Wretched Wicked: An Urban Fantasy Novella by Sm Reine

Author:Sm Reine [Reine, Sm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Iris Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

It took six months for Cèsar to track Black Jack down.

Black Jack had always been slippery, but Fritz had made the mistake of warning him that an arrest was imminent, so the witch had gone from elusive to downright invisible. For those months, Cèsar remained in Arizona, living out of a Motel 6. He filed regular reports on his activities. Fritz read them with as much obsessive regularity as he used to observe Cèsar through a scrying ball.

If anything personal happened between Cèsar and Black Jack, it would not be in the reports. They were dry, poorly proofread, and utterly professional. Too many things could have been happening with Cèsar—and with Black Jack—that would never show on such reports.

Cèsar would be catnip for someone like Black Jack. He perceived himself as the sexual equivalent of a feline toying with deadly mice, and it would have tickled him pink to seduce an agent Fritz sent for the arrest. Cèsar was unaware that he held any sexual appeal for other men. He wouldn’t see Black Jack’s intentions until his pants were around his ankles and his favorite pair of sunglasses were gone.

These kinds of details, had they existed, were not included in any report.

Fritz thought about closing the case and extracting Cèsar.

But six months passed. And when the day of the arrest arrived, it was anticlimactic.

A mundane slip-up led to Black Jack’s apprehension. The gambler had used his credit card once to get gas, and Cèsar caught him buying cigarettes in the station.

Black Jack was admitted to a detention center in the Mojave Desert within hours. Fritz watched footage of Black Jack’s intake into the detention facility and tried to decide if he felt bad for putting Black Jack away.

“Sir?” Cèsar stood in the doorway to Fritz’s office, looking travel-worn and tired.

“Good work, Agent Hawke.” Fritz closed his laptop on the security footage of Black Jack. Even when running to the nearest Circle K for a nicotine hit, the witch had been wearing a slim, tailored suit that emphasized the narrowness of his form, like a sticky-fingered stoat. “Clean arrest, flawless paperwork, great procedure. That’s one for the books when we train new agents.”

“If you’re teaching other agents with my work, your other agents must suck,” Cèsar said.

Fritz couldn’t help but laugh, and he startled himself with the sound. He wasn’t like Cèsar. He didn’t laugh easily. It felt a little painful coming out.

This time, Cèsar didn’t laugh along.

“I searched Black Jack when I arrested him.” Cèsar set a hard case on Fritz’s desk. He’d found Fritz’s sunglasses. “When you said that you’ve got guys on payroll who can take care of stuff for you, you were talking about me.”

Fritz pushed his sunglasses into his hair, relieved by the restored weight of the frames against his pate. “Is that a problem?”

“Nah.” There was no conceit in Cèsar’s casual shrug, as always. “Wish you’d have told me, though.”

“I’m not that kind of man.”

“Guess you’re not.” Cèsar jerked his thumb toward the door. “The guys are going to The Olive Pit for drinks tonight after work.

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