Chapter 1: A Partner’s Dream Can’t Be Shattered

Rogue Macabesta was walking down a dark alley with a phone to his ear. A voice on the other end of the line reverberated from the device.

“Question for you—as a detective with the Magic Crimes Bureau. How does one use magic?”

“Recite a chant or inscribe a sigil, then pour mana into it. After that, control it however you please. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” the voice on the line crooned, “I just wanted to hear your lecture. To feel like a student again.”

“……You were never a student.”

“Rude, Rogue. You have no idea how much I reveled in the student life. Such fine days spent throwing chalk at teachers or vice versa.”

“You clearly know nothing about school.”

The person on the line was undaunted.

“Rogue— No, let me call you Professor. Professor, where, pray tell, does mana come from? It’s hardly generated from nothing, is it?”

She isn’t done with this bit? Rogue sighed.

“It’s in the air around us, according to the textbooks. We take it in like we breathe air. The amount of mana we can accumulate varies depending on the individual, and that affects the power and range of the spells we can cast. It’s just a trait you’re born with. Some people get a pool’s worth, and others barely get a cup.”

Rogue himself was Voiceless—unable to store a single drop of mana.

“A splendid lecture, Professor Rogue,” the person said, laughing. “But it sounds like these ‘textbooks’ are leaving out some important details.”

“For example?”

“The true nature of mana.”

Rogue caught a trace of scorn in her voice. And something ominous.

He stopped in his tracks, listening.

“……Meaning?”

“I’m afraid that’s not for you to know, human.”

The scorn was gone, replaced by warm kindness, like the person was talking to a very young child. And that unnerved him more than ever.

“……What are you up to?”

“I merely wish to know what we are not meant to know.”

“There’s no way you—”

But before he finished speaking, the person hung up.

He dialed back but got no answer.

Rogue glared at his phone for a minute, then stuffed it in his pocket. He began to run. He was surrounded by buildings with dark exteriors. They weren’t exactly nice to look at, and they were built right up against one another with no gaps to slip through. Rogue’s only option was to dash straight ahead.

Fueled by fear, he soon reached the end of the path.

A gate.

Before him stood a truly massive gate, one so tall that he could not see the top of it.

He looked back from where he’d come, down a dizzyingly long road. He found it hard to believe he’d run that entire distance. He’d never seen a place like this before—no signs of life, not even a bird chirping. It felt as if he was all alone in the world.

Where am I? What am I even doing in this alley? Where’d I leave my car? He couldn’t remember.

I have to move on, he thought. So he touched the gate.

The surface was rough and solid, but he pushed harder—and finally felt it budge. Putting both hands against it produced a screeching sound…and the gate slowly opened.

The darkened alley lit up. Rogue squinted.

Light was pouring through the gate.

And beyond it…

Long, white hair.

Blue eyes.

A terrifying beauty. Her form appeared human—yet it was impossible to believe she was. On the inside, she was something else.

_____Rogue knew that all too well.

The black choker she should have been wearing was nowhere to be seen—and there were human-shaped things lying at her feet. The stench of iron assailed his nostrils. Liquid dripped from her fingertips into a red puddle.

“……Did you do this?” Rogue asked.

The girl looked his way, and her lips moved.

“That’s none of your business.”

“……This can’t be real……”

He stepped forward, and the hem of his trousers trailed into the crimson pool. Ignoring that, he advanced on the girl. Why are these people dead? Hadn’t she been talking to me a moment ago? Did she do this while we were speaking?

I can’t believe it.

There was more than one corpse at her feet.

There was a whole mountain piled up behind her. A prodigious amount of blood was flowing from it, dying the whole area crimson.

Why is this happening?

He reached out for her—and froze.

“You should have turned back.”

The girl’s blue eyes glittered.

Rogue’s frozen arm began to move again, and he dug into his pocket. Unbidden, he took out a pen. Gripping it tight, he aimed the tip at his own throat.

“Good-bye.”

Wait.

He tried to speak—but no sound emerged.

“……Shit.”

Rogue’s puffy eyes tried to focus on the clock by his bed. Eight AM. It was his day off, so there was nothing on his schedule. But his heart was still beating a mile a minute.

Another dream. How many has it been now? Three whole weeks had passed. He was sick and tired of this.

With a drawn-out sigh, Rogue heaved his body up and toward the bathroom sink.

In the mirror, he saw long, narrow eyes, a bit of a baby face, and a slight frame; he still had some bedhead, but he thought he looked like a detective. A witch’s collar was around his left wrist, peeking out from the pajama sleeve.

It was a constant reminder of his own sin.

These collars prevented witches from murdering anyone—or rather, should a witch kill someone, the collar would instantly execute the person wearing it. This tech made it possible for the empire to keep those walking disasters around.

But Rogue knew a witch who’d gotten her collar off…and he’d let her go.

Miseria, the Puppeteer.

He wondered why he’d done that— No. At the time, he’d believed it was the right choice. The Puppeteer had saved Rogue’s life. He’d decided she wasn’t evil.

However, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it had just been wishful thinking.

_____There’s no guarantee she won’t kill anyone now that she’s free.

She was actually responsible for the deaths of Rogue’s predecessors. He’d checked with HQ, and all five Sixth Precinct detectives were deceased and categorized as off-duty deaths—health reasons, drug overdoses, etc. The causes of death included suffocation and falls, and there was even one who’d cast attack magic on himself. That was quite the suspicious track record.

All Rogue could do now was pray.

He sighed again and turned on the tap.

He was in the Magic Crimes Bureau dormitory. He’d been living there since he’d first gotten hired. It was a five-story building, and his room was on the second floor—a forty-square-meter studio apartment.

The room contained a desk and a chair alongside the furniture it had come with.

The only actual personal belongings he had were the “personal” investigation files piled on the desk. It was a real bare-bones place. At the academy, his friends had all agreed his room was “boring.”

Splashing cold water on his face, he told himself, You made the choice to trust her. Why fret about it now? That was just a dream. It wasn’t real.

As he dried his face, the doorbell rang.

He put down the towel and moved to the door.

Who’d visit this early? He peered through the peephole—

—and gulped.

“Good morning, Detective!” someone outside said.

There was no use pretending he wasn’t home. Rogue opened the door.

“Sorry to barge in this early!” a girl dressed like a nun said in greeting.

Dark-brown hair peeked out from beneath her habit. She had jade-colored eyes, dreamy features, and the kind of smile that made one let down their guard.

“Why are you here…?” Rogue asked.

The Noble Council had declared her the Third Witch, nicknamed the Saint. She embodied a major contradiction: She longed to save people…but was compelled to betray them.

The Puppeteer claimed to have punished her a million times over, but it was doubtful those efforts had fundamentally changed her nature. And this witch was currently—

“I’m your partner.”

Catherine the Saint spoke as if reading Rogue’s mind.

He could hardly argue with her about it, seeing as the statement was true.

Rogue opened the door all the way.

“……Did I tell you my address?”

“No. I got it from Rico before coming here. You…don’t stop by the Sixth Precinct often, Detective.”

“I’m working,” he responded.

There weren’t that many crimes bad enough to warrant the involvement of the Sixth Precinct. For that reason, he spent the bulk of his time at HQ, doing interviews and documentation for lesser cases. With the Lifetaker captured, and then another case solved after that, it had been a solid two weeks since he’d swung by the precinct.

“So what was urgent enough that Rico actually shared that with you?”

“So, um, Detective, are you in need of assistance?”

“Not really.”

“Anything at all! Cooking? Cleaning?”

Catherine’s eyes settled on the top of his head. What is she looking at? He reached up and felt around—then realized that he hadn’t fixed his bedhead yet. And was still in his pajamas.

“Uh, come on in,” he said, looking away awkwardly.

Catherine’s face brightened up. She let out a puff of white breath and said, “Thanks for having me!”

He handed her some guest slippers and led her into the living room.

“So this is where you live!” she exclaimed.

The situation was weirdly uncomfortable for him. He wasn’t a slob or anything—his place should be neat and tidy…

There was a couch with a coffee table in front of it, and across from that was a television with a sigil built in. He rarely used the thing. It was as clean as the day he’d bought the remote.

“Did you eat yet?” she asked.

“Nah, I was about to make something,” Rogue said.

He saw the Saint’s eyebrows perk up, like she’d just had a brilliant idea.

“Then allow me to help!”

“I can handle—”

His protest came too late. The Saint was already in his kitchen. He heard an egg crack. She was humming. He gave up.

Even the Saint was unlikely to try poisoning him. He let her cook.

“Ah! Don’t run away! Come back here!”

Sausages, an omelet, bacon—they were all impressively tossed higher than the countertop.

“……”

“I won’t let this get me down!”

A circus performance was going on behind that counter. She caught a flying pancake in a frying pan, put out a fire (how had that even started?), and slid across the floor to catch a plate before it hit the floor.

_____Good lord.

It was far worse than he’d imagined. He wondered if he was dreaming again.

As his mind attempted to flee reality, Catherine announced, “Here you are, Detective!”

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she brought a tray to the coffee table. Steam was rising from an omelet. Crispy bacon and sausage. Three pancakes in a pile. And a glass of milk.

“Dig in!”

Catherine settled down by the table, waving Rogue to the couch.

“Uh, right.”

For lack of better options, he sat down. Despite all the fuss she’d made, it looked normal enough. He shot her a searching glance, and she seemed very pleased with herself.

Steeling himself, he grabbed a fork and took a bite of omelet.

Hmm?

“Well?”

“……It’s good.”

A solid match for anything a diner might serve. Why did this require acrobatics?

“I am an excellent cook,” Catherine said, puffing up her chest.

It certainly filled him up, but not with answers to his questions.

He couldn’t figure out why the Saint was there at all. She’d already betrayed him once. And not just Rogue—she had apparently wiped out her own hometown. Plus, she’d successfully hidden her true nature so thoroughly that even in the prison, only Rogue actually knew the truth.

It was natural to assume she had ulterior motives.

When he finished eating, he did the dishes, insisting she stay put. He didn’t need another round of pandemonium.

When he got back to the coffee table, he said, “So what are you really after?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, baffled.

“You wouldn’t come here for nothing.”

Catherine grew even more perplexed.

“Um…I actually did.”

It sure didn’t seem like a performance. Rogue couldn’t get a read on her. He shook his head.

“Then…you really only showed up because we’re partners?”

“Exactly!” Catherine cried.

That floored him. Just that?

“……There’s gotta be something else.”

“Um. Sorry, there isn’t.” Catherine drooped visibly. “I simply wanted to be of some use to you. I’ve been alive a long time, so I can handle most things and thought I could make your life a little easier. Is that so wrong?”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

He was starting to wonder if she’d read too much into the word partner. All it truly meant was moving in pairs to increase safety on an investigation.

But what now? It didn’t feel right to send her packing. But he wasn’t comfortable just letting her sit here.

Then the phone on the table vibrated. An incoming call. Both their gazes lit on it.

“Go ahead,” Catherine said.

His boss’s name was on the screen. He caught a strong whiff of trouble. This morning was off to a fine start.

“……Hello?”

“Why, hellooo, Rogue.” A sickly sweet voice emerged from the speaker.

“……Good morning, Chief.”

“You sound so gloomy! Cheer up! It’s your beloved Vella.”

“……It’s my day off,” he tried.

“Rogue, honey. You know better. Detective’s days off are more fragile than any snowflake. Our cases wait for no man.”

“I know…”

He heard her laughing.

“Get yourself to the Sixth Precinct. I’ll fill you in there.”

“…You’re at the precinct now?”

“I am. So get here fast before the witches eat me up,” the voice on the line pleaded.

He almost blurted, “You’ll live,” but caught himself.

“Fine,” he said instead. “I’m on my way.”

Then the voice said, “Oh, and bring that witch back with you.”

That made him look up. His eyes met Catherine’s, and she blushed. This is not the situation for that.

“……Did you bug her?” Rogue asked his boss.

“Of course not. Rico simply filled me in. Said the Saint was headed your way.”

“Well, she was.”

“Exactly. Buh-bye, Rogue. See you soon!”

She hung up.

His heart was sinking. Nothing that hit the Sixth Precinct was ever trifling. The last case—the one he and Catherine had solved—had left its marks on him, too.

“Um, Detective,” Catherine said.

“You heard the lady. I know you just got here, but we’ve gotta head out.”

“No, um, if you need to change, I can turn my back.”

Catherine hustled over to the corner, facing it. That had been the last thing on Rogue’s mind, and it took him a long moment to recover.

The dorm was in the Third Ward. Due north from there was a high-end residential area. It featured upscale condos with nice views surrounded by luxury-brand shops, museums, and art galleries—all the status symbols a person could desire.

Through those gleaming streets to the edge of town was a dingy church covered in vines. No one but Rogue’s associates ever ventured there.

He parked the car on the gravel driveway, then got out and opened the church door. The interior yawned open, and no pews remained within. He moved to the altar and waited a minute.

“Identity verified. Please enter,” a girl said flatly.

The door behind the altar slid open. A few meters farther in was an elevator, leading underground. Rogue and Catherine stepped into it. A floating sensation began in the pit of his stomach, like he was being flung into a hole. He would never get used to that. Scowling, he endured it until the doors opened again.

The witches’ prison—the Sixth Precinct.

This was the entrance hall.

“Welcome back, Detective Rogue.”

The Sixth Precinct’s sole staff member—and maid for the witches—was standing by the elevator doors. She was Rico Raina, the girl with the flat voice. She was always impassive; he’d never seen her gaze so much as waver.

“Rico, where’s the chief?”

“Over there,” she said, and a new voice called out.

“Rogue! You’re laaaate!”

At the back of the hall by a round table sat the chief of the Elayl Branch, Velladonna Villard.

Several buttons were undone on her shirt, and she wore a very short skirt with a slit up the side. It was far too salacious for a bureau job, but one did not become chief just by dressing sexy. She was appropriately underhanded. Rogue had learned that lesson the hard way.

Velladonna beckoned to him. “Get over here, and I’ll brief you.”

“We came as fast as we could,” he grumbled.

He and Catherine sat down; Rico put her back to the wall and did not move again.

Velladonna made a show of crossing her legs.

“So how was your tryst with this witch?”

“It was hardly that. And I sense you put her up to it.”

“Did I? Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it? Now that the Puppeteer is dead, you need to forge bonds of trust with your new partner.”

When she said, “Puppeteer,” Rogue’s brow twitched.

“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ll do what’s necessary.”

“You treat my Rogue well, dear,” Velladonna said, turning her gaze toward Catherine.

“Why, of course!” Catherine said, smiling politely.

“Excellent. If only everyone listened to me the way you do.”

“I’m surprised you don’t get a lot more friction,” Rogue said.

“Oh?” Velladonna looked baffled. “Whatever do you mean?”

“……Your attitude.”

She snorted.

