LAYLA
By the time I left the apartment, the steps were slick, the air sharp enough to sting.
The hem of my skirt caught the wet and clung to my calves.
The city didn’t wait for weather.
Engines coughed, hooves clattered, delivery boys shouted over each other, and somewhere a street vendor cursed at a jammed warming charm. The air smelled like the usual cocktail — coal dust, iron, exhaust, wet pavement, and faint metallic whine of dwarven spark engines running too hot.
I kept my head down, collar turned up against the wind, hands deep in my coat pockets. The magic in my skin itched under the leather like it wanted out.
Lexington Avenue was a mess — streetcars lined up two deep, their brass rails hissing steam. I squeezed onto the platform, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of Midtown’s early shift. A dwarven conductor stood at the tram gate, face hidden under a wool cap and smoke from his pipe. His eyes flicked over my uniform coat, the badge on my lapel, and then away again.
Not hostility. Just polite discomfort people get when something doesn’t fit where it’s supposed to.
A human woman detective wasn’t something they saw every morning, not even in this part of town.
The tram shuddered and pulled forward with a long metallic groan. Sparks flared blue-white under the wheels — the rune grid beneath the street catching current — and my fingertips tingled in response. My magic was too raw, too awake. It wanted to answer back.
I pressed my hands deeper into my coat pockets and whispered under my breath:
“I will not think about him.”
The charm’s rhythm was supposed to ground me — a spell disguised as a prayer.
Didn’t work worth a damn.
Every spark outside rattled through my bones like a pulse.
Every flicker of light in the tram glass looked like his eyes.
I shut mine and focused on the sounds instead. The hum of power lines. The click of shoes. The rustle of paper. The city’s pulse beating through metal.
By the time we crossed into Midtown proper, the sky had lightened. The skyscrapers caught the color like polished knives. The sleet turned to drizzle. Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun gave up trying to be seen.
My reflection in the window looked hollow — gray skin under gray light, the faint tremor at my jaw giving me away. A woman trying to look normal. A witch trying not to spark.
The tram jolted to a stop at 42nd.
My stop.
I stepped off into a puddle deep enough to soak my shoes through. Perfect start to the day.
The 13th Precinct sat wedged between a tailor’s shop and an elven insurance firm, the building that tried too hard to look respectable — five stories of soot-stained stone and brass trim dulled by weather. The plaque out front gleamed like it wanted to pretend the rest of the façade wasn’t falling apart:
13th Precinct — Arcane Affairs Division
I pushed through the heavy glass doors and into the lobby’s warmth. Someone had already smoked half a cigar and put it out in the sand urn by the door. The stench clung to the air.
The noise from the Dispatch Room hit next — phones ringing, boots clattering, the usual low-level chaos.
A day like any other.
On the surface.
My shoes left wet prints across the tile as I crossed to the front desk.
It stood dead center — brass-plated, broad-shouldered, and unmoving — and behind it sat Grashira.
She didn’t need the desk to look like a fortress; she was one.
Iron-gray braids wrapped tight at the crown of her head, tusks polished to a soft sheen, shoulders squared under a skirt suit so sharp it could’ve cut glass. Every inch of her said discipline.
Her gaze lifted the instant I stepped through the door.
“Peterson.”
“Morning, Grashira,” I said, keeping my tone level.
Her eyes narrowed, the way they always did when she was reading more than words. The hum of my aura must’ve reached her — orcs could sense magic like others felt weather.
She leaned forward a fraction, voice low enough to vanish under the noise of ringing phones.
“Keep your aura tucked, girl. The new recruits twitch easy.”
I nodded, trying for humor I didn’t feel.
“They should be more scared of you.”
Her tusks flashed.
“They are.”
It warmed something small within me.
Grashira wasn’t the type to hand out comfort. What she gave instead was respect, and around here that was rarer than a quiet day. She’d pulled me out of trouble more than once — covered for the stray sparks that sometimes slipped when I was too tired, too raw. She never said why. Maybe she remembered what it was like to fight for a place in a room full of men who didn’t think you belonged.
