According to the rumors floating through the holding cells—of which I believed maybe five percent—Agent Lienna Shen was an abjuration sorcerer, and abjuration was … anti-magic sorcery?

That concluded my knowledge on the topic. But I did know the handcuffs around my wrists were an artifact created by a sorcerer for a specific magical purpose: in this case, nullifying the magic of whoever had the unfortunate pleasure of wearing them.

When she didn’t respond to my helpful critique, I attempted a charming smile. “You’re pretty young for an agent.”

Lienna’s scowl deepened, even though it was a reasonable observation; she looked my age, which seemed like a stretch for full agenthood.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked coldly. “In this room?”

“Because Blythe has a thing for younger guys who can quote the entire courtroom speech from A Few Good Men?”

“Because,” she said in that clipped tone people use when they’re silently praying for patience—or imagining what it’d feel like to strangle me, “we’re currently investigating three cases of extortion totaling two million dollars, five cases of embezzlement over five hundred thousand dollars each, and eight reports of blackmail. Your guild was behind them all, and unless you want those charges added to your already extensive list of crimes, you should strongly consider shedding some light on the inner workings of KCQ.”

Despite myself, my mood sobered. This wasn’t my first interrogation, but it was my first time in the custody of the international organization responsible for dispatching magic-wielding criminals. I had no idea what to expect as far as charges and sentencing.

“Let’s go back to the beginning,” she suggested. “Your name.”

“Kit Morris.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“What’s your magic class?”

“Psychica.” Which she already knew. KCQ had been a guild populated entirely by voodoo-brain psychics with wildly varying abilities—all the wilder once I’d joined the team.

She checked the notes in the folder. “Why aren’t you registered?”

“Should I be?” I asked innocently.

“Every mythic is legally required to be registered, but we have no record of you. We didn’t know you existed until we took your friend, Quentin, into custody.”

I feigned dismay. “He gave me up?”

Her expression remained painfully impartial. “Why aren’t you registered?”

“I didn’t even know being registered was a thing until last year.” I tilted my head thoughtfully. “No one at KCQ ever mentioned how it’s done.”

Nor had they suggested I go ahead and list myself in the mythic database for the MPD to see. Who was surprised?

“Why didn’t your parents register you when your abilities manifested?”

“I never knew my parents.”

It wasn’t a big deal. Not to me, at least. It was just a fact. The sky is blue, Meryl Streep is the greatest living actor, and Kit Morris is an orphan.

Her eyes widened in surprise, then softened—for real this time. She still despised me, but now she felt sorry for me too, which, in my opinion, was worse.

I expected her to offer one of those lame non-apologies that people mumble when they find out your life is more tragic than theirs, but all she managed was a quiet, “Oh,” before making a note in the folder. Probably something like, “Bad criminal because orphaned,” with a sad face doodled beside it.

She set the pen down and folded her hands together. “Let’s talk about your magic. When did you learn you were a mythic?”

Her question stalled me. Was she asking when I’d first realized I had a supernatural ability, or when I’d first learned “mythic” was the most common term for a magic user and that it applied to me?

Since my answer to the first was way less specific than the second, I went with that one. “I always knew I was different, I guess. I realized early on I could do things that scared the people around me.”

“What sort of things?”

“Like I told your boss, it’s difficult to describe.”

“Try.”

“Or,” I drawled, giving her a wink, “I could give you a demonstration.”

And her glare was back. “Not a chance.”

I’m an overall likable guy—unless you’re a soulless crumpet who loathes pop culture, in which case I’m your worst nightmare—but Lienna and I had gotten off on the wrong foot. Our first flirtatious encounter had involved her tackling me to the floor six steps away from Gate 134 at the Los Angeles airport. If not for her Marshawn Lynch impersonation, I’d be tanning on a tropical beach.

Instead, she’d arrested me, marched me onto a plane headed right back to Vancouver, and escorted me straight into Blythe’s coldly welcoming arms.

I gloomily jangled my cuffs again.

Lienna poised her pen above the folder. “Please describe your magic.”

“A demonstration is really the only way. What if I promise to be good?”

“You expect me to trust you?”

I nodded toward the satchel hanging off her shoulder. “I’m sure you have plenty of fun and exciting toys in that bag to keep me in check if I misbehave.”

“I’m not stupid, Kit,” she snapped, that soft note I liked in her voice vanishing. “Don’t try to play me.”

Her tone rubbed me the wrong way. “If you’re so smart, why are you just an agent?”

Her brown eyes flashed. “What did you say?”

“They talk about you around here.” An angry, mocking note seeped into my words. “I’ve heard all about the hotshot agent who’s supposedly mastered abjuration sorcery—”

“Supposedly?”

“—so I can’t help but wonder, if you’re so goddamn smart, why are you wasting your time chasing common crooks?”

My mocking sneer came out stronger on those last words. Antagonizing her would accomplish nothing, but for some reason, I was seriously pissed off and I wanted to get some kind of reaction out of her.

“I am not wasting my time,” she retorted furiously. “I’m keeping the world safe from scumbags and lowlifes like you!”

My blood boiled, my temper rising faster than a toddler’s blood sugar in a candy store, and Lienna’s glower burned with answering rage. I had the sudden violent urge to lunge across the table and—

Wait, what? I didn’t hit women—in fact, I didn’t usually hit men either—but brutal fury was building in my chest, making me vibrate.

Lienna’s fingers twitched into fists like she was fighting the urge to magically Hulk-smash me. We were roughly three words away from an all-out brawl—which I would definitely lose, being handcuffed to a table—but I wanted a fight anyway, and that wasn’t normal.

As the realization hit me, I drew in a long breath, searching for control.

“This is wrong,” I began, sounding only rudely assertive instead of outright aggressive. Baby steps. “You aren’t actually angry.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“It isn’t real!” I accidentally shouted, my frustration ramping into blistering fury in an instant. I breathed deep again. “These aren’t our emotions. They’re—”