“There’s a trick to it, Rogue. It’s a delicate line, to be sure, but once you master it, it’s easy. I mean…”

She glanced at the other tables. Several witches were seated there, eyes on her, sitting with their backs upright.

“…I’m here being myself, and they’re allowing it.”

“Sure they’re not just waiting for you to blow it?” Rogue suggested.

“Right you are. You predecessor’s predecessor was sent packing after less than half an hour here.”

“……Alive?” Rogue growled.

“What do you think?” Velladonna smirked.

“……Doesn’t matter. You’re just making it up.” He sighed.

“Not entirely,” she purred. “He did come right back. But only technically alive—he was in the hospital for a month and then resigned. So!”

She clapped once, changing the subject.

“The Sixth Precinct’s detectives never last long. They either run away or meet an untimely demise. It’s a revolving door. Some of them don’t even manage to solve a single case. But so far, that hasn’t applied to you.”

“So far,” Rogue said with a grunt.

“Yes. So far. But, Rogue? You lasted a whole month despite dealing with a case dramatic enough that it left one of the witches held here dead.”

She applauded performatively.

“And for that, you’ve been lauded by the Two Great Houses.”

The Two Great Houses—a term for the Drakenia and Ligton noble families. The former held sway over the Magic Crimes Bureau, and it had been their idea to get witches involved in the investigations.

Velladonna was now reading their message.

“‘Rogue Macabesta, you have achieved considerable success managing the witches and bringing Chronos Drakenia to justice, with casualties limited to the Puppeteer alone. We hereby express our profound gratitude for your achievements.’”

“……Nothing good comes from associating with nobility.” Rogue sighed again. It was his honest opinion.

They cared far more about losing one of their captive witches than having Chronos arrested—specifically calling her out here was clearly an act of spite.

Velladonna grinned like a cat.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Be grateful.”

“……Sorry.”

“Are you? Then how about a date?”

She recrossed her legs, holding out a hand to him. They were too far apart for him to take it, but she curled up her fingers in a gesture that was somehow flirtatious.

Exactly my point.

Velladonna had made it clear that his looks had caught her interest. He’d certainly benefitted from her favor…but would rather she keep things strictly professional.

While he was struggling to keep a lid on his emotions, Catherine spoke up.

“Chief Velladonna, you must not joke about these things. This is our workplace.”

She was on her feet, shaking her head like she was talking to a naughty child. That made Velladonna’s eyes widen, but she soon pursed her lips.

“‘Joke’? When was I joking?”

Catherine stuck to her guns.

“Statements that run against public decency. You occasionally cross that line.”

Only occasionally? Rogue thought.

The witches didn’t exactly see her all that often, and yet they were still of that opinion. Nervous, he let this clash play out.

“You realize, Saint,” Velladonna said, her smirk growing, “by your own logic, it’s perfectly okay as long as we’re not working.”

“Th-that doesn’t even make sense!” Catherine insisted.

Velladonna cupped her own cheek, tilting her head.

“If that doesn’t make sense, then I can’t do anything at all. Vella weeps!”

“I—I don’t see a single tear!”

“I’m crying on the inside.”

Catherine opened and closed her lips like she wanted to argue but couldn’t think of any good comebacks. She soon hung her head.

“……You used to be so nice. What happened to you?”

“People grow.” With that, Velladonna turned his way.

“Any questions, Rogue?”

“How do you turn on a dime like that?” he asked, sighing.

“It’s one of my strengths. I suggest you learn from my example.”

She brushed back her wavy hair theatrically. There was nothing he could learn from her.

“So what case do you need us on?” Rogue asked.

“Don’t rush me.” Velladonna heaved a sigh of her own. “There was an explosion in the museum in the Third Ward last night. The man responsible turned himself into a bomb and went kablooey all over an exhibit. Quite a lot of victims. I’ll send you the details later.”

“The culprit blew himself up?”

“He did. Puncture or Bloom, I suspect? Between the security cameras and the time his ID was checked, we know who he was, but without that, we would be clueless. He’s in smithereens, and there was nothing that could be pieced together.”

“An ID check… You mean he worked there?”

“Security.”

Velladonna held up her phone.

It displayed a photo of a man in his twenties.

“I want you to find out why he became a bomb. Was this a one-man job? Or was there some other motive in play? If this was a systematic thing, we’ll need you to put a stop to it.”

Explosive magic could well mean organized terrorism. It was more than enough reason to get the Sixth Precinct involved. This was the second big case since Rogue had taken over.

“You in, Catherine?” he asked.

“Of course,” the Saint replied. “Leave it to me. Let me prove what I can do.”

She clasped her hands in front of her, nodding.

“I’m so pleased to hear you’re motivated,” Velladonna purred. “Good luck out there. I’m gonna kick back here a while longer.”

“……You could help work the case,” he said.

Velladonna recrossed her legs.

“Never. I have my own work to do. You get out there and play your part, Rogue. Guide these witches.”

Armed with their marching orders from Velladonna, they were at the scene in thirty minutes. Leaving the car in the museum lot, they moved to the front doors.

The Stolaleid Museum—a massive art museum with millions of pieces on the first and second floors alone. It was as imposing as any temple, and many tourists came just to see the facade. But now the police had barrier tape across the entrance, keeping out the public.

Rogue introduced himself as a detective under the Elayl branch chief and Catherine as a civilian aide—a cover story he was getting used to—and they were let in.

They went across the lobby, down the hall, into the exhibit on the left.

The space had once housed statues.

There had been stalwart warriors and women wreathed in veils, and many pedestals had displayed only the statue’s surviving head. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and there was an atrium above, so on a good day, patrons could have perused the gallery with a pleasant feeling in their hearts. But now half the statues were demolished, in pieces—and those that remained intact had bits of flesh stuck to them.

“……How horrid,” Catherine said.

The victims’ bodies had already been taken to the morgue, but the scene remained gruesome.

Can’t argue with that assessment. What drove the bomber to do it?

The worst damage was at the center of the exhibit. The floor had been blown up, a gouge dug into it.

Rogue pulled up a file on his phone.

The incident had occurred at 8:40 PM.

It had been a Saturday night, so the museum was open late; crowds weren’t as bad as the middle of the day, but there had still been over twenty people in the vicinity. That’s when John Brown had jumped over the second-story railing. The blast had blown eleven people away, but their bodies had acted as dampeners, and a few people had emerged unscathed.

Scrolling further down, Rogue found something that gave him pause.

“……What the…?”

“Something bothering you, Detective?” Catherine asked.

“No…just…we’ve got nothing on the bomber’s possessions.”

“Is that remarkable?” she inquired, head tilted.

“The forensics team is top-notch. It’d be weird if they didn’t find anything.”

“Ah,” Catherine said, catching up. “That’d be because he cast Bloom on his entire body. Nothing gets left behind.”

Now it was Rogue’s turn to crook his head.

“His entire body?”

I mean, that’s physically possible…

“Why do things that way? Why not just an arm or…? You wouldn’t even need to cast it on yourself. You could just carve a sigil into something.”

“Well,” Catherine said, a finger to her chin. “I’d assume the goal was to increase the force of the blast. The spell turns objects into explosives, so the bigger the object, the bigger the boom. But you do raise a good point. Ordinarily, the pain would be unendurable.”

“The pain?” he asked.

Catherine looked surprised. “Didn’t you know? Casting any transformation spells on your own body causes excruciating pain. Even just changing your pinky is unbearable. I mean, your blood and bones—everything becomes something else. It’s like stuffing hot sand into yourself.”

Just imagining that was unpleasant. Sand could easily get over two hundred degrees, and stuffing that inside oneself unthinkable. Rogue shuddered.

But that raised further questions.

“……So our bomber specifically chose an approach knowing it would be agonizing?”

“Yep!” Catherine said.

Either this guy was a glutton for punishment or he had a cause.

“……Why do you know about the pain?”

Catherine’s eyes got very shifty.

“I swear, I have never accidentally cast a spell on myself! Not once!”

“……”

Rogue chose to disregard that she was telling on herself, moving right along. He made a circuit of the exhibit room, then headed back to the entrance.

There was still time before their appointment. He’d wrapped up faster than expected. Worth taking another look around? As he pondered that, his gaze landed on a statue near the entrance.

A hawk, wings outstretched. It was unharmed—perhaps it had been too far from the blast.

The lights around him dimmed. Why? Electrical trouble? No, only the area around him was affected. The shadow was spreading. Something big was falling toward him. By the time he realized it—

“Detective!”

—he was flung aside.

As he rolled across the floor, he caught sight of the girl who’d pushed him—Catherine—and heard a massive boom.

There was now a huge hole in the stone wall. The hawk statue had been blown to smithereens.

Rogue righted himself. Catherine was already back up, staring at the dust. There was a figure at the center of the cloud, on their knees, not moving. Rogue looked past them and found the railing on the second floor bent. Had they jumped from there?

He looked back to the hole in the wall, and the figure in the cloud was getting up. But when they emerged from the dust—Rogue gaped.

The figure was revealed to be a knight in armor.

No other descriptor applied.

They were like something that ought to be on display in this museum, covered from head to foot in metal armor, with the visor on their helmet hiding their face. He could tell they were massive—long arms, long legs—but his attention was forcibly diverted by the knight’s sword. It was longer than Rogue was tall.

The thick hunk of metal was less designed to cut people down and more to flatten them. Yet this suit of armor was carrying it one-handed.

What is this?

It made no sense.

“Back away, Detective,” Catherine said, looking grim.

“You know what this is?”

“That sword—”

But the knight moved before she could finish her sentence.

_____Damn, it’s fast.

That sword must weigh a ton, but the knight raised it above their shoulders and charged right at them. Rogue had no time to think. He kicked some rubble at it and struck the armor right in the face guard.

To no avail.

The armor kept right on charging, on him in a second, sword swung high.

The shadow loomed over him.

They were about to crush him. The rubble kick had been the wrong choice. He couldn’t dodge in time. He was about to lose an arm at best—everything at worst.

But the sword never hit him.

Instead, that heap of metal flattened Catherine.

A crack ran across the floor like lightning. “Cath—,” he began, then his eyes widened. She was flying. A last-second dodge.

“Detective! Stay put!”

One of her hands was glowing. She was casting a spell.

A focused beam of light was aimed at the armored knight, who had yet to raise their sword. The attack shot forward, and he expected their opponent to crumple. The beam would go through them before they could dodge, but the knight snapped up the blade, guarding their flank. Blocking Catherine’s spell? A witch’s spell?

“—!”

Rogue was dumbfounded.

The beam had vanished just before it struck the blade.

Catherine’s beam could vaporize anything. Armor, sheet metal, you name it—but that had been nullified merely holding up a sword in front of it.

The knight lowered the sword, ready for combat.

The tip of it was aimed squarely at the Saint. Rogue could make out the knight’s eyes through the slit in the helm. Eyes red as blood, locked on the Saint. Like they could no longer see anything else. They were no longer paying him the slightest bit of attention. Did the knight not deem me a worthy opponent? The nerve—but that also gave him a chance to act.

He took a short breath—

—and kicked the knight in the back of the knees.

Something felt off about it. It was like kicking a tree. Far too heavy an impact to be human.

Is this a monster? Magic didn’t work on it, and surprise physical attacks are ineffective—how are we supposed to take them down?

There was a thud as the knight took a step.

“Stop that.”

And the suit of armor did.

The voice came from the entrance. Rogue looked and found a woman in a dark suit standing there. She had black hair, bundled at the back. The eyes behind her glasses narrowed at the state of the exhibit. On her hip was what looked like a rapier in a scabbard. She paused only for a second before marching into the room.

“My, my, what a mess. I came to see this vaunted art museum and find it all ruined.”

Her voice echoed through the room.

Who is this lady?

His surprise wasn’t just about the way she’d stopped the knight—she, too, had a sword, albeit a different type.

The woman made a show of scanning the hall, and her eyes lit upon Catherine.

“Oh, do my eyes deceive me? Why is there a witch here? Consider me flabbergasted.”

“…Keep your distance,” Catherine said. Her back was to Rogue; he could not see her face.

“Such hostility. I can’t see the statues—”

The woman stopped there.

Catherine had her hand raised. Pointed at her.

The woman shrugged.

“No need to be so tense. If I was so inclined, I would never have spoken to you. In fact, I actually stopped the attack.”

“You people can’t be trusted.”

“Have it your way.”

The woman glanced at the armored knight and jerked her chin. They began to move again, making a beeline for the mysterious woman. They didn’t even glance at Catherine—a far cry from their earlier, relentless pursuit.

Catherine was slowly backing away, over to Rogue’s side. He’d never seen her like this.

“Who are these people?” he murmured.

“They’re from a family of witch hunters. They’ve been a part of the empire for over a thousand years. They are called the Headtaker Corps and serve the Two Great Houses; on their orders, they’ve always been on our heels.”

“Witch hunters? First I’ve heard of them.”

“Like the Sixth Precinct, they’re kept hidden from the public.”

Catherine’s tone dropped lower.

“Be careful, Detective. Nearly every witch in the prison was captured by them.”

That certainly got to him.

A whole corps acting off the radar, undetected. How had they pulled off that feat? Catherine had been fighting with her collar on. At full power, she could control volcanos. Even that armored knight would have stood no chance against her.

When they clammed up, the woman spoke again. “Done whispering?”

“……Yeah.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Auroch of the Headtaker Corps—serving the Ligton family. A pleasure to meet you.”

She bowed floridly, then waved at the knight.

“My assistant has no name, so call him whatever you please. James, Rick, anything you like. He’s a loyal servant, handling everything from toilet cleaning to walking the dog.”

Her attitude was haughty, and she gave them a phony smile. She made no attempt to earn their trust.

“I’m Rogue Macabesta of the Sixth Precinct,” he said. “Your knight there nearly killed my witch. Any defense?”

The woman shook her head.

“My assistant despises witches. The mere sight of their collars makes him lash out. When we split up, it did not occur to me that a witch might be here. And the result was this tragic accident.”

Cracks in the floor, holes in the walls—that was far beyond “lashing out.”

“Any proof you’re not lying?”

“About?”

“I hear you hunt witches. Were you not literally trying to hunt Catherine?”

“That is an unfortunate misunderstanding. On the honor of my family, I swear we were not. You may have my head if you care for it.”

She was being theatrical, and completely unserious. Rogue was left massaging the crease in his brow.

“……We’ve got a case to work. If you’re not here for a fight, then let’s not have one. Stay out of our way.”

“Don’t be like that. I believe we can cooperate. Let us tackle this difficult case together!”

She’d called it “difficult.”

_____She had been briefed on the case before she stuck her nose in.

One eye on Catherine, Rogue said, “All we’re doing is probing a suicide bomber’s motives. Don’t need your help for that.”

“My, my, his motives?”

