will take your statement, and we’ll be on the lookout for someone who
resembles
Mr. Oberon here.”
“But—!”
“I’m sorry, he’s got an alibi. You heard it. Let’s go.”
Phelps glared at me the entire way out the door, nearly walking into the doorframe in the process.
As for me, this whole affair had me pondering a whole new heap of questions.
What’d been the purpose behind this? I sure as hell didn’t believe for one second it was a coincidence, that someone who just
happened
to look like me had mugged this poor sap. I may not look exactly the same to any given mortal, but I’m still me; still pretty close, between one soul and the next. This all but
had
to be deliberate. Disguise at least, and more likely magic. All kinda ways someone coulda done it—hell, give me a minute in someone’s head, muckin’ with their perceptions and memories, and I could make ’em believe something this way—but the most obvious answer? Shapeshifting. Again.
Goswythe (or whoever) clearly wasn’t too worried about me suspecting him. But why pull a stunt like this?
If he’d actually meant to get me pinched and thrown in the cooler for any real time, it was a clumsy setup. Way
too
clumsy. This frame wouldn’t have held a Monet, let alone me.
Sending me a message? “I’m watching you and I can get to you,” that sorta thing? Maybe, but I’d already known that, and he shoulda known I’d already known. It was dippy to expend that much effort, and confirm for me there was shapeshifting or other magic involved, just for that.
Hell, maybe the whole point was to be inconvenient and irritating, in which case he’d succeeded.
Phouka
can be that way. Didn’t really seem Goswythe’s speed, but you never know; we all gotta act according to our nature. Not probable—he was too much the consummate schemer—but possible.
Goddamn it. Way too many “maybes” and “could bes” and “possibles.” Welcome to my life.
“Mick! Hey, Mick! Where are you?”
Couldn’t help but grin. Even in
my
life, I got certain things I
can
count on, see?
I stood up and stepped outta the box.
“Heya, Pete. Over here.”
My buddy’d clearly taken just enough time to force himself awake and make himself vaguely presentable. He’d brushed his hair neat enough, but his thick mustache was lookin’ a bit wild and prickly, and it was weird seein’ him in the clubhouse while outta uniform. He elbowed his way toward me, drawing growls and grunts and glowers from the various elbowees.
“What’s this bullshit about you bein’ accused of mugging someone?” he demanded as he neared.
“Eh, nothing much.” I’d explain it in detail when we had some quiet—and no other ears around—but not now. “Just a misunderstanding.”
I felt Phelps’s peepers boring into me from across the station. But someone else was gettin’ real steamed at
Pete
, though.
“
Officer Staten!
”
Pete went rigid as a two-by-four in an icebox.
“Sir?”
Galway stomped back over, face red, chest heaving, his own mustache raised to attack and bristling in a show of dominance over Pete’s.
“How the fuck did you hear about this?”
“Well, sir, Mick’s a friend of mine, and I—”
“I didn’t ask why the fuck you were here! I know why you’re here! I asked how you knew!” Then he didn’t narrow his eyes so much as scrunch his whole face up around his nose. “Someone called you. Who was it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“I asked you a question, Staten!”
“Yes, sir, you did. But I’m not breaking any rules by coming in early, and I’m declining to answer.”
“I could bring you up for disciplinary action!”
“That’s an awful lotta paperwork when I didn’t actually do anything, sir.”
Galway spluttered and cursed and threatened some more, but he was runnin’ outta steam quick. I was relieved, to tell you square, and not just for Pete’s sake. I was glad he hadn’t ratted out Officer Nichols, too. The poor
resembles
Mr. Oberon here.”
“But—!”
“I’m sorry, he’s got an alibi. You heard it. Let’s go.”
Phelps glared at me the entire way out the door, nearly walking into the doorframe in the process.
As for me, this whole affair had me pondering a whole new heap of questions.
What’d been the purpose behind this? I sure as hell didn’t believe for one second it was a coincidence, that someone who just
happened
to look like me had mugged this poor sap. I may not look exactly the same to any given mortal, but I’m still me; still pretty close, between one soul and the next. This all but
had
to be deliberate. Disguise at least, and more likely magic. All kinda ways someone coulda done it—hell, give me a minute in someone’s head, muckin’ with their perceptions and memories, and I could make ’em believe something this way—but the most obvious answer? Shapeshifting. Again.
Goswythe (or whoever) clearly wasn’t too worried about me suspecting him. But why pull a stunt like this?
If he’d actually meant to get me pinched and thrown in the cooler for any real time, it was a clumsy setup. Way
too
clumsy. This frame wouldn’t have held a Monet, let alone me.
Sending me a message? “I’m watching you and I can get to you,” that sorta thing? Maybe, but I’d already known that, and he shoulda known I’d already known. It was dippy to expend that much effort, and confirm for me there was shapeshifting or other magic involved, just for that.
Hell, maybe the whole point was to be inconvenient and irritating, in which case he’d succeeded.
Phouka
can be that way. Didn’t really seem Goswythe’s speed, but you never know; we all gotta act according to our nature. Not probable—he was too much the consummate schemer—but possible.
Goddamn it. Way too many “maybes” and “could bes” and “possibles.” Welcome to my life.
“Mick! Hey, Mick! Where are you?”
Couldn’t help but grin. Even in
my
life, I got certain things I
can
count on, see?
I stood up and stepped outta the box.
“Heya, Pete. Over here.”
My buddy’d clearly taken just enough time to force himself awake and make himself vaguely presentable. He’d brushed his hair neat enough, but his thick mustache was lookin’ a bit wild and prickly, and it was weird seein’ him in the clubhouse while outta uniform. He elbowed his way toward me, drawing growls and grunts and glowers from the various elbowees.
“What’s this bullshit about you bein’ accused of mugging someone?” he demanded as he neared.
“Eh, nothing much.” I’d explain it in detail when we had some quiet—and no other ears around—but not now. “Just a misunderstanding.”
I felt Phelps’s peepers boring into me from across the station. But someone else was gettin’ real steamed at
Pete
, though.
“
Officer Staten!
”
Pete went rigid as a two-by-four in an icebox.
“Sir?”
Galway stomped back over, face red, chest heaving, his own mustache raised to attack and bristling in a show of dominance over Pete’s.
“How the fuck did you hear about this?”
“Well, sir, Mick’s a friend of mine, and I—”
“I didn’t ask why the fuck you were here! I know why you’re here! I asked how you knew!” Then he didn’t narrow his eyes so much as scrunch his whole face up around his nose. “Someone called you. Who was it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“I asked you a question, Staten!”
“Yes, sir, you did. But I’m not breaking any rules by coming in early, and I’m declining to answer.”
“I could bring you up for disciplinary action!”
“That’s an awful lotta paperwork when I didn’t actually do anything, sir.”
Galway spluttered and cursed and threatened some more, but he was runnin’ outta steam quick. I was relieved, to tell you square, and not just for Pete’s sake. I was glad he hadn’t ratted out Officer Nichols, too. The poor
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