Disrupted magic shamrock.., p.8
Disrupted Magic (Shamrock Disposal Book 1), page 8
“Twenty-three years ago, Vladimir Gombola made his first documented contact with entities that match Unseelie Court profiles. Before that, nothing—at least nothing in these files.”
Alison leaned forward to look at my screen, her shoulder brushing against mine. Whether the contact was intentional or not, I couldn’t tell, but it sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with magic.
“That’s a pretty abrupt shift,” she said. “Criminal families don’t usually change their business model without good reason.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Something happened twenty-three years ago that made the Winter Court valuable to them, or them valuable to the Court.”
She nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. “And what about the girl with pink hair? Any mention of her in the files?”
“Nothing. She’s a complete unknown.” I turned slightly to watch her reaction. “Which makes me wonder why she wasn’t in our briefing materials.”
Alison’s expression gave nothing away. “Maybe she’s new. Or maybe Mercer doesn’t know about her.”
“You think there’s information Mercer doesn’t have access to?”
“Everyone has blind spots.” She stood up. “Keep digging. I’ve requested additional files from Containment Records that might help.”
As she walked back to her station, I watched her—the confident stride, the perfect posture, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she sat down. I’d been watching her all morning, in fact. Just as she’d been watching me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
The coffee was good, but it couldn’t wash away the lingering taste of paranoia. What was she really researching over there? What had she found that she wasn’t sharing? And most importantly—what did she suspect about me?
I turned back to my own screen, but my focus was shot. Last night’s encounter at the restaurant had shaken me more than I wanted to admit. The bouncer’s power was still there, a tiny splinter of cold buried deep inside, refusing to be absorbed or expelled. And the pink-haired girl’s gaze had left me feeling exposed, as if she’d looked straight through all my carefully constructed defenses.
With a sigh, I opened another file. This one contained financial records for Frost Mountain Mining, one of the Gombola family’s legitimate businesses. At first glance, everything looked normal—steady profits, appropriate tax filings, regular payroll. But when I cross-referenced the employee list with known magical practitioners, a pattern emerged.
Over the past decade, the company had hired seventeen people with minor magical abilities, all in positions that wouldn’t typically require such skills. Janitors, security guards, administrative assistants. Each had been flagged in Agency records as “persons of interest” but never investigated further.
I was about to dig deeper when I noticed Alison stand up abruptly and walk over to the archive librarian, gesturing at something on her tablet. They spoke in hushed tones, the librarian nodding and leading her toward a more secure section of the archives.
Perfect. With Alison temporarily out of sight, I could finally see what she’d been working on.
I waited until they disappeared through a door marked Restricted Records, then casually made my way to her workstation. Her notepad lay open, filled with her neat, precise handwriting.
I pretended to browse a nearby shelf while scanning her notes. Most were standard investigation notes about the Gombola family, similar to what I’d been researching. But there, at the bottom of the page, was a list of locations with dates beside them. Locations I recognized all too well:
River City Pawn—2/15—Unexplained energy fluctuation
Mendoza’s Bakery—3/4—Reality distortion
Luminous Gallery—3/7—Class 2 fracture
My stomach dropped. Cold spread from my core outward, slow and deliberate, like someone had just spilled Winter Court ice water down my spine. I reread the words twice, hoping they’d change.
River City Pawn—2/15—Unexplained energy fluctuation
Mendoza’s Bakery—3/4—Reality distortion
Luminous Gallery—3/7—Class 2 fracture
These were my jobs. The places I’d done freelance breaking work. The places where I’d been careful—but apparently not careful enough.
And beneath this list, a single line that made my blood run cold: Anomalous technique patterns. Possible mentor? Requires further investigation.
I heard footsteps approaching and moved away from her desk, grabbing a random folder from a shelf and pretending to be deeply interested in its contents. When I glanced up, Alison was watching me, her expression unreadable.
“Find something interesting?” she asked.
“Just browsing,” I replied, holding up the folder. “Looking for anything on magical enhancements and their long-term effects.”
She nodded slowly, clearly not believing me. “The genetic mutation files are actually in Section C, not B.”
I looked down at the folder in my hand, which was labeled “Aquatic Anomalies, 1987-1992.” Not even remotely close to what I’d claimed to be looking for.
“Right,” I said, putting it back. “Got distracted by the, uh, mermaid sightings. Who knew, right?”
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost. “Who knew.”
The tension between us was palpable as we returned to our respective workstations. She knew I’d been snooping, and now I knew she suspected what I was. We were both keeping secrets, both investigating each other, both waiting for the other to make a mistake.
It was the world’s most dangerous dance, and I was two left feet away from a deadly misstep.
Two hours later, I’d managed to compile a decent history of the Gombola family’s descent into supernatural crime. According to the records, Vladimir’s wife had died twenty-three years ago from an aggressive form of cancer. Three months later, he made his first documented contact with Unseelie Court representatives. The timing couldn’t be coincidental.