The woman’s voice sang. She gave him a look of amusement.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, never mind, I’m getting ahead of myself. Forget I said anything.”

She put a hand over her lips, clearly hiding a smirk.

“I could not be more ashamed. My mistake! For you to still be at that stage.”

“What’s your point?”

“I do apologize, but I can say no more. There are things we’re not at liberty to share. But I suppose that means we genuinely are in the way. Though, I suspect our paths will cross again as the investigation proceeds.”

With that, she turned on her heel. The knight followed her without a word.

“Wait, where you are going?”

“Outside. My work here is done.”

She didn’t even pause and just went straight for the exit. Rogue could only gape.

At the border between the exhibit and the hall, she said, “Oh, as for the damages done here—we’ll take care of that. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

And with that, they vanished completely.

Leaving only shattered statues and clouds of dust behind.

A complete circus.

“……Those clowns actually catch witches?”

Catherine turned toward him. “Hundreds of years ago, yes. Honestly, I’m not sure if the current Headtaker Corps are up to the task. The ancient ones I knew did all sorts of vile human experiments and calling them ‘arcane techniques.’ Eliminating the capacity to feel pain so that their injuries might not slow them down. Implanting assassination tools in their arms and legs. But their greatest success may well be the magic swords.”

“The magic…swords?” Rogue echoed.

“There are seventy-two of those enchanted weapons. Nobody knows how they did it, but they worked to meld a spell with a sword. Spells powerful enough to harm witches—and all imbued inside their respective blades. There were witches who perished from an unwary strike from one of these.”

There were? His head swam. A mere human actually killed a witch?

“You fought the Headtaker Corps?”

“I did.”

He looked at the heap of rubble.

It’d been literally smashed to bits. With force like that, even a witch might not survive a direct hit.

“They care nothing for the sanctity of human life. Best to stay clear of them,” Catherine growled.

Rogue had gotten that much from their brief exchange. That woman was totally the kind of person who saw everyone else as a disposable tool. Was she born like that, or had she become like that in service of the Two Great Houses? Either way, he’d rather not get involved.

He looked at the clock, and it was almost time to meet the curator. The mess with the armored knight had almost made them late.

“……C’mon, the curator’s waiting.”

In the corner of the back office was a seat surrounded by monitors. Normally, a security guard would be stationed here, but at the moment, the Stolaleid Museum’s curator was in that seat, in charge of what the screens were displaying.

His name was Tom Diaz. He’d been appointed curator five years ago, and in hindsight, Rogue remembered seeing his face in the papers. He was well-built for his age, and Tom had already admitted to spending his days off at the gym. Yet his face was rather pale.

“I never imagined this could happen,” he said.

On screen was John Brown—before the explosion. Wearing a guard uniform, standing against the wall in the first-floor lobby.

The footage was on fast-forward, but the trio was watching all video recordings of John Brown from his arrival at work until the time of the incident. They’d already gone from three to five, but he hadn’t moved an inch. Just like the other guards, he was standing on lookout.

“Nothing’s happening,” Catherine said.

“Did anyone sense anything amiss that day?” Rogue asked.

The curator shook his head. “Not really, no.”

“Any detail might help. His work attitude…”

“John was a diligent man. Never late, never absent without cause. I don’t think he so much as had an argument with his colleagues.”

With no workplace grudges, it was more likely that terrorism was the goal. Seeing Rogue’s scowl, the curator added, “He did apply for time off a week ago.”

“……He did?”

“Yeah. Not long, just two or three days.”

“Any idea what he did with that time?” Rogue asked.

“I’m afraid not. Dicky might know. He hung out with John a lot.”

“Can we get in touch with him?” he asked.

“Certainly,” the curator asked, looking anxious. “But you don’t think he was involved?”

“We’d have to talk to him to say either way,” Rogue answered.

“Oh, ah. Hold on a minute.”

The curator got up and left the screens. They could hear his phone ringing.

He soon returned.

“All arranged, Detective. He was close by and is headed over… Oh, we’re almost there,” he said, spotting the screen.

It was still on fast-forward. John Brown was moving to the second floor. The time display read 8:39 PM—only a minute before the explosion.

The human bomb was now standing by the railing above exhibit three. From this angle, they couldn’t see his face. He was muttering something. Below him was a statue, about to be blown to pieces.

“The Ferrywoman,” the curator said, sadly. “How many more times must I watch it be destroyed?”

And…

…as the clock hit 8:40, John Brown vaulted the rail.

“—tion!”

He shouted something as he fell—and detonated just before he touched the ground.

A flash of light. Screams.

And the rest was a sight that would make anyone flinch.

“……Can we go back to the jump?”

The curator looked grim but rewound.

“—salvation!”

The sound was muffled, hard to properly hear. Rogue had the curator rewind it again, and only then did he finally make it out.

“Grant me the key to salvation!”

The man’s last words.

They made no sense.

A message to somebody? Maybe?

They paused the tape, thinking.

Key certainly suggested safes and doors…but not when salvation was involved. What could that mean? If he was part of a terrorist group, it would make sense if they were demanding the release of their members. But this was hardly clear enough to accomplish that goal.

“Detective, look.”

Catherine pointed to the first-floor camera. The man was paused in midair, his face turned slightly upward—affording them a view of what lay above his nose.

It looked like a whole cluster of fuses sprouting from his face, hiding his eyes and forehead. Sparks flew from the fuses, lighting the rest of his face.

Dammit.

No matter the motive, this spell sucked.

“Do spells like this all work that way?” he asked.

“No,” Catherine said. “Cast on yourself, you’d ordinarily only get one or two fuses. I’ve never seen this many.”

There were easily fifty. It was downright unnatural. If Catherine was right, this would require a lot of mana.

As they studied the human bomb, the curator spoke up.

“Oh, Dicky, over here.”

Rogue turned away from the monitor and found a young man at the office door. He had a plain face.

But he was acting funny.

He was just standing in the doorway, arms dangling at his sides.

“Dicky?” the curator asked, but the man didn’t budge.

He was staring impassively at the curator, muttering:

“……Grant me the key to salvation that the ages of witches may arrive. The key……”

_____The age of witches.

Rogue had heard that phrase before.

A certain nobleman had been trying to restore it—to bring back the days of legend, when witches ran amok, terrorizing the populace.

Why is this man saying it?

“……What do you know?”

The man didn’t answer. He just covered his face with his hands.

And something shot out from between his fingers. Ropes with sparks on the end—realizing what that meant, Rogue yelled, “Diaz, get down! He’s a bomb!”

The man lunged forward.

His hands came away from his face, revealing the extent of his transformation. There was an absurd number of fuses—just like John Brown on the security feed. His running form was lousy, but his speed was downright freakish. He made no attempt to dodge the chairs in his way, sending them flying. Only his mouth was free of fuses, shouting, “Grant me the key! The key to salvation!”

“Fairy!” Catherine called, holding out her hands. Sparks rained down on the man, but he was still running. The fuses were shrinking faster.

A look of disbelief appeared on Catherine’s face. “I—I can’t dispel it! He’s melded with the spell!”

The man’s body split apart, and blinding light poured out.

Followed by a deafening boom.

Rogue’s ears rang.

Five full seconds passed before he could spot anything, even squinting. And what he saw was a translucent wall before him, reaching both ends of the room, as well as the floor and ceiling which divided the room in two. Rogue glanced back quickly, and Catherine and the curator were unharmed.

“I got the barrier up in time,” Catherine said, relieved. The wall faded out. The red bits plastered to it fell to the floor.

All the desks and chairs beyond it had been blown away. A third of the ceiling and walls had been torn off. Just like in the exhibit room.

“Oh…my god…” The curator crumpled.

They heard footsteps from the hall. The police. They’d heard the boom.

_____They let him through?

No, they hadn’t noticed. Even Catherine hadn’t—until the fuses appeared.

Avoiding the blood pools, he picked his way to source of the burning flesh stench just as the cops poured into the room.

Clearly, this man wasn’t coming back.

“Yes?” said the voice on the line.

“We tried to talk to John Brown’s friend, and he blew himself up right in front of us,” Rogue said, glancing at Catherine. “No one present was harmed, but the walls and ceiling of the back office are done for. Also some chairs, desks, and light fixtures.”

They were in their car in the parking lot after briefing the other cops and then getting the curator into an ambulance just in case.

On the other end of the line, Velladonna said, “That sounds awful. I’m so glad you’re not hurt!”

“It’s no laughing matter. And I need you to come clean, Chief. What else do you know about this case?”

“Hmm. What makes you think I know anything?”

“We ran into the Headtaker Corps at the museum. Seems like they work for the other Great House—the Ligtons. Why are they sticking their noses into this? And…” Rogue paused. “…the bomb guy mentioned the ‘age of witches.’ Chief, you’re keeping secrets again.”

“And you’re not letting me fool you twice?” She sighed. That sounded like confirmation. “Very well, they told me not to say anything, but if you stopped one bomb, then the Saint is already aware. I’ll come clean! Rogue, make sure the Saint can hear me.”

Rogue pulled the phone from his ear, holding it at chest height. Catherine leaned in.

“You called it—the Two Great Houses are involved. And this time, the Ligtons couldn’t stay out of it. They’ve got their own corps in the game, searching for a certain escapee.”

“And that would be?” Rogue asked, getting a bad feeling about this.

“Your old friend! He escaped from a prison run by the Ligtons, and recapturing him is your real mission.”

Rogue only had one acquaintance from the Two Great Houses. The Lifetaker—who’d murdered multiple people by altering the flow of time in their bodies.

“…Chronos Drakenia?”

“Got it in one!”

But Rogue wasn’t sold on the idea.

“……Are you serious right now? Why is a guy we caught out again?”

“That’s the real issue here, isn’t it?” Velladonna said, her tone unwavering. “He escaped during an incident just like the museum case. Three guards turned into bombs! Saint, better brief Rogue on what’s going on with this spell.”

At this, Catherine straightened up and looked at him. She didn’t seem rattled by the mention of the Lifetaker’s name.

“Detective, Bloom was completely melded with the man. I only worked that out when I tried to dispel it. I’m a witch; I can easily dispel anything cast normally. But I couldn’t even get a handle on it.”

“There you have it,” Velladonna chimed in. “They tried to dispel the guards before they went off but failed. It’s not all bad news; Chronos was in a VIP block. If other prisoners had escaped with him, this would have been an even bigger disaster.”

“Before he blew, John Brown was yelling about the ‘key to salvation.’ Weird choice for a message—what’s Chronos up to?” Rogue asked.

“That depends on what his goal is now. Why escape? Why not hit the road out of town once he did? Why turn back to a life of crime? But if the man insists on leaving hints for us, we’ll just have to turn them against him. Rogue, the Two Great Houses are both positively livid. They’re insisting we bring him in alive. Please do.”

She hung up.

Rogue scowled at his phone. That piece of shit is out already? Why did they let that happen?

“Miseria could have stopped it,” Catherine said.

His eyes snapped to her face. She looked like she was just voicing an idle thought.

“The spell was only just melded. She could have reached down into his psyche and pried it loose.”

Careful not to let anything show, Rogue said, “…But she’s dead.”

“That’s true. I’m sorry.”

Catherine looked genuinely remorseful.

Chapter 2: A Partner’s Dream Can’t Be Spoken Of

They wound up returning to the Sixth Precinct.

Not without anything to show for it—before he left, the curator told them Dicky had taken days off at the same time as John Brown. It was clear that was when the spell had been cast. At the briefing that evening, he asked the witches to follow up on that angle. Where John and Dicky had gone, how they got there, who their friends were—there was no shortage of things to look into.

The witches went back to their cells, and Rogue to the nap room.

This was on a different floor from the witches’ living space. It also had Rico’s room, a kitchen, a laundry room, and the air conditioning control room. The nap room itself was big enough to relax in, and he had no complaints.

He flopped down on the bed, thinking.

What happened to him?

He found it hard to believe Chronos had been in any condition to escape.

It was certainly possible the Two Great Houses’ “secret spells” had left some lingering influence on the man. He was out there making human bombs right and left. But what the hell is this “key”? It wasn’t exactly the key to the locker room.

_____Does it have anything to do with my dream?

No, that wasn’t real.

Rogue repeated that like a mantra.

Do I really think she’d help Chronos go on a killing spree?

No way. He shook off that thought. She’d said and done some vicious things but never crossed that line. Miseria had principles. She’d proved that by stopping Catherine and keeping Rogue alive.

She lived by her own rules.

And Rogue had to trust them.

And she must know the risk involved in staying here, where the other witches lived. She finally had the collar off; she wouldn’t want it back on.

Rogue closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep. And when he did, he had that dream again. That dream of witches and blood. The pain of scissors at his throat woke him up.

“Ugh…”

He was mad at himself.

Fretting over shit that wasn’t even happening.

He looked at the clock and realized he still had four hours before he was back on the case. He should probably rest up, but he felt wide awake.

He stretched, then left the nap room.

A noise echoed down the hall.

Chop, chop.

There was a light from the kitchen.

He peeked in and found Rico working. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she was bustling around.

Meal prep?

It made sense she’d have to start this early. She had eleven witches to feed. And she was also on cleaning duty—quite a hefty workload.

What surprised Rogue was that Rico was not alone in the kitchen.

There was a blond girl sitting cross-legged on a folding chair. She was in white pajamas and didn’t have her usual sunglasses with her.

This girl was nodding off, mumbling, “Mrahh, Rico, don’t…”

Sleepless—a nickname earned because she was cursed to be unable to sleep if she hadn’t murdered anyone that day. This left her perpetually sleep-deprived.

“I told you not to put shrooms in it…mmph…”

“They’re nutritious. They’re going in.”

“Wait, think twice! That’s far too many…”

She seemed ready to cry, but Rico dumped the whole platter of chopped mushrooms into the pot.

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Then don’t ruin it!”

“Mm-hmm.”

“‘Mm-hmm,’ my ass! Urgh, they’re all mixed in now…”

Losing track of why he was here, Rogue watched—until Humafu’s eyes moved. A knife on the counter wafted into the air and sailed across the room, shooting toward Rogue.

“……Oh, it’s just you.”

A bead of sweat ran down his brow.

The knife had stopped just inches from him.

Humafu’s voice made Rico look up. She stopped working and turned his way.

“Detective Rogue, may I help you?”

“……I was on my way to the reference room and saw a light on.”

“I see.”

“Pfft,” Humafu said. The knife went back where it came from.

She was a very violent girl. Strike first, ask questions later.

And yet—for reasons that escaped him—Humafu was grumpily beckoning him in.

If he refused that invite, he might well be on the receiving end of another flying kitchen knife. Or maybe just the ones she always carried around. Rogue figured it was best to step inside.