Across the lobby, a familiar laugh cut through the noise — bright, musical, impossible to ignore.
Maggie was half-leaning over the counter officers and detectives checked their hours. Her lipstick hadn’t smudged a bit despite the morning rush; the woman had a gift.
She grinned.
“You made it.”
“Barely.”
She laughed — low and warm — and turned back to the stack of files spread in front of her.
Behind her, the clock clicked over another minute. Phones rang. Papers shuffled.
I adjusted my coat, squared my shoulders, and headed for the elevator.
Its cage yawned open with a metallic groan, like it hated the idea of work as much as the rest of us.
I stepped inside, pulled the gate closed behind me, and hit 4.
The machinery above gave a reluctant cough and started to pull.
The whole thing rattled and creaked.
I didn’t mind.
The noise covered the sound of my heartbeat.
The ride up always felt too long, the slow climb that gave a person too much time to think.
I told myself he wouldn’t be there. That he’d taken the transfer. That he had more sense than to put us in the same room again.
The elevator cables groaned. The floor shuddered under my boots.
“He wouldn’t risk both of us. He wouldn’t stay.”
I stared at the button lights as they flickered from 2 to 3 to 4.
My stomach turned over anyway.
Magic prickled under my gloves — again, or still. It never really shut up since yesterday.
I clenched my fists until it dimmed. Until it hurt.
The bell clanged. The gate slid open.
The bullpen smelled like every precinct I’d ever worked in — old coffee, damp paper, too much sweat, too little patience.
The walls were a map of exhaustion — peeling paint, corkboards sagging under pinned reports and bloodied photos, red string crisscrossing the mess like arteries.
The ceiling fan turned slow and crooked, pushing stale air in tired circles.
I stepped inside and kept to the edges, the way I always did.
People looked up, nodded, went back to work. No smiles. No words.
A witch wasn’t an easy coworker, even in the Arcane Division.
Too many thought we were unstable.
Too many had been right, once.
I shrugged out of my coat but kept it folded over my arm. The warmth helped keep the magic steady.
At the far end of the room, Redd barked names between swigs of burnt coffee — suspenders digging into his shoulders, his vest stained. His voice carried over the typewriters, a mix of gravel and nicotine.
“ Silverseer! Marrowleaf! take the Battery fire case — reports say the sun-charge blew too hot. Get Forensics down there before it cooks the paperwork.”
“Doyle! You and Costello! The Council wants eyes on the Harlem incident — says it’s a ‘domestic disturbance.’” He snorted. “Take a translator and don’t start a war.”
“Peterson —”
My head lifted before I could stop it.
I scanned the bullpen automatically — human, human, dwarf, human, elf — no tusks.
No orc.
For the first time that morning, I let myself breathe. Just a little.
Relief came sharp and fast, too sharp. It left an ache behind it, hollow and strange.
Redd was still talking. Something about updated case files, about the department being understaffed and underpaid and somehow still expected to save the city. His words blurred.
Did he ask for a transfer? The thought slipped in before I could stop it.
My chest tightened.
I straightened, smoothed the creases in my sleeve, and forced my mind back to the work.
The phone on the wall rang loud enough to cut through the noise.
Redd snatched it up without looking, the cord stretching taut. His voice came out half-grunt, half-growl.
“Redd.”
His mouth twitched — that wolfish grin he got whenever something ugly landed in his lap.
He looked up, eyes finding me through the haze of smoke and paperwork.
“Peterson — docks just called it in.”
He waved the half-eaten muffin like a baton.
“Another witch. Just like the last one.”
He bit down on what was left of the muffin and chewed slow, watching my face.
“Guess it’s your lucky day.”
Lucky. Right.
The bullpen kept moving around us — voices, typewriters, boots — but it all went a little thin
Another witch.
The words hit like cold water. Of course it wasn’t over. It never was.
The city never learned to quit.
