you were something of an expert on, uh, Dr. Necropolis.”

Tiffany pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it in sheer amazement. 

“Frank McGuinness is in Sing Sing, kid. Tell Walcott that he can go fuck himself. I sincerely doubt that the good doctor had anything to do with whatever bullshit he’s gotten himself into down there.”

“Yes ma’am. Umm... SAC Walcott said you might say that. He, uh, still wants your opinion on the crime scene.”

“My... what?”

Tiffany looked at her watch then shook her head. She reluctantly decided to agree to whatever would get this Winters kid off the phone, even if that meant doing a favor for an asshole like Casey fucking Walcott. 

“Fine. Whatever,” she said sourly. “Just tell Casey to email my boss, and I’ll be down first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Umm...” 

“What?” The moment stretched out. “Don’t tell me. He wants me down there tonight?” It wasn’t really a question. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“What an asshole. You guys couldn’t have called an hour ago?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. He just—”

“No, it’s okay. Jeez, Winters, even the Diogenes Society never kept hours like these.”

Surprisingly, Winters laughed. “That’s not what the old-timers say, Ma’am.”

“Yeah?” Tiffany said. “Well then they’re lying to you, pal. Nobody fucks you like the government, trust me.”