It was fairly roomy. Likely accommodating the witches’ demands, it had basically everything you could want in a kitchen. An industrial fridge and freezer, a grill, an oven—all spotless. As he passed Rico, he noticed she was preparing some fish. That pot did have a lot of mushrooms in it. He reached Humafu, and she uncrossed her legs, planting them on the floor.

“Forget everything you saw and heard, buster,” she growled.

“……I wasn’t planning on sharing.”

“Hmph.” She snorted. “At least it happened after that menace died. She can’t sneak a peek in your memories now! If she was still alive, you wouldn’t be.”

“Menace” was clearly Miseria. Humafu was frowning at the very thought of her.

“Would only make her even worse than usual. Ugh, just imagining it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You come here often?”

“Huh?” She opened one eye, disgruntled. “What’s it to you? You keeping tabs on me now?”

“Not the plan, no. I was just curious.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she snorted again.

“I get bored.”

She rapped a knuckle on the folding chair.

“Ain’t shit to do in my room. The others are all snoozing. But the maid here’s always up and about. Best way to kill time.”

Rico glanced back. “You come here to pass the time?” she asked earnestly.

“Why else? I thought you knew that.”

“No,” Rico said. “I thought you were here for me.”

“Huh?” Humafu blinked at her.

“Were you not here to help?” Rico asked.

“Wh-where’s this coming from?” Humafu seemed genuinely rattled.

“I mean,” Rico said, picking up a seasoning and shaking it over the pot. “You know how it works; I have to pile plates onto a cart to bring them to the dining room. That requires several trips to accommodate all residents, and several of them prefer their meals sent to their rooms. It’s rather time-consuming. But your magic curtails the delivery time considerably. This arrangement is extremely beneficial to me, but I supposed that was all just you ‘killing time.’ Understood.”

Humafu was gaping at her.

Rogue was, too. He’d thought the maid was a bit ditzy, but it ran deeper than he’d imagined.

“R-Rico, how could you?!”

Humafu’s face was stuck halfway between rage and a sob. She started to her feet, advancing on Rico, who locked up a few seconds, then tapped her palm.

“I do apologize, Humafu. You didn’t want the others knowing how much you help.”

“Too late now!” Humafu shrieked.

“I could make your favorite dish to make up for it?”

“You can’t bait me that easy! Augh, goddamn it!”

Humafu spun around, facing Rogue again. Biting her lower lip hard, she fixed him with her best glare.

“I was thanking her for helping me kill time! Don’t read too much into it! Humans are moving bags of meat! I’d never lift a finger for any one of them! It just feels gross to take and never give! Remember that!”

“I hear you.”

That was all he could say.

Humafu reached for the top of her head, realized she didn’t have her sunglasses with her, and swore under her breath.

Then she jabbed her thumb at Rico. “She can be a bit of a dipshit,” she elaborated.

Rico immediately bowed her head. “This dipshit humbly apologizes,” she said.

Humafu said something indistinct. Rogue was feeling like he had a handle on the power balance between these two. Rico had worked out how to defuse Humafu’s temper before she could blow her top. Otherwise, they’d never get along. Perhaps this was why Rico could peel the Sleepless away once she entered her quarrelsome phase.

“Go on, scram,” Humafu said. “I’ll chew her out later. Detective, you wanna survive the morrow, don’t you tell a soul.”

“……I hear you.”

“Then move your ass!”

Just to be extra sure, he glanced at Rico, but she simply bowed her head, seemingly unfazed. He got the impression they’d been through this circus before, and she was used to it. As he left the kitchen, he heard Humafu yelling again. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, he jammed his hands in his pockets.

He moved across the hall to the elevator, and descended.

The reference room was a floor below the witches’ living area. This floor also held the meeting room they used for briefings. Using only the dim lights at his feet, he located the door and opened it—to find a tall, gaunt figure in the middle of the aisle.

“Another one?” Rogue muttered.

Another witch.

She was flipping through a file, and her head swiveled at his entrance.

“Why, hello, Detective. Tee-hee-hee.”

Angene, the Professional.

Her frame—taller than his own—was also clad in white pajamas. A different design from Humafu’s, these had a hood, which was pulled up.

“……Is there a rule that everyone here is up at night?” Rogue asked.

Angene seemed to find that funny. Her shoulders quivered, and she let out an unsettling chuckle.

“Tee-hee-hee. I wouldn’t know. It depends on the individual, I imagine? I simply find sleep dreadfully dull, so I rarely get more than two or three hours.”

“I realized there’s some individual variance, but…”

He looked around.

Being the basement, the reference room was pretty sizable. The shelves were jam-packed, like files on every case in Elayl were stored here.

“Something on your mind?” Angene asked. “Or are you looking for something particular?

“I guess you could say that…”

“I requisitioned everything here from our superiors, so it should be fairly comprehensive.”

“By ‘superiors,’ you mean…the Two Great Houses?”

“Yes.”

“You, personally?”

“Yes.”

Odd, Rogue thought. Could witches get in touch with the Two Great Houses? He could see that happening if they went through Rico, but…

Not really getting it, he moved on.

“You seem like you know everything.”

Work with her at all, and you soon got that impression.

“I don’t know about everything, tee-hee-hee.”

“……If, say, a ‘gate’ appeared in your dreams…what would you make of it?”

“Tee-hee-hee, you’re looking for a fortune teller, Detective.”

That sinister giggle clearly indicated she was having fun at his expense.

“Was this gate open? Or was it closed?”

Rogue hesitated. “……I open it myself. It’s quite large.”

“You’re hurrying within this dream?”

“……Yeah.”

“You have to get through the gate?”

He was feeling increasingly mortified by this. He’d brought it up himself, but he was the supervisor here; he was the one who should be handling requests like this.

“You don’t want to go, but you do so anyway. Yes, tee-hee-hee. Not a good portent.”

He wasn’t exactly seeing the funny side of this.

“……Dream fortune-telling isn’t an exact science, is it?”

“Tee-hee, no. It’s purely personal interpretation.”

He should never have asked.

Rogue hung his head, then said, “Uh, do we still have the file on Chronos?”

“That’s in the archive on F twenty-seven,” Angene said. “But it’s digitized, so I’ll send it to your phone. Or would you rather I fetch the physical copy?”

“I’d appreciate that…but do you need anything from me?”

Asking any other witches for help meant putting his life on the line.

But Angene just bent down, leaning in, a sliver of a smile on her lips, and peered into his face with the one eye not hidden by her hair.

“Wh-what?”

He saw his baffled face reflected in her left eye. That eye swept him from head to foot.

“……Seriously, what…?”

“…Do I ‘need’?” Angene asked. “At this point in time, I have nothing I need from you.”

“……”

She pulled away, weaving off through the shelves, her feet making no sound. She was soon back with the file.

“Tee. Hee. Here you go.”

“……Yeah, thanks.”

He took the file from the witch’s hands. Their eyes didn’t meet—he had to look up just to thank her.

“You’re welcome.”

With that, he left the reference room.

He and his “partner” started working the scene at nine.

They were canvasing for information about John Brown—the human bomb—at the address the curator had given them. The Sixth Ward, Lot 153. It was an old rental home, and their first interview was with his landlord.

John Brown had left home before the museum opened at ten and returned by eleven at the latest on weekdays. No car—he commuted on a bicycle. He lived alone, his parents had both passed away, and no other relatives had ever visited. He’d attended a college run by the church, and he and his friend had been working at the museum for a year since graduation.

The landlord rattled off all this like a broken radio.

“He was such a good boy. Never complained about his misfortune,” she said, nodding to herself.

“We’re told he took a few days off last week. Did he come home during that time?”

“No, I didn’t see him.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Not a clue.”

“Any signs he was in financial trouble?”

“Well, he never once forgot to pay his rent. But I can’t say he was living a life of luxury, either.”

“Any idea how his parents passed?”

“He said it was a car accident. While he was at the church college.”

“He volunteered that information?”

“When he moved in.”

“……Okay, one last question—did anyone visit him the day before his vacation?”

“Dicky,” the landlord said. “He was a cheerful boy. Always said hi to me. I don’t know how this could have happened.”

Once that interview was over, they canvased the neighbors.

No leads on Chronos.

Everyone had seen Dicky, though. But given the existence of disguise spells, none of that testimony would hold up. They had no real evidence.

It was now half past noon.

Throngs were pouring out of the subway entrance. They were pushing against the flow, headed to a street beyond the station. It was a tree-lined lane and there were lots of schools in the area.

They turned right onto a side street that had fences and walls on both sides. Rogue was blinking from the glare from the pavement.

“Didn’t you sleep?” Catherine asked.

“……Not really.”

He’d downed some caffeine before they left and woken himself up, but clearly, it was still showing on his face. Rogue kicked himself.

“You have to get a good night’s sleep. Your body is your greatest resource.”

Couldn’t argue there.

“I know, it just happened.”

He was making excuses, like a little kid getting scolded. Disgraceful.

“I slept like a baby!” Catherine said.

“Good for you.”

He glanced to his left.

There was a basketball court behind the chain-link fence. He didn’t have fond memories of such places. He’d spent his childhood running, kicking, and punching but had been no good at basketball. He had no talent for it. If he tried to run after that huge ball, he’d trip over his own feet. It was a popular sport in the empire, but by this point, he was prepared to turn down any invitation to play.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, something appeared in front of him.

“—!”

He shielded his face with his arms, and an object hit the wall, bounced off the fence, then rolled to his feet.

The basketball bumped his toe.

“Sorry, man!” called a voice across the fence.

There were three of them, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. They were in street clothes.

As Rogue was wondering what to do about this ball, Catherine bent down and picked it up.

“Here goes! Catch!” she called, then tossed the ball.

What the—?

As easy a toss as a putting a can in the garbage. Or at least, the motion was anyway. But the ball itself sailed higher than any building around, tracing a gentle parabola right through the hoop.

“Holy shit!”

“Was that real?”

“She scored from that far out?!”

The kids were all pointing and shouting.

Catherine had a shifty expression, like she’d blown it.

“Catherine?” Rogue said.

“Um…,” she said, looking away, looking at him, and looking back again.

“Thanks!” someone called, and she turned toward them.

“Careful next time!” she replied, using her hands to amplify her voice.

Then she turned and walked quickly off. “This way!” she yelled.

Rogue glanced once at the kids, who were playing again, and then followed the nun.

“You shoot a lot of hoops?” he had to ask.

“Um, not really.”

“Other sporting experience?”

“Well, not exactly…”

Catherine stopped, clutching the ribbon at her chest.

“I usually try not to overdo things.”

“Huh? What for?”

“Th-that’s more Saint-like?” she said.

It was a vague sort of rationale.

“……Define ‘Saint-like.’”

“I-it just is! It’s better not to crush apples barehanded even if you can!”

“I feel like it is very you to not care about these things…”

“F-fine, I’ll do that, then! I don’t care! I’ll crush all the apples!”

“Please don’t.” Rogue sighed, hanging his head. “Let’s get some lunch. It’s about that time.”

“G-good idea! It is lunchtime!”

“……”

Once seated, Catherine ordered the berry pie, Rogue bought a hamburger, and they each got coffee. Their food arrived soon enough, and they dug in. Seated across the table, he could see the girl—no, the witch’s every move. A smile in her eyes, enjoying her pie, big bites, but not too big. The crisis of a moment before already forgotten.

Even witches weren’t always witches.

Rogue was reminded of that again.

No one came into this world a witch. At some point in their lives, they became one, obtaining immortality and overflowing mana. Even if that instance was a long, long time ago, the life before that didn’t go away.

And that was true for this Saint as well.

“Um, Detective? Is there something on my face?”

“Nah…”

How could he put it? As he wondered, Catherine set down her pie, half eaten.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, smiling. “My berry pie has your full attention. Do you want some?”

“Completely wrong.”

“Oh? Okay.”

There was an awkward silence.

Rogue folded first, looking around the diner. It was always a busy place. How many people here even knew witches were real? Even less had ever been directly harmed by them.

As he mulled on these idle thoughts, his hand slipped. He’d meant to take a bite, but the beef and bun hit his cheek instead.

There was a wet splotch.

Grease and condiments smeared across his skin. It was deeply unpleasant.

Dammit.

He was really out of it today. Catherine was right; sleep was important.

“May I, Detective?”

“Sure…”

Catherine reached out and wiped his cheek with a paper napkin.

“All better.”

_____Hmm?

He felt like something very odd had just happened. He looked at Catherine, and the pie was no longer on her plate. Not wanting to make her wait, he wolfed down the rest of his burger. Then he checked his watch. It was high time they hit the road.

The witches’ expenses were handled by the Sixth Precinct—in other words, the Magic Crimes Bureau. They were given enough money to party all night long. For now, Rogue took out his wallet and made sure to get a receipt.

Outside the shop, Catherine looked up.

“Rain incoming,” she said.

Thick clouds covered the sky.

At first, it was just a drizzle, but it was getting steadily stronger.

“The station’s this way.”

“Are we headed back?”

“No, we’re going the other direction.”

There was no sign of rain before lunch. He grumbled and stepped out into it—and a noise made him turn. Catherine had opened an umbrella. A bright-blue one. It really stood out on this gray day.

“I happened to have a folding umbrella on me,” Catherine said, holding it out.

He took it on reflex.

“Let’s share!” she said.

“Okay………………………um?”

“Onward!”

The Saint’s shoulder bumped against his left side. It was so slender, he had no clue how she could have made that long shot.

“……Hang on.”

“Yes, Detective?”

“……This’ll just leave both our shoulders wet. It’s your umbrella, Catherine. You use it.”

They’d stopped under the restaurant’s eaves.

“But then you’ll get drenched. Who cares about a shoulder? Stop fussing and get in here.”

Catherine smiled out of pure kindness. He knew that. Even she could not be plotting anything here. But Rogue’s body refused to budge. He could tell his face had gone all stiff.

Rain spattered off his shoulder, striking his neck. It was the middle of autumn, and only fifteen degrees out. If he got soaked in this would quickly freeze. That was true for the Saint, too.

He let the muscles in his face loosen and mustered a facsimile of a smile.

“Fine,” he said.

“Ah-ha-ha, you’re massively overthinking this.”

“………It doesn’t bovver you at all?”

“‘Bovver’?”

“Bother!”

Correcting himself, Rogue made his feet move, each step extra careful, like he was on a tightrope.

Catherine watched him, looking baffled.

“Um, what would even bother me?” she asked.

He gaped at her.

“What…? What else?” Catherine was nodding, taking him seriously. He continued hesitantly, saying, “You know… See?”

“Right.”

“……………”

Rogue was plodding along, and Catherine matched his pace. It was hard to tell which of them was holding the leash. The hair beneath her veil was swaying like that of a dancing girl. One eye on that, he choked out the words.

“Remember, Catherine, you’re the one who warned the chief about statements that run against public decency.”

“Um, I’m not flaunting any skin. I’m even wearing gloves! As are you, Detective.”