Redd hung up the receiver, wiped his hand on his vest, and dug through a stack of reports.
He found my file, flicked the corner, then looked back at me with that half-amused, half-bored expression he wore when something was about to hurt.
“Haul your ass! Your partner’s waiting in the lobby.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“Lobby?”
“Didn’t want to come up,” he said, chewing on a pencil this time. “Said something about wasting time.”
He’s here.
Now.
I managed a nod that probably looked steadier than I felt.
Redd was already moving on, shouting new orders at Silverseer and Doyle.
I turned before anyone could read my face.
The elevator waited at the end of the hall, cage door hanging open like a mouth. I stepped in.
The gears above groaned to life, metal protesting every inch of movement.
I gripped the railing, leather gloves creaking under my fingers.
He stayed.
Why?
The worst part was that some small, traitorous piece of me was glad.
The lights flickered.
A sharp pop echoed above, and for a heartbeat, the cage was swallowed in shadow.
The hum in my skin broke through before I could stop it — a flare of raw magic jumping from glove to metal. The bulb overhead flared back to life, too bright for a second, then steadied.
I pressed my palms together hard, trying to still the tremor.
It didn’t help.
My pulse thudded in my ears.
The elevator bell dinged.
First floor.
The gate slid open.
And there he was.
Khurzog.
He stood near the front desk.
Maggie was beside him, leaning against the counter, smiling that bright, careless smile she used when she wanted the world to think she didn’t feel small. Her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve — casual, maybe accidental. I didn’t think so.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even glance down at her. The steam still rising off his coat said he’d come straight from the street; sleet melted down the curve of his collar and vanished into the fabric. His presence filled the space like pressure before a storm — quiet, immense, impossible to ignore.
He looked wrong here — too wild for all this marble and polish.
Maggie kept talking, laughing about the new patrol cars, her voice pitched higher than usual. The flirting that lived safely behind rules everyone pretended to follow. Orcs had that effect — on women who thought curiosity couldn’t burn them.
I couldn’t blame her. Not really. But the sight still twisted something low in my chest.
Everything about him was too much — the stillness, the weight, the way the air bent around him. Scars that didn’t belong to this century. Shoulders built for war, not paperwork. Eyes that could unmake a person just by resting on them.
That coat couldn’t hide what he was.
Women would stare.
Maggie was staring.
And he didn’t even see her.
My body moved before my brain caught up. My heels hit the tile sharp and fast, each step a little louder than it needed to be. The air thickened with every inch I closed between us.
Maggie looked up, startled.
“Oh! Layla —”
“We’re late,” I said.
Too sharp. Too clipped. It came out like an order.
He turned. His eyes met mine, and for a breath, the world stopped.
The air between us cracked. Every rune near the door flickered once, as if the building itself was flinching. My gloves went hot. My pulse misfired.
I spun on my heel and headed for the doors, coat snapping at my calves. The cold air from outside bled in around the frame, sharp enough to bite.
Behind me, I heard the shift of weight, the soft jingle of keys.
He’d taken them straight from Maggie’s hand without so much as a look.
Maggie’s voice followed, small and breathless through the closing noise.
“How old is he?”
Grashira, somewhere behind the counter, didn’t even look up.
“Around three-fifty, maybe. Could be my son.”
“And if he were human?”
“Too old for you, child.”
“Didn’t ask for your opinion. Just wanted a number.”
A pause. Then Grashira, dry as ash:
“Forty, give or take.”
“Forty.”
Maggie exhaled, dazed.
“Huh.”
Outside, the sleet had turned to thin, falling snow.
Our patrol car waited at the curb: a battered black 1925 Model T Police Patrol, dented fender, cracked mirror. Looked like every detective before us had driven it straight into a wall.
Khurzog stood beside it, one gloved hand on the door, watching the street, not me.
The city hummed around us — steel, smoke, and the faint hiss of magic running under it all.
My pulse was too fast.
My magic too loud.
He looked exactly like the man I’d spent six months pretending I could forget.