Grief and desperation made people vulnerable to darker powers. I’d seen it enough times in my freelance work—people seeking magical solutions to very human problems, only to find themselves caught in bargains they didn’t fully understand.
I was so engrossed in connecting these dots that I didn’t notice Smith until he was standing right beside me, his imposing shadow falling across my screen.
“Drexler,” he said, making my name sound like an accusation. “Making progress?”
I minimized the file I’d been reading. “Some. The Gombola family’s magical connections began about twenty-three years ago, right after Vladimir’s wife died. Before that, they were just garden-variety criminals.”
Smith’s mouth tightened. “There’s nothing garden variety about organized crime, Drexler. These people have been destroying lives for generations.”
“Poor choice of words,” I conceded. “I just meant they had no supernatural elements to their operations before that point.”
He leaned against my desk, arms crossed. “And how exactly are you identifying these supernatural elements? Your methods seem unconventional.”
There it was. The probe. The test. Smith had been looking for an excuse to question me since day one.
“Standard pattern recognition,” I said with a shrug. “Unusual business acquisitions, employee profiles that don’t match job requirements, unexplained financial fluctuations. Basic investigative stuff.”
“And at the restaurant? What basic investigative stuff allowed you to identify enhanced individuals so quickly?”
I kept my expression neutral. “I grew up around magic, Agent Smith. My father made sure I could recognize the signs from an early age.”
“Your father.” Smith’s tone was flat with disbelief. “The mysterious mentor you refuse to discuss.”
“Nothing mysterious about him. Just a paranoid old man with unconventional ideas about magical education.”
“Unconventional enough to teach disruption techniques that no one else uses?”
I met his gaze steadily. “He believed in finding the path of least resistance. Why force something when you can redirect it?”
“Disruption doesn’t work that way.”
“It does if you do it right.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down. The air between us practically crackled with tension.
“Agent Smith.” Mercer’s voice cut through the standoff. She stood in the doorway, tablet in hand. “A word, please.”
Smith straightened, giving me one last suspicious look before following Mercer into the hallway. Through the glass partition, I could see them engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion, Smith gesturing emphatically, Mercer responding with calm, measured words.
Alison appeared beside me, materializing so quietly I almost jumped.
“Smith doesn’t like you,” she observed.
“Really? And here I thought we were becoming best friends.”
She almost smiled. Almost. “He doesn’t like anything that doesn’t fit his understanding of how magic should work. And you, Drexler, are a walking contradiction to everything he believes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant as one.” She tilted her head toward the hallway. “But Mercer sees something in you that interests her. That’s the only reason Smith hasn’t pushed harder.”
“And what about you?” I asked, unable to help myself. “What do you see?”
Her eyes met mine, searching. “I see someone who’s very good at deflecting questions they don’t want to answer.”
Before I could respond, Mercer re-entered the room, Smith a few steps behind her. His expression suggested he’d lost whatever argument they’d been having.
“New assignment,” Mercer announced. “We’ve traced financial connections between Frost Mountain Mining and a warehouse in the industrial district. Tonight’s surveillance suggests valuable assets are being moved there, possibly including our pink-haired person of interest.”
“What kind of valuable assets?” Alison asked.
“Unknown. But substantial security has been established around the perimeter in the last twelve hours.” Mercer handed us each a folder. “You two will perform initial reconnaissance. Observe only, no engagement. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we commit resources.”
I opened the folder to find satellite images of a nondescript warehouse, along with blueprints and property records. “When do we leave?”
“One hour. Report to Equipment first. You’ll need specialized detection gear for this operation.”
Smith looked like he’d swallowed something sour. “I still think O’Connor should be paired with someone more experienced.”
“Your concerns are noted, Agent Smith,” Mercer replied coolly. “As they have been the previous four times you’ve expressed them.”
That shut him up, though the glare he shot me could have melted steel.
“One hour,” Mercer repeated. “Don’t be late.”
The Equipment division occupied an entire sublevel of the Agency headquarters, a vast space filled with workbenches, testing areas, and storage units containing everything from standard-issue magic guns to specialized containment devices. It smelled like machine oil, ozone, and coffee—the universal scent of technical departments everywhere.
A harried-looking woman in a lab coat met us at the entrance. Her name badge identified her as Dr. Castor, Senior Technical Specialist.
“O’Connor, Drexler,” she said briskly. “Mercer says you need detection gear for the Gombola warehouse.” She led us through the maze of workstations to a secure cabinet. “We’ve got something new you might find useful.”
She unlocked the cabinet and removed what looked like a pair of ordinary smartphones. “Phase Shift Detectors. Latest model. They can identify magical signatures through solid barriers up to eighteen inches thick.”
Alison took one of the devices, examining it with professional interest. “How accurate is the signature identification?”
“Ninety-three percent for known types, eighty-seven for variants. It can distinguish between human magic users, enhanced humans, and nonhuman entities.” Dr. Castor handed me the second device. “Even tells you approximate power levels.”
I turned the detector over in my hands, feeling a twist of anxiety. If this thing was as good as she claimed, it would register me as something very different from a breaker the moment I used any of my abilities. With my luck, it probably came with a special alarm that screamed “MORPH DETECTED” in flashing red letters.
“How does it work?” I asked, trying to sound merely curious.
“It detects variations in the local energy field caused by magical activity. Different types of magic create different patterns, which the software analyzes and categorizes.” She tapped the screen. “It’s user-friendly. Just point and scan.”
She walked us through the basic operation, showing us how to adjust sensitivity, record readings, and transmit data back to headquarters. It was impressively sophisticated technology, and exactly the kind of thing that could expose me if I wasn’t careful.
“Any questions?” Dr. Castor asked.
“Can I try it?” I asked, pointing the device at a nearby workbench where several magical items were being repaired.
“Go ahead. Just don’t get too close to the containment fields.”
I activated the detector and pointed it at the workbench. The screen immediately displayed a complex pattern of colored lines, along with text identifying the items as Enchanted Objects - Class C and Latent Magical Residue - Human Origin.
“Impressive,” I said, genuinely meaning it. Then, taking a calculated risk, I subtly shifted my aim toward Dr. Castor herself. The device registered her as Minimal Magical Capacity - Untrained. Interesting.
I was about to try scanning Alison when she gently but firmly pushed the detector down. “Save the experimentation for the field, Drexler.”
Her tone was light, but her eyes conveyed a clear warning. She knew exactly what I’d almost done.
“Just getting a feel for it,” I said with an innocent smile.
Dr. Castor gave us a few more operational tips, then sent us on our way with the detectors and a small case of accessories—extra batteries, signal boosters, and protective covers.
As we walked toward the elevator, Alison kept a professional distance between us. “You’re awfully interested in how that detector works.”
“I’m a naturally curious person.”
“Curious enough to scan Agency personnel?”
I shrugged. “Just testing its capabilities. Wouldn’t want any surprises in the field.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. For a moment—just a moment—there was something there. Not anger. Not suspicion. Maybe regret?
“Hmm.” She punched the elevator button. “Just remember, Drexler—those detectors work both ways. They don’t just tell you what you’re looking at. They create records of who was doing the looking.”
The elevator arrived and we stepped inside. As the doors closed, she added casually, “And they’re remarkably good at identifying unusual magical signatures. Even ones that people might be trying to hide.”
My stomach tightened, but I kept my expression neutral. “Good to know.”
The silence between us snapped taut, like a wire waiting to break. When the doors opened, Smith was waiting in the hallway, his face set in its usual disapproving frown.
“O’Connor,” he said, “Mercer wants a word before you leave. Something about the warehouse layout.”
Alison nodded. “I’ll be right there.” She handed me her detector. “Take these to the vehicle. I’ll meet you in the garage in fifteen minutes.”
As she walked away, Smith made no move to leave. Instead, he studied me with open disdain.
“Problem, Agent Smith?” I asked.
“I haven’t decided yet.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But I will tell you this, Drexler. The Agency has existed for a very long time because we understand something fundamental: necessary compromises.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we make deals when we have to. With courts, with practitioners, even with people we’d rather eliminate.” His eyes narrowed. “But those deals have terms. Conditions. Break them, and all protection disappears.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s history. And prediction.” He straightened his tie. “The Agency has survived because it’s very good at identifying and neutralizing threats to the established order. Remember that.”
He walked away, leaving me with the distinct impression that I’d just received both a warning and a glimpse into the Agency’s darker operations. Necessary compromises. The phrase echoed in my mind, raising uncomfortable questions about exactly what kind of organization I’d gotten myself entangled with.
I headed toward the garage, my thoughts churning. Smith clearly didn’t trust me, but his warning suggested something beyond personal dislike. It hinted at institutional knowledge—and perhaps institutional fears—about people like me.
The Phase Shift Detector in my hand suddenly felt heavier. This technology could identify me for what I really was. And based on Alison’s notes, she already had suspicions. How long before those suspicions became certainty? How long before I became a “necessary compromise” the Agency needed to make—or eliminate?
I needed to be more careful than ever. No unnecessary morphing, no showing off, no special insights that a normal breaker wouldn’t have. I needed to be completely average, completely forgettable.
Which would be considerably easier if I weren’t partnered with someone who was actively building a file on me.
I reached the agency vehicle—another nondescript black sedan—and placed the detectors in the secure compartment beneath the dashboard. As I did, something caught my eye: a manila folder partially visible under the passenger seat. It wouldn’t have drawn my attention except for the label on its tab: “DREXLER, C.”
She’d probably assume no one would dare read it—especially not me, not here, not under Mercer’s nose. But here I was, about to do exactly that.