Her glove touched his. She was poking him with her finger. His shoulders jumped.

“See?” Catherine smiled, as if demonstrating her generosity.

“……Let’s just go with that.”

He was exhausted already. Persuading her seemed an unsurmountable task.

The rain was getting stronger. He could hear it pattering on the umbrella. There was no use caring about how damp his trouser cuffs were getting. On they walked.

Their destination wasn’t that far away, but it sure felt like it was taking forever.

“Perhaps this is inappropriate,” Catherine said, “but this is far more fun than investigating things on my own.”

“……Maybe it is.”

He went along with it.

“I often saw Bureau officers when I was in town. They’re always acting in pairs, and I thought that was cool. Once, I even saw them arresting someone! I was happy to help out the Bureau, but I had no one to talk to. I was just running around town, all on my own; it got rather lonely. Angene never leaves her room.”

“Humafu?”

“She tends to vanish on you.”

There was a slightly louder splash.

Catherine offered a bashful smile.

“Sorry, investigations are no game. Forget I said anything.”

She faced forward.

“……Listen, Catherine…”

“Yes?”

“……No, never mind.”

But Catherine had stopped in her tracks. She was staring at a gap between two buildings.

Rogue followed her gaze and saw a young child in the alley. The roofs overlapped, providing shelter from the rain. The kid was standing there, crying and rubbing their eyes as they sniffled.

“What’s wrong?” Catherine asked gently. She was speaking in far softer tones than usual.

“My brother… We were playing hide-and-seek…and I can’t find him anywhere…,” the kid said, looking up. I didn’t see any umbrellas around—it must have started raining while they were out playing.

“Detective,” Catherine said, looking at him. “Can I help search for this brother?”

“Uh, sure,” Rogue said. “I don’t mind. Go look for him—I’ll head on alone. Call me if you find him.”

“Will do. Thanks for letting me do this.”

Catherine bowed her head.

Her hair dangled down, almost touching the wet ground. That made Rogue feel guilty.

“No need to thank me. I didn’t do anything. Here.”

He handed her the umbrella.

“Even so,” she said, bobbing her head again. She took the kid’s hand. “Okay, let’s go look for your brother!”

They walked off, vanishing into the downpour. Rogue absently watched them go.

The rain was getting real hard, like bullets. Visibility was poor; even a few yards out was blurry. Catherine could likely use magic to ward it off, but…

Rogue shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes turning to the intersection up ahead. He’d said what he said, but he felt like waiting out the rain a bit. He lurked in the dry alley, watching people flee the deluge.

A few minutes later, the sound of the rain shifted. It wasn’t falling anything like as hard now. He could see light on the far side of the intersection.

Time to move.

He darted toward the intersection and across the crosswalk, by which point he could see Dicky’s residence: a five-story dormitory on a deserted backstreet.

Inside, Rogue headed for the top floor. There was no elevator, so he had to take the stairs. He didn’t pass anyone along the way. He found Dicky’s room and frowned.

There were wet footprints outside the door.

_____No way.

His heart was beating faster.

Is Chronos waiting for me?

Is there some critical evidence inside that he came to destroy?

No, there was another possibility. Those footprints weren’t trying to hide. Perhaps he had gotten rid of the evidence, then set a trap for anyone else who came along. That seemed like Chronos’s style. He’d sprung a trap on the Saint, then nearly turned her and Rogue into human fireballs.

And the Saint wasn’t with Rogue.

The detective hesitated, then grabbed the knob. He just had to assume this was a trap and act accordingly. He couldn’t afford to stand by and let him get away.

He twisted his wrist. The door wasn’t locked; the knob turned easily. As it opened, a powerful scent struck his nostrils. Like food left to rot.

He peered through the crack in the door. There were no lights on, but enough came through the window. No one was in sight. He could see a plate and cup left on the table in the living room. And something on the floor—hidden in shadow.

With one foot, he wedged the doorstop in place. When he stepped in, the floorboards creaked. Rogue’s eyes darted about, but no one came bursting out.

There was mud on the floor. It went all the way into the living room, where it cut out, as if that part alone had been wiped up. That seemed like an invitation.

He’s gotta be here.

But there were still no signs of anyone.

He remembered the man using a spell to turn himself invisible—but that hadn’t disguised his footsteps. He must be standing perfectly still somewhere.

Rogue listened carefully, thinking.

There’d be a sign. If he sensed anything at all, he’d have to act on it.

He crept toward the living room.

The stench was getting worse. The source was obvious—there was a swarm of flies hovering over the table.

Rotting food. A sandwich and some sausages on the plate. The sandwich was half eaten and in especially gross condition.

……What a slob.

The living room floor was covered in bags of trash, rolled up magazines, and discarded clothes with yellow stains. The man had not been living well. Rogue found it tough to breathe through his nose. As he got closer, he saw something sticking out behind the cup.

_____What the…?

Fighting off the urge to splutter, he moved closer, picking his way around the table, avoiding the trash. Soon, he could make it out.

It was a Bible.

The one clean thing in this hovel. A spotless white cover, like it was brand-new.

He reached out and picked it up.

It was heavy enough. Rogue flipped through the pages but found nothing wedged between them. It was a totally ordinary book.

Was this Dicky’s? Or does it belong to Chronos—?

Creeeeak.

The closet in the corner swung open.

Rogue looked up.

A giant stood there. Half his face—everything above the mouth—was covered in fuses. His mouth opened.

“Conditions met.”

And the man lunged toward Rogue, arms outstretched, going for the bear hug.

_____A human bomb!

Rogue ducked under his arms, and the man bumped the table. The flies all took off, but the man didn’t seem to care; he was right back on his feet.

This time, he came in low, going for the waist, adapting to Rogue’s movements. Rogue swore and braced himself, but he was in for a shock. The man was far heavier and stronger than anticipated. Rogue’s feet left the floor. Was there a strength boost in play?

The man’s arms went round his back, picking him up and charging for the window.

_____Shit!

Rogue knew where this was going and wasn’t looking forward to it.

He slammed his elbow into the man’s forehead, to no avail. He seemed incapable of feeling pain. With Rogue as his shield, they crashed into the window.

The man let go, and his face retreated into the distance. Rogue was left falling from the fifth floor.

There was no time to catch himself; he felt a blow to his back. All the air was forced out of his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.

“Usher! I am bound for the far side!” the man roared.

There was a sound like raw meat slapping a board. Eyes blurred, Rogue saw the man crawling across the concrete. Unbelievable. Even if he felt no pain, he’d made that jump?

Rogue tried to pick himself up, scrabbling on the ground. His hands sank in, and only then did he realize he’d fallen on a hedge. It was probably the only reason he was still alive.

_____He’s coming.

Rogue tried again to right himself. A sharp pain ran down his back. The man was here to finish him off. Move.

He made it off the hedge, crawling along—and bumped his head on someone’s foot.

“Oh! Usher!”

Rogue looked up, and the blood drained from his face.

The man’s arms were twisted out of shape, but he was bellowing anyway. The fuses covering his face had shrunk to the length of his pinky. The rain was falling on them, but they were made from magic, and the flames did not go out.

Rogue was done for.

_____Here? In this insignificant fight?

That was the only thing he could think about.

He’d accomplished nothing.

Not one thing.

The man was moving in slow motion.

Maybe that was just how his senses perceived things now that he was on the brink of death. He could clearly make out the progress of the explosion. It started with the man’s limbs, then his torso—and finally, the head. Even the cameras hadn’t caught that sequence.

The flames of the blast swept toward Rogue. Horrifically hot air filled his lungs, burning his entire body. His vision turned orange, then he saw nothing. The blow hit him all at once, followed by pain like needles on every inch of his skin.

It was an unbearable pain.

For what felt like eternity.

When would it be over? Rogue wondered, his throat parched.

“You always were a sleepyhead.”

He opened his eyes and beheld a white figure. There was white hair on her head, billowing out like a cloud on the wind. It fluttered up and down and right and left. He gazed at it absently, and a pleasant voice tickled his eardrums.

“Get your head in the game! You’re keeping me waiting.”

That woke him up.

“……Y-you’re…”

His throat had been burned out—but his voice worked. What the—? He got up, patting his face. It was still there. He could see. There was nothing wrong with his arms, legs, or skin.

The girl with white hair was smirking at him.

“I had no idea you were so fond of your face.”

“……I should be dead.”

“Sounds like you had a very bad dream,” she said.

No way that was a dream. Unable to believe he was alive, Rogue kept rubbing his arms and legs. Eventually, she let out a dramatic sigh and held out her hand.

“Honestly, I’m telling the truth! Did you forget me already? I can’t even get you to say my name?”

Rogue hesitated, then shook that hand.

He had gloves on, but even through them, he could tell how cold her hands were. His pulse raced. He bit his lip, trying to hide the blood rushing to his face.

Of course he remembered her.

“You’re a witch,” he said, answering the white-haired lady. “Your name’s Miseria. Good enough for you?”

With her help, he made it to his feet, and their eyes met.

Deep-blue irises.

Eyes that could control minds.

The witch offered a dramatic head tilt.

“I wasn’t complaining. Just concerned! Have you taken the burgeoning bond between us and thrown it out with yesterday’s trash?”

“I see you haven’t stopped running your mouth off.”

Miseria rolled up his left sleeve.

“How rude. My lips speak only true with the purest of intents. See? Proof our connection endures, right here upon your person! I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

She flicked the collar on his left wrist.

That’s what he got for letting her speak.

“Our connection, is it?”

“If you have a better word for it, I’m all ears. What would you call it?”

She was pretending to take this seriously, but if he let her steer the conversation, they’d never get anywhere. He hid the collar beneath his sleeve again.

“……I guess I should start with ‘thank you.’”

“Hmm? I did nothing to earn your gratitude. I simply found you asleep on the sidewalk and didn’t really put myself out.”

That was clearly not the case.

He had hardly been taking a nap.

This witch had melded with a number of mental interference spells, so he had to assume she’d employed some of them. She could make him see things and rewrite his memories—but in that case, where had the other man gone? If she’d given him a “dream,” that wouldn’t result in the disappearance of an entire person.

Rogue gave her a look. Her merry smile betrayed nothing.

“……I dunno where the spell began, but there was another man here.”

“Oh, him?” The witch pointed down the road. “He blew himself up that way. Such a violent world we live in.”

“Your doing?”

“I simply tweaked his orders.”

“Why are you even here?”

Unless she could predict the future, she couldn’t have figured out Rogue would be at Dicky’s apartment, much less been aware of the Bloom bomber. What did she know?

The witch held up her palms.

“I’ve lived here a while. Even free of the collar, I find myself coming back. Pure luck that I was in the right place to rescue you. I was just passing by and found you locked in a mortal struggle.”

That was deeply dubious.

“Suuure,” he said.

Her smirk got wider.

“Cross my heart and hope to die! You’re an untrusting soul.”

“If you want trust, wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Quite a riposte. I must endeavor to look trustwor…”

She trailed off, looking down the street.

There were sirens approaching. A local must have called in the blast.

“We’re out of time. I would have loved to chat a while longer.” Miseria shrugged.

“What are you planning…?”

“I’ll be in the wind,” Miseria said. “We’ll meet up where no unwanted guests can poke in their heads.”

With that, she tossed something at him. He caught it before it hit his face.

“You could just hand it to…”

Rogue trailed off.

The witch in front of him had vanished into thin air. He looked around and saw no trace of her. Clearly, she couldn’t resist making her exit as shocking as her arrival.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. The bruise was still there. He had fought the man and been flung out the window, then. As he considered that, he heard yelling and turned.

A girl in a nun’s habit was running toward him.

There was an emergency briefing.

Rogue glanced around at the assembled faces.

Humafu the Sleepless was nodding off in a seat down the table. Catherine the Saint was perched next to her, shaking her awake. Angene the Professional was with him by the whiteboard.

This dry-erase board was covered in photos, all showing victims of the Bloom spell. John Brown and Dicky from the museum, and now the new guy, Willy Martinez.

“Tee-hee, he had a clean record, too,” Angene said, tapping his driver’s license photo with a long finger. “He’s been working for a year at an insurance agency called Keeper’s House. And he was the top seller last month! They gave him an award, and he took his first-ever vacation this month. He lived by the shore in the Sixth Ward.”

“Any family residing with him?” Rogue asked.

“Tee-hee-hee. Humafu?” Angene asked.

“Nope, not a one,” Sleepless said, rocking. “Didn’t even have a dog. Lonely dude.”

“It seems like our killer’s targeting those with no dependents. We haven’t combed through Dicky yet, but John Brown was in the same boat.”

Even as he spoke, Rogue thought it seemed likely. He wasn’t sure how the arrest had affected Chronos, but those without ties were likely easier to work with.

He wrote this on the whiteboard and glanced at Angene.

“……Any leads on this ‘key’ thing?”

“No. There was no such exhibit at the museum.”

“Any underground areas or hidden doors?”

“Of course not, tee-hee.”

“And ‘the far side’?”

Angene merely let out a sinister laugh, her shoulders quivering.

Rogue turned back to the table.

“Anyone else?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No clue.”

Catherine and Humafu were both shaking their heads.

If immortals didn’t know, this was unlikely to be ancient lore.

Like the first go-around, Chronos was hung up on restoring the age of witches. A time when witches regularly ran wild, slaughtering countless people.

“Yo, Detective,” Humafu yelled.

“What?” he asked, turning toward her.

The sunglasses on her head caught the light, reflecting it. She had her elbows on the table.

“There a point digging into this ‘message’? Kinda seems like this asshole just wants you dead.”

When he blinked at her, she rested her cheek on one hand.

“Why’s that a shock? If I knew the dude who kicked my ass was still out there, I’d have it in for him. And you just came this close to getting yourself blown up.”

“……I hardly think it’s that simple. Chronos was big on elaborate schemes and flaunting those crimes in front of people.”

“Tch, what a douche. This would all have been over if you’d killed him the first fucking time.”

“Language,” Catherine said.

“Huh?” Humafu wheeled round to glare at her. “Why do witches have to be all hoity-toity? Our whole thing is id unleashed!”

She sure seemed ready to let hers fly.

“Is it?”

“Ack, d-don’t, stop!”

Humafu’s hostility didn’t last long. Catherine had put her arms round her and was patting her back, like she was comforting a fussy child.

“Good night, Humafu.”

“I—I can’t sleep, you know that… Yaaaaaawn……”

She put up a good fight, but no sooner did that yawn escape her than Humafu’s head landed on Catherine’s shoulder. She swung her arms a few times like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but none of those swings connected.

“She’s so hotheaded.”

Rogue tore his eyes away, refocusing on Angene.

“One other thing bugging me. This is our third victim who’s been melded with the spell. Any risk of them turning out like witches?”

“None,” she said.

“But you lot turned out fine…if that’s the word for it. You didn’t end up like these victims, at least. What’s the discrepancy?”

The towering witch seemed to find this very droll.

“Tee-hee-hee. Many people have asked the same question. They were all people who wanted to become witches themselves. Rulers of tiny kingdoms. Soldiers. Historians. Doctors—but alas. Not one of them ever pulled it off. Their minds collapsed instead. Tee-hee.”

“……How many?”

“Tee-hee. Do you really want to know?”

Rogue shook his head.

It was all too easy to imagine how cheap human lives would be with the prospect of immortality on the line. None of those stories would be pleasant.

“Fine, so melding with spells, no matter who tries it, nearly always fails?”

“That’s the gist of it. Tee-hee-hee. Doomed by their own ambitions.”

He considered this. Did Chronos know that? If so, then he was just melding these victims to serve as suicide bombers. Did he have any other goals?

Catherine caught his gaze. She smiled over Humafu’s head, which was cradled in her arms.

“I am glad you’re safe,” she said.

“Yeah…”

He’d told everyone he and Willy Martinez had fallen out the fifth-story window, and then the other man had blown himself up. That was the truth.

But he felt guilty about it anyway.

Catherine had apologized profusely for not making it in time. But in his mind, he’d made the choice to go in alone and was now hiding the full story.

Rogue shook his head. That line of thinking was no good. He knew it was better not to dwell on the past.

Addressing the witches around the table, he said, “Odds are high he made contact with each of the victims before last week. We need to figure out where all three of them went. Let’s dig into their movements tomorrow—for today, you’re free to go. Get some rest.”

It was ten PM.

Certain the witches were back in their rooms, Rogue left the precinct alone.

He was headed for the commercial district—the Fifth Ward, Dillo. There were lots of cars cruising the night streets. People were all dressed up, parading around, heading for bars or clubs. A few plainclothes officers were mixed in, maintaining order. Rogue parked in the lot of a bar with an old-fashioned exterior. This was where they’d agreed to meet.

He stepped through the doorway.

There were maybe ten seats in total. Only one person sat on the middle stool; there were no other customers. He’d just seen her flowing white hair a few hours ago. She was talking to the elderly bartender but turned at the sound of the door closing.

“My, you’re awfully late,” Miseria said.

“I’m right on time.”

He settled in next to her, and she waggled an empty glass.

“What are you having, Rogue?” she asked.

“I’m driving.”

“Hmm, then have some milk. This place has excellent milk. Right, sir?”

The elderly bartender merely shot her a look. Holding his tongue was a wise decision. A moment later, there was a glass of milk in front of Rogue.

“I showed up, like you asked,” he began. “Are you actually talking?”

“But of course. I never lie!”

Her tone was airy, so he put a hint of anger in his.

“Any funny business, and I will run you through.”

“My, my!” she cried, clearly amused. “Here I was, convinced I’m still your partner. Yet I’m met with such hostility. You’ve shattered my delicate spirit.”

“Listen to yourself,” he scoffed.

“Delicacy is my middle name,” Miseria said with the utmost confidence.

Dammit.

He alone was all wound up.

Rogue roughly scratched his head.

“If I go running around on my own, someone’s bound to notice.”

“Hmm, that would cause a fuss. But not to worry. As long as I hide these white locks, nobody will realize it’s me. Human eyes are so imprecise. Remove a single distinctive feature, and you blend right into the background. And—”

Miseria grabbed a strand of hair, holding it up before her. Rogue frowned, baffled by this gesture, and was not at all prepared for what she did next.

“Sir, what color is this?”

“Black.”

The bartender’s answer left Rogue blinking.

“See? The bartender here will let any inconvenience slide. I don’t even need to wear a disguise.”

“…Is he under your spell?”

“Nothing major. Just a little sleight of hand. Oh, are you concerned about side effects? There won’t be any. It’s not that significant.”

“Even so…”

He shifted uncomfortably, and she chuckled.

“Do you want me arrested?”

“……”

He drank his milk.

Her smile grew even wider.

“Who knows what would happen to me if I did get arrested? My head might fly without waiting for my deferred beheading. Oh, I wouldn’t even dream of blaming you for it. Nobody will ever find me as long as you keep your lips sealed. As long as you do.”

She made that point twice.

“Part of me thinks the world would be a lot safer with you behind bars,” Rogue growled.

The witch leaned in, whispering, “I feel like someone saved you from an explosive death just today. What a close call!”

A born manipulator. Give her an inch, and she’d take a mile. Her tone made it clear she knew she’d won.

“……You’d deserve it.”

“Rogue, that’s just sour grapes.”

He couldn’t stand her whispering in his ear.

“Shush. Why were you even there?”

When he changed the subject, she finally moved away.

“Hmm. Well, it’s true I was there for a reason.”

“And that reason was?”

Miseria turned on her stool, facing him. Her blue eyes bore into Rogue’s.

“I heard Chronos escaped.”

“How’d you find that out?” he said, appalled.

“I have good ears. If he’d been a common criminal, I’d have let it pass. But we’ve got a lot of bad blood, yes? If I do nothing, it’ll go to his head.”

He studied her face, unable to tell how much of that was true. She might as well be discussing the next day’s weather.

“You intend to help crack the case?”

“I just might do that.” The witch grinned. “Would you like me pilfer the memories of everyone connected to it? That could be a thousand, or even ten thousand— Oh, and I simply must punish Chronos himself. What do you say?”

She’d asked him something like this before.

Rogue held his tongue. He had to balance the risks against the rewards. Even if his dreams were just dreams, they were only barely keeping collared witches under control. He didn’t want a single death coming out of this. Even if it was that son of a bitch.

He knew his fear lay beneath this, but it felt like ignoring that would be a fatal mistake.

“……If you’re gonna hurt people, I don’t need your help,” he growled.

“I’m kidding,” Miseria said. “Don’t take it seriously.”

An easy retraction.

He sighed. It was hard to tell how much she meant anything.

“That crease in your brow is more like a ridge.”

“……And whose fault is that?”

“Tell me what you know so far. You aren’t that obstinate, are you?”

The witch held up her hand, crooking her index finger at him. He had his hand on his phone in his pocket but didn’t care for this. She’d called him obstinate, and that felt like she had him wrapped around her finger.

“Go on,” he said, doing his best to look indifferent. It was all the resistance he could muster.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The witch took the phone and started reading through the file. The facts of the case, what the victims had said, the links between them—she skimmed it all so fast, it was hard to believe she’d processed any of it. If anyone else had done this, he’d have taken issue with it, but—

“I get the gist. I know what Chronos’s message is, at any rate,” she said.

“You do?”

He raised a brow at that.

“Naturally. Who do you think am?”

She gave him a very fishy smile.

“Then what is it?” he asked.

The witch demanded a glass of milk, really milking the moment.

She took a sip, then said, “First, let me ask this: How much do you know about ‘melding’ with a spell?”

“I’m told most attempts end in failure. Otherwise…”

He trailed off, embarrassed to admit he didn’t know jack shit.

“Excellent,” the witch said. “It’s an issue even witches don’t wish to dwell on. Why exactly did we gain these powers? After his previous failure, Chronos is now focused on that concern. And the reason he’s sending messages is to make that point clear.”

“Okay…so?”

“One clear advantage we have is sheer volume of mana. We never run out—so much mana, it’s practically infinite. If I was inclined to cast spells on every single person alive, I have the capacity to pull that off. But, Rogue, where do you think that mana comes from? If you humans use up your mana, you must absorb more from the outside to recover from it.”

That much he knew. He was Voiceless, so he had never really been affected by it, but energy sources were finite. Mana was hardly an exception to that. If it was, then…

“Do you generate it yourselves? Like plants?”

“That would be fascinating, if true. But plants use photosynthesis, which is still converting the light shining on them.”

“Maybe, but…what’s your theory?”

The witch swirled her glass.

“I believe witches are constantly taking mana from somewhere else. That’s why they seemingly never run out.”

“And where is this somewhere?”

“Presumably the source of magic itself. Which is likely not of this world. I cannot begin to fathom the scale of it.”

Rogue’s frown was deepening.

“You’re losing me fast, but functionally speaking—you witches are linked to this source?”

The witch snapped her fingers.

“Exactly! You’re quick on the uptake. I believe there is a ‘gate’ connecting witches to this other place. Therein lies Chronos’s message. The key to the far side. By ‘far side,’ he means the source of magic. The ‘key’ is the means to becoming a witch. This ‘usher’ is likely Chronos himself.”

Rogue groaned, sipping his milk.

He followed it, but a place not of this world was too wild for his tastes. This was outside the lines of detective work. And the fact that Chronos was after it proved he’d gone around the bend.

He chugged the last of the milk as the witch spoke again.

“Before you head back to the Sixth Precinct, can I ask a favor?”

“What?” he said, giving her a look.

“Let’s take a drive.”

In the passenger seat, the witch hid her long white hair beneath a hat and a black wig. Even her clothes were different. She had color contacts on, hiding her distinctive blue eyes.

“Thanks so much. I needed transportation!”

“‘Let’s take a drive,’ my ass.”

Rogue spun the wheel, feeling the vein on his forehead throb.

“Am I bothering you? By way of apology, you may ask one question. Anything you like. My childhood nickname? What I do with my free time? Anything at all.”

“……Will you actually answer?”

He was tempted to ask if she planned to commit any crimes—whether she really had nothing to do with this case. Her words had caught him off guard and were sending ripples through his mind.

But the witch was seemingly unconcerned.

“This is a rare opportunity. Seize it!”

The knot in his stomach tightened.

This was something he had to know. But he was hesitant to ask.

He waffled for ten seconds, maybe twenty.

“……What made you think it was worth dying to get the collar off?” he asked.

“Hmm.”

Miseria put a hand to her chin.

“Is that really what you want to ask?”

“……It is.”

“I expected something more compelling, but very well. You shall have your answer. Namely—”

“Namely?”

He gulped.

The witch offered a faint smile.

“—I’m looking for someone,” she said. “Outside the empire. If they were inside the borders, I could check in on them with the collar on, but this is the last place they’d ever be. My only option was to go to them. That’s why I ditched the collar.”

This was a bit of a relief.

He’d really been tensed up. He had a death grip on the wheel, and his right arm was feeling the strain. He pried off his fingers, opening and closing his right hand, easing that tension.

“What’s that about?” she asked.

“……Never you mind.”

“I expected a more dramatic reaction. Emotional waterworks.”

She shook her head.

“My eyes are dry as a bone.”

“That’s the problem! Oh, you can drop me off here.”

She was pointing at the entrance to a public park. It was the one green strip that ran across the heart of the city.

Is she sleeping there?

He gave her an alarmed look, and she scoffed. “Of course not. What do you take me for, a barbarian?”

“Well…I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“I would never!” Miseria cried. “If I can’t have a warm bed, I’d rather not sleep at all!”

He pulled over and stopped the car, and she got out, still shaking her head.

“So where are you staying?” Rogue asked, before she shut the door.

“What’s it to you? Oh, have we not talked enough?” She paused, grinning.

He made a strangled noise.

“Ha-ha-ha, you have work on your plate, Rogue. This is quite enough for one night. I’m afraid I already have a place to stay.”

She waved at him through the window.

“Good night, Rogue.”

She vanished, melting into the night. He squinted but had no clue which way she’d gone. Her disappearance was so thorough, it felt like she must have cast a spell.

He closed the door and settled back into the seat, then thumped his head on the steering wheel. He felt utterly drained. A lot had happened that day. Too much.

Maybe he should just sleep here.

That thought drifted across his mind and soon vanished. It wasn’t a good idea by any standard. He was about to start the engine…

…when two figures crossed the road in front of him.

His headlights picked them out. A woman in a suit, and a knight in armor. The sight of them banished all drowsiness. Why were the witch hunters here? His eyes lit on the greatsword, which he’d barely dodged the day before.

Should he just drive away? But then the suit spoke to the knight, who stopped. The woman turned toward him, bowing.

“Hello, Detective Rogue. How goes things?”

Auroch of the Headtaker Corps kept her hands visible, indicating she was not here for a fight.

That left him with no choice.

He cracked open the side window.

“……What do you want, Auroch?”

“So hostile. Who was your companion?” She grinned.

“What’s it to you?”

He kept a straight face. Miseria had on a disguise the whole time with her back to them, and she’d only faced their way for an instant.

“Just curious who the famous detective associates with.”

“Friends.”

“You seemed awfully close,” Auroch insisted.

“Do you gotta dig into everyone’s business?”

The headhunter shook her head.

“No, not my intent at all. I simply spotted you here…but this is such a busy area. I’ve been walking around here all day, and it’s left my ears ringing.”

“……Never been to Elayl before?”

“Not often. Our work mainly involves guarding VIPs. Which means we have few opportunities to frequent areas like this one.”

Noble dwellings were likely paradise compared with the squalor of the city. Yet he was not inclined to ever frequent them.

He looked past Auroch to the knight.

“Shocked your assistant can work as a bodyguard.”

She let out a dry chuckle.

“He’s certainly earned your ire. As long as witches aren’t involved, he’s very professional. Although, perhaps guard work isn’t his best suit.”

Even she knew it.

She shrugged, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“For sheer might alone, no one in the empire is his match. He’s likely in the running in the worldwide standings, too. Heh-heh, he was born into the wrong era. In the age of the witches, he’d have had a very different life. A fruitless speculation, but one I can’t help but indulge.”

Before Rogue knew it, he was blurting, “No human could ever beat one of them.”

Auroch nodded, not looking the least bit put out.

“It is but conjecture. I would certainly like to wipe them out, but that’s easier said than done. However, the corps as a whole is another matter.”

She didn’t bat an eye—is she that confident in the power of these magic swords? Or does she know something I don’t?

“I do pardon the interruption, Detective Rogue. Let us wish each other the best of luck.”

Auroch bowed her head.

“……”

She must not have expected an answer—she turned on her heel. The knight stood perfectly still a moment longer, glaring him down.

What?

“We’re leaving,” Auroch called. “Come.”

Only then did the knight budge. All that armor must weigh a ton, but his footsteps made no sound.

Chapter 3: A Partner Won’t Leave a Dream Behind

The pedestrian underpass was not exactly a pleasant location. Dirty words and graffiti were scrawled on the walls, and worse, it was cold. Rogue sighed to himself.

It was now day five of the investigation.

The daily bombings had subsided, at least. Out of ammo? Up to something else? Rogue would have preferred the former but wasn’t hopeful. They’d found no insight into the message beyond the witch’s speculation. They’d looked into the nobility and legends related to ruins in and out of the city, but there was nothing related to magic melding. All dead ends. Then on the morning of the fifth day, Velladonna gave them a call.

“Rogue, how goes things?”

“What do you want, Chief?”

“You’re a big grouch. Well, no use doing a song and dance, so let me tell you, the nobles are hopping mad.”

“Breathing down your neck, are they?” Rogue asked.

“More or less, yes. Not much I can do about it—but it has been a while since they were this emotional.”

“Their reps are on the line.”

“Their pride is in shatters.”

“But pissy nobles don’t give us new evidence.”

“Agreed. I’ll fend them off, so don’t you worry about how much time you’re taking.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Well, not especially. But a word of warning—beware of that doggy.”

“Doggy?” He frowned.

“Auroch, from the Headtaker Corps,” Velladonna said. “She’s got a reputation among my superiors. The youngest ever corps commander, mows down anyone who means the Ligtons harm. Obeys any and all orders. Assassinations, torture, you name it. Rumor has it she eliminated a reporter who dared to criticize the Ligtons. And since the Ligtons and Drakenias are at each other’s throats to begin with, I’d advise not even sharing information with her.”

“……I never intended to, but thanks for the heads-up.”

The call ended there.

He wasn’t spooked by threats from the aristocracy, but clearly, he should use what means he had available to him. For that reason, Rogue got in touch with the Puppeteer again.

At ten PM—ten minutes after Rogue arrived—he heard footsteps on the tunnel stairs. He turned to find the witch halfway down.

“You’re late.”

“Don’t be picky, this is well within the margin of error,” she said, beckoning to him. “Now, take me to your car! Donuts are calling my name.”

“……”

They quickly went from below ground to above it. Even this late, there was a ton of foot traffic. Miseria’s long white hair was hidden beneath that hat and black wig, but her beauty still earned a lot of looks. Especially when she was walking next to a man with a permanent scowl on his face. He hoped they wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.

They reached his parking spot and got in—and only then did he relax.

“……Here,” he said, handing Miseria a box with a half dozen colorful donuts inside.

“Package received, Rogue.”

Miseria pored over the donuts like she was verifying the contents of a wallet, resting the box on her knees. She soon made her choice and plucked it out of the box with a paper napkin.

“……You’re pigging out.”

“You wouldn’t buy me any last time,” she said, waving the half ring at him.

“We were on duty. You gonna eat the whole box?”

“It’s my reward. You can’t have any.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

He started the car and pulled out onto the main drag.

“Now then, Rogue, you had a question for me,” Miseria said, once she’d polished off her second donut. “‘How is he controlling people melded with a spell?’ was it?”

That was what he needed to know.

The victims clearly had no minds of their own; how was he making them do what he wanted?

As the car sped up, Miseria reached for a third donut.

“Mental interference would be the simplest approach. You’ve seen that in action.”

“Yeah, well…I guess. But I assumed that was something only you could do.”

Miseria shot him a loaded smirk.

“Well, other people aren’t as good at it, but it’s not exactly my exclusive providence. The mastermind would have preprogrammed victims with specific actions they’re meant to take. Not just sending them to a target destination, but letting them handle simple, everyday conversations.”

“So Chronos gave his victims a list of…conditions to blow themselves up?”

“Essentially. Which suggests he has a purpose beyond getting in your way.”

“How would you be different?”

“It would be far, far worse. You remember my nickname??”

She waggled a finger, biting into her pastry.

“Those under my spell are not nearly as wooden. No one can tell they’ve been brainwashed. No one can undo the brainwashing. By the time anyone knows something’s wrong, it’s all over.”

Rogue made a face. Should he really be letting her roam free?

“……Fine, that helped. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Rogue.”

She swallowed the last bit of donut, then abruptly cast off her hat and wig.

“This takes me back! Remember how we had such a good time solving crime together?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure how to respond.

“……I guess?”

Hands on the wheel, he stole a look at her. The witch was grinning. He could take that for an off-the-cuff remark—or he could take it as a means to an end.

She crooked her head at him.

“How are things? I didn’t get a chance to ask before, but the other witches haven’t killed you in my absence, right?”

“…Not so far…”

This was clearly pulling teeth, and Miseria raised a brow at him.

“So you’ve mastered the art of manipulating witches!”

“……It just worked out that way.”

“No need for modesty. I’ve been rather bored myself. No one to play with. Things got so dull, I started talking to a random stranger at the station.”

“Why would you do that?” He deflated. How much time did she have on her hands? “Don’t blame me if someone takes a swing at you.”

“I will happy accept any blows that come my way!” Miseria said. “Oh, open wide.”

He gave her a sidelong look but did as he was told.

“Say ‘ahh’!” the witch said and tried to push a half-eaten donut into his mouth.

“……Miseria.”

“Hmm? What, you intend to reject my benevolent gift to the donut-deprived youth? My show of mercy?”

“……Not the point, and I paid for them,” he protested.

“My, my. I never imagined a police detective would have such an overdeveloped sense of shame. You never change. Eyes on the road, or you’ll hit someone.”

He had to admit it wasn’t very detectivelike. He took a bite of the proffered donut. It was far too sweet. Bits of sugar clung to the corners of his mouth.

Dammit.

He saw the park up ahead and slowed down. There was no driving inside, so he pulled over and stopped.

“The wind’s picking up,” Miseria said.

The trees around the park were swaying. Rogue realized the smile had left her lips.

Her expression reminded him of a doll left sitting in the dark.

But he blinked once, and her smile was back. She turned toward him and raised a brow—did she know he’d seen that? Without another word, she pushed the door open and walked off into the park.

Oh…

Unconsciously, he reached after her.

He could almost see that gate behind her.

“I merely wish to know what we are not meant to know.”

That pool of blood. That mound of corpses.

He had not actually seen either. In reality, there was no red to be found, not a single body present. The “gate” was simply the entrance to the park itself. And yet it had brought that dream back to him with a vengeance.

Well aware he was overthinking it, he got out of the car. This was all in his head. Why was he dragging it around like this? His fist balled up, his nails digging into his skin. It hurt. See? That’s real. Banish all this nonsense from your mind. Stop being so hung up on this ridiculous bullshit.

He saw that white hair swaying.

The witch was waving, waiting for Rogue.

Think.

She’d helped him out. Not like helping with his homework, either. She’d saved his life. Would someone truly rotten even bother? Same with her motive for ditching the collar. Was searching for someone actually evil? He remembered how relieved he’d been. I know better. I know I can trust her. Stop hurting your own palm and forget that dream. That’s best for me and for the witch. Just—

“Forget all about it, huh?”

The wind swept his whisper away, and it did not reach the witch’s ears. She watched him approach the gate with a smile on her lips.

“Joining me for a little post-dinner aerobic exercise, Rogue—?”

“So,” he said, cutting her off, “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

She didn’t seem to mind the abrupt change of subject.

“Depends on the favor.”

Rogue took a short breath, then said it.

“Don’t rack up any more sins.”

Miseria cocked her head again, grinning.

“That is a vague request. How do you define sin? Do you mean murder specifically? And for how long does this favor last? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t want to put a collar on you.”

Her blue eyes searched his face.

He could feel her old collar on his wrist. Perhaps this was wishful thinking. She was a former partner he’d trusted—and he didn’t want to see her backslide.

A juvenile sentiment. And yet…

He held her gaze. In time, her lips moved.

“Very well,” she said, readily agreeing. “Even I can’t guarantee things forever, but I’ll bear that in mind for the next century or so. I swear to commit no sins within that time frame.”

Her vow was awfully carefree.

“……You’re sure?”

“Since you’re asking, Rogue. Must you insist?”

She had a mocking glint in her eye.

“……I thought you’d refuse outright.”

“Am I that untrustworthy?”

“You aren’t the kinda gal who does what other people want.”

“Well, I certainly consider it sometimes,” the witch said. “Is my word not enough?”

He shook his head to indicate that wasn’t the case.

“Then you have my word.”

“……I’ll hold you to it.”

“So little faith! You’re making me weep.”

She clearly didn’t mean a word of that.

They were walking around the pond in the park, on a path frequently used by joggers during daylight hours. The witch was out ahead, almost dancing along.

“When you were a child, were you ever pursued by furious grown-ups?” Miseria asked.

“Nope.”

“Worth trying once! Golly, I really had my back to the cliff’s edge. Even my own mother turned on me! The whole mansion was full of enemies.”

By “mansion”—this must be a story from before she was a witch. He’d heard she came from a big-name family, with lots of servants.

Putting on airs like a tragic heroine, she continued.

“I thought making the portraits grow whiskers would be a minor, adorable prank, but my father went and fetched the ax. Honestly, if I’d failed to dodge, what would he have done?”

“Probably swung again.”

“Ah-ha! I never thought of that.”

She sounded like she genuinely hadn’t.

“Well, anyway, my legs proved a match for all of them, and I wound up only going without dinner,” she said, patting her thigh. “Fancy taking them on?”

“Those donuts will come right back up.”

“You are underestimating my digestive system. Those donuts are no more!”

“I’m not in the mood for a run.”

“Ready! Start!”

She spun around and dashed off. She was astonishingly fast. She might lie like she breathed, but this one thing alone proved true.

He gave chase but failed to close the gap. She didn’t look like she was in better shape than the average officer, but he couldn’t catch up at all.

At last, they reached the bridge across the pond. The witch stopped in the middle, tapping her foot on the boards with a satisfying plonk.

“I win.”

Gasping for air, Rogue had to rest his hands on his knees. “We didn’t pick a finish line…”

“Oh? I thought you didn’t fancy a run.”

The witch wasn’t even out of breath.

Completely unfair.

“Once we start, that changes things. And you had a three-meter lead from the get-go!”

“My, my, I never took you for a sore loser.”

“It’s a legitimate grievance.”

He straightened up.

The wind had died down.

The pond’s surface reflected the trees and the lights of the city. Next to him, the witch’s face peered in, grinning when he caught her looking.

“Nice here, isn’t it?”

Rogue nodded.

“One thousand two hundred years ago, there was nothing like this. Of course not. It’s truly magnificent. I want nothing more than for you all to carry on, just the way you are.”

“Even you have thoughts about the future?”

“Well, yes. We all share the same world. If a spider made a web in your garden, would you not be concerned about it getting torn up?”

“……Can’t say I’d care either way.”

“I’d be ever so curious. When the queen spider Catherine came out the far side of her infinite suffering and decided to sort her life out, I shed many a tear.”

She was looking him right in the eye.

Very fishy.

“I mean it!”

“I dunno how you live with yourself.”

The witch brushed back her white hair with aplomb, then crooked her head.

“If you die, I shall spare you a few of my precious tears.”

He sighed, unable to tell how much she meant anything. His gaze wandered across the pond. The shadows of the trees were waving again.

He could smell iron on the breeze. His gaze found Miseria’s, and she grinned, amused.

“Seems we have uninvited company.”

A woman in a suit was walking across the bridge, one hand on the rapier at her hip, her footsteps light. Rogue looked behind him and found the knight in armor brandishing their ludicrously huge sword, standing stock-still a fair ways out.

“Good evening, Detective Rogue,” the woman said, stopping a good five meters from them.

“Auroch…!”

“What a surprise. White hair, blue eyes—if it isn’t the Puppeteer? Why, that makes no sense. She’s supposed to be dead.”

Even as she spoke, Auroch’s hand was drawing the witch-killing magic sword from her scabbard.

“I jest, of course. I had my suspicions the other day. I’ve poured over the witches’ profiles so many times, I’ve worn them out. A disguise like that hardly changes the structure of your face.”

Held to her side, the magic sword gave off a dull glow.

“Auroch, was it?” Miseria said. “Do you intend to fight me?”

“Yes, that’s the plan,” Auroch said without hesitation.

“I wouldn’t advise it. You didn’t choose to be born a witch hunter. Do not waste the scant few years you have.”

“I appreciate the consideration. But I’m afraid I cannot overlook a witch roaming around without a collar.”

“Oh dear, Rogue,” Miseria said, glancing his way. “This is a stubborn one.”

Raising the rapier before her face, Auroch said, “To my great shame, I’ve never once raised a weapon to a collared witch. After all, you are the empire’s—and thus, the Two Great Houses’—property. You have friends in high places. Wearing the collar alone has quite an impact on things. I’d have no opportunity to harm you until your deferred beheading several thousand years hence. But here, I have a witch without a collar. My only choice is to attack.”

“I appreciate your perspective,” Miseria said. “But, Auroch of the Headtaker Corps, did your ancestors not warn you—not to look at my eyes?”

“My grandfather said as much,” Auroch said, her gaze unwavering. Her pupils dilated momentarily, then were back to normal.

“Interesting. You’ve tinkered with your eyes? You’re convinced that’ll prevent me interfering with you.” Miseria waggled her index finger. “An impressive effort, but not nearly enough. It’s like tissue paper to me. I can turn you into a puppet in one second flat.”

“But you cannot have two puppets at once. Claim me, and my assistant will remove your head.”

Miseria shrugged.

“The Headtaker Corps never did value their lives. That’s why it’s no fun dealing with you.”

She gave Rogue a push, suggesting he back off to the bridge’s railing.

“Wait, Miseria—”

“Now, now, Rogue. A witch without a collar is about to demonstrate her power. You should watch. Don’t worry, I’ll leave them alive.”

She raised a slender arm above her head.

“Come at me at once. I’ll play this on your terms,” she said.

A gust of wind blew.

A reddish leaf plastered itself to Rogue’s chest—and the lake behind him burst. Like a depth charge had gone off, a hole opened in the water, then there was an eruption higher than the trees around them.

The shock wave of the knight’s swing. It had narrowly missed the witch’s head and struck the water beyond.

Rogue’s eyes went wide, then found movement at the corner.

Auroch was now behind the witch. He started to yell. The witch hadn’t noticed; her eyes were on the knight.

A thrust.

The tip of the rapier parted Miseria’s white hair, bound for the nape of her neck—and then Auroch’s arm literally bounced back, severed from the elbow. Still clutching the magic sword, it sailed over the witch’s head, spinning through the air.

“I see,” Miseria said, glancing at Auroch. She made a snipping gesture with her fingers.

And Auroch went flying back. The knight lunged in to take her place, flying toward the witch. Attempting another of those absurdly powerful blows, he raised his greatsword high. The breeze from his lunge alone made the witch’s bangs dance.

But that was all that happened.

The knight was quivering bodily, as if enduring unimaginable pressure. He was stuck with his sword raised high, unable to move. Just like a moment before, Rogue knew the witch had done something, but he could not identify the specifics or the means. They’d each been close enough to reach out and touch her, and yet—she remained unharmed.

His jaw dropped, and he heard the witch’s voice.

“So? Now what?”

The witch turned her right palm upward, and Auroch’s severed hand landed on it. Had she controlled that trajectory, too?

“………Had enough yet?”

“Please. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. My, my, this was humiliating.”

Despite her words, there was a smile on Auroch’s lips. A beautiful one. One might even think she was laughing it up with a close friend.

A drop of sweat fell from her chin.

Waving the severed hand, the witch said, “The pain too much for you? Didn’t improve on that?”

“It tends to lead to poor judgment. A commander must always be in their right mind.”

No blood was dripping from Auroch’s elbow; clearly, she did have some Headtaker body modifications.

“A fine attitude. Whether you can achieve that goal is another matter.”

With that, the witch looked the arm over, then tossed it back to Auroch.

“Here, I’m sure it has sentimental value. Reattach it with a spell or take it to a doctor. I made sure the cut was ‘clean,’ but the longer you dally, the worse it’ll heal.”

“How thoughtful!”

Auroch caught the arm without batting an eye and stuck it right back on the stump.

Rogue gaped at her. Is that enough to reattach it?

Apparently so. Even as he watched, her fingers started twitching. The hand holding it there let go, and she moved it around a bit, checking the functionality. The whole process took ten seconds at most.

“Auroch, are you coming after her again?” he asked.

Auroch turned her eyes his way, letting out a hollow laugh.

“‘Naturally’—is what I’d like to say, but I’m afraid the matter was just settled. At this point, I’m merely waiting for my mission to end.”

“I’m up for a rematch any time!” the witch chimed in.

The armored knight was moving again. With an audible creak, the greatsword was slowly swinging down toward the witch.

“Astounding! He’s suspended on strings, but I see he’s one tough cookie.”

The witch sounded delighted. She raised a hand—

“Stop that. We’re leaving,” Auroch barked.

The knight did stop. Clearly, he obeyed Auroch’s every word to the letter. Still radiating hostility, he returned the blade to his back.

On the way back to the car, Rogue asked, “They’re on to you. You gonna be okay?”

“Completely fine,” the witch said airily. “She herself said they’ll wait till this case is solved.”

“Not my point. The Headtaker Corps is more than just the two of them. What if she alerts the rest?”

“That would be a pickle.”

“This concerns you!” he yelled.

“Practically speaking, they’ve got collars on. More than us witches. Bound by blood, by the law, and by their owners. They can’t just chase witches down willy-nilly.”

“They need permission to pursue a witch?”

“That they do, Rogue.” She nodded. “If this incident comes out, Auroch will be punished for it. It’s a violation of the contract between the Drakenias and the Ligtons. She is out on a limb.”

Rogue groaned. “She doesn’t seem the type to hesitate…”

“I doubt she will, no.”

“……You know her?”

“You learn a lot in a fight.”

“Bullshit.”

He could tell she was avoiding a real answer. He sighed; did she have a plan for when the worst happened?

They reached the car. He asked if she wanted a ride, but she shook her head. He left the park and headed back to the Sixth Precinct alone. That night, he slept like a baby—no dreams at all.

The message arrived the next morning.

“—I know!”

A voice bellowed from the security-camera footage they’d obtained, replaying for the umpteenth time. Everyone watching groaned.

There’d been a fourth explosion in an alley ten blocks from the Stolaleid Museum. The bomb was a fortysomething male named Jamie who’d lived in an apartment complex in the area. The blast had hit two further victims, both in critical condition.

“He’s all excited about whatever the hell he ‘knows,’” Humafu grumbled, chin on her hand.

“Does he mean this ‘key’?” Catherine asked. She was with Rogue at the whiteboard. Her brow furrowed with evident concern.

Pausing the playback, Rogue said, “If this connects to the previous messages, then probably. Perhaps it’s something critical to bringing back the age of witches?”

Given the repeated spell melds, that was a distinct possibility. But it didn’t sit right with him. This case was different from the others.

“……Why did Chronos change the tone of the message?”

“Good point,” Catherine said, tapping a finger to her chin. “‘Grant me the key to salvation!’ or ‘I am bound for the far side!’ were both far more theatrical than a simple ‘I know!’”

The prior messages had been flaunting his crimes—an exhibitionistic threat directed at them specifically, with no deeper meaning. But this message felt different. Like there was another layer to it.

If a message existed, it must mean something.

But what? Was this really about the key?

The door slammed open. He looked up and blinked.

There stood someone dressed in a white shirt and black pants, with a white jacket over them. Her long lilac hair was bound behind her. Her hunched back was even straight for once. It was the Professional, with a file in her hand. She even has her necktie done!

“Tee-hee, sorry for the late arrival.”

She’d warned she’d be late, but the transformation was so complete, she might as well be someone else entirely.

“……Uh, what’s with the new look?”

“Oh, tee-hee, I had to step outside. To the morgue,” Angene drawled, closing the door behind her.

Aha, that would explain the white coat. But he found it hard to picture a witch taking the subway or a taxi down the Third Ward, where the morgue was. How’d she get there?

Oblivious to his questions, Angene moved to the board and put up four new photos—the faces of the human bombs. Two were young men, two middle-aged.

“Any progress, Detective?” she asked.

“We know things are bad.”

“Tee-hee, then I bring new information.”

“You do?” Rogue prompted.

She didn’t beat around the bush. “Long story short—they didn’t exist.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tee-hee. Their licenses and IDs are all forged. The only real thing was their residence registration, and that, too, belonged to someone else. None of them left any evidence of their original identities. Tee-hee. Hee. The morgue gets bodies like that from time to time, but these four were particularly thorough.”

She was grinning the whole time.

“Ghosting, huh? That explains why none of them had families,” Rogue said.

“Ghosting?” Catherine asked, blinking.

He elaborated:

“You take over someone else’s identity, pretending to be them. The original person is likely missing or dead—hence the ‘ghost.’”

“Um, and those are our human bombs? They were all identity thieves?”

“Apparently. Maybe they killed the originals themselves. Ghosting often starts with that.”

“Oh dear,” Catherine said, looking sad.

“Anything on where they were turned into bombs?” Rogue said, glancing back at Angene.

She pulled a Bible out of her pocket and placed it before Humafu—who was nodding off.

“The fuck?” Humafu said, eyes opening. “You think I need God now?”

“Tee-hee-hee, not at all,” Angene said, giggling. “I got this from the police server. The last few years, someone’s been helping illegal immigrants get into Elayl. On quite a large scale. The police had been trying to pin them down, but the operation is conducted by a church-run college, which makes them nigh untouchable. Tee-hee. Any idea what college I mean, Detective?”

That phrase did ring a bell.

“The place where John Brown went?”

“Exactly.” Angene nodded. “The other three have links to it as well. Dicky was a graduate, while Willy Martinez and Jamie both volunteered at religious outreach programs that the church conducts at educational facilities. They’ve both visited the same college that John attended. Which leads us to the where Chronos contacted them.”

Angene put a hand to her hip and cocked her head.

Rogue assumed that wasn’t the college. John Brown had left the place a year ago, and outsiders couldn’t make use of the chapels or lecture halls. There were cameras everywhere; they’d leave traces.

Which meant…

“……The churches proper.”

People congregated at churches. People of all races, genders, and ages. Chronos was nobility—he could easily pass himself off as a worshipper.

Angene nodded.

“That is my assumption.”

“Then we’re canvasing all the churches in the city. Is he working with the priests or threatening them? We’ll find a wrinkle somewhere.”

“Tee-hee-hee-hee-hee.” Angene’s lips formed an outsize crescent. “No need, Detective. I’ve already narrowed it down.”

“Legit?”

“Oh yes. Tee-hee-hee. Hee. Aren’t you glad you saved your feet a workout?”

This was astounding. She’d really put the ‘short’ in short work. He was starting to think this witch could solve pretty much any case on her own. He glanced at the other witches, and Humafu had her cheek on the table, bored, while Catherine was looking rather alarmed.

“……Give me a name.”

“Tee-hee-hee. The San Alila Church. Go on. I’ll wait here.”

With that, Angene swept out of the meeting room.

“……There you have it.”

“Tch, she’s always such a snob,” Humafu grumbled, elbow on the Bible. Maybe she felt robbed of credit? “So what’s the plan, Detective? I’m coming with.”

“Okay. Gonna get word to the chief, and then we’ll move.”

“Finally, time to kick some ass!” Humafu said, levitating the Bible and making it spin in the air.

“That’s good news! The case is almost solved,” Velladonna said over the line.

“We don’t know that Chronos is there yet.”

“That’s true. But be prepared. This could be another of his traps.”

Rogue knew that. The Lifetaker had nearly killed him once.

Humafu would be leading the charge. Witches were immortal and could heal any wounds; traps didn’t faze them.

It was 2:20 PM.

He parked outside the San Alila Church and looked up at it. The cathedral was domed, and a bell tower stood to the west. Supposedly, there was an ossuary beneath it. Office buildings were all around, with horns honking on the roads, yet the church made its presence felt.

They stepped into the main cathedral.

The ceilings were extremely high, and there was fancy decor everywhere. The midday sun poured in through stained glass windows. A giant organ at the back was itself a beautiful sight. But—

—nobody was there.

“Did he skedaddle?” Humafu said, like the rug had been pulled out from under her. She might have been ready for Chronos to attack the second they’d stepped inside. Rogue didn’t think he was that extreme.

“……He may have expected us and hidden.”

He started checking between the pews. This proved a fruitless effort. This place didn’t exactly offer anywhere to hide.

It was possible he was using a spell to turn invisible. He’d done that when Rogue last fought him. But in that case, they should be able to hear him breathing. That spell couldn’t erase the sounds he made. Which meant…

“What now, Detective?” Catherine asked.

“……Let’s try the bell tower.”

They crossed the hall to the west side tower. That required walking around the side of the building exterior. The tower doors were open, and there was an elevator inside—no stairs at all. This went to both the top of the tower and to the ossuary below.

Which one first?

Rogue hesitated a second, then made up his mind. Anything dubious would be below ground. He pressed the down button, and the doors soon opened. All three of them stepped in. Humafu was in the lead, two knives floating alongside her. Catherine had a small flame lit on her fingertip. With the witches on guard, no traps Chronos had laid would matter.

The doors opened into darkness.

The glow from the elevator passed through Humafu’s golden locks, lighting a few meters ahead. Nothing farther in was visible. The place was a pool of inky black.

“Ideal for hiding shit,” Humafu said cheerily. Her voice echoed. This place was pretty big.

The elevator doors started to close. Rogue put a hand out, stopping them.

“Catherine, can you light up the place?”

“What for? Let’s give the bastard a handicap! I’ll finish him in no time flat!”

Humafu jammed her hands in her pockets, disgruntled.

“This isn’t a game,” Catherine said.

“I’m making it one! You really don’t get it, toots.”

“……I will give you some head pats. Do you want to go night night here?”

That earned her a tongue click.

“Here goes,” Catherine said, stepping forward. “Fairy.”

That word alone banished the dark. Light spread out in a fan shape, illuminating a vast space of over twenty-five meters from end to end. The area was studded with columns, and the floors were marble.

Rogue jumped when he saw what looked like men, chained with their backs to several of the columns. Like the human bombs they’d seen before, some faces were covered in fuses, while others had their limbs twisted out of shape. He could hear no breathing; they were all dead.

Chronos had roped in more than just those four.

These could be the ordinary civilians Chronos and his underlings had ghosted. This wasn’t the moment to check on that, though.

Rogue moved around the columns, feeling like the corpses would lurch to life at any moment. He could imagine a human bomb hiding among them, pretending to be dead, or just creeping behind one of these pillars. Remembering how he’d been attacked at Dicky’s place, he swallowed his pride and stayed behind Sleepless. She was traipsing along, eyes glancing right and left.

They’d now seen ten corpses and counting—and reached the far side. No sign of any traps.

And that felt wrong.

There should be something. A space this large was prefect for traps. Rogue glared at the wall and found something on it. Writings had been carved into it, and a crack ran down the center of the scrawl.

Aha.

A hidden room.

Built across the basement space, it would just look like another wall to the casual observer.

Rogue put his hands on it, then gave it a shove—and it moved.

When he saw darkness beyond, a shudder ran down his spine. Like he should not have opened that.

He’d felt something like this before, but where? In that dream…

The “gate.”

The wall parted with the sound of stone on stone. Soon, the light spread into the space behind.

_____Madness.

The lights illuminated Chronos Drakenia’s corpse.

Rogue staggered closer and fell to his knees.

What is going on?

The serial killer from the house of nobility was tied to the pillar just like every other bomb. His legs were splayed out, his distinctive golden eyes wide-open. The sockets were hollow, and his cheeks were gaunt. His mouth hung half-open, what looked like sand pouring out of it.

When that sand hit Rogue’s hand, he felt his heart skip a beat.

That was not something any human body should produce. Even as he watched, Chronos’s right arm fell off his shoulder. He peered at the wound and saw no flesh or blood, merely grains. Like…

“Control……?” a voice said.

He looked back to find the witches behind him. Catherine had a worried frown, and Humafu’s lips were twisted to the side, her arms folded.

“This the same shit that killed Miseria? The body turning to stone!”

“Yes. But that spell was confiscated…,” Catherine said.

“Fuck that, what now?” Humafu asked. “I’m itching for a throwdown! Detective, is this the end?!”

She gave him a pleading look.

“I’m gonna…” His voice rasped. “I’m gonna call the chief.”

With that, he got up and ran off toward the elevator. He heard someone calling after him but paid them no attention.

Rogue knew. Knew someone besides Chronos who had that Control spell.

On the elevator, he hit the button for the ground floor. Or he meant to—but he mistakenly picked the bell tower instead. Calm down!

Fingers shaking, he pulled out his phone.

He pressed call, and it rang. Once, twice.

_____Pick up!

Now!

The elevator felt insanely slow.

Catherine was right. The Two Great Houses had confiscated the spell that Chronos had been melded to. He’d been under high-security confinement, with no means of escape. But there was one person outside who’d figured out how Control worked. She’d saved Rogue from certain death and reversed her own time, undoing her death.

In hindsight, it made no sense that she’d show up where a human bomb was hiding.

She’d stepped in before the blast killed him? Was that remotely possible? Or had she put the whole thing together, including the time of his arrival?

That explained why she knew about the jailbreak. She’d distracted him from asking, but if Chronos’s escape was part of her plan—

No, stop.

That wasn’t right.

She’d promised. She’d said she hated lies. He should trust her.

_____So why is this phone in my hand?

On the tenth ring, the doors opened. He leaped outside…

“Hello?”

A girl’s voice echoed from the phone. A blast of downdraft made him squint. The handrails were shaking.

“What’s this about? Not like you to call at this hour.”

“……We…”

“Mm?” the voice asked. “I can’t hear you over the wind. Maybe try somewhere else? You’re rather—”

“We found Chronos’s body.”

The wind died.

The railings stopped rattling.

“A ghoulish sight, yes?” The voice on the line was unperturbed.

He didn’t understand how she could take that tone. Why wasn’t she wriggling off the hook like she always did? At least try! If she merely implied that she wasn’t responsible, Rogue would believe her.

“………Did you do it?”

He was hyper focused on his ears.

No voice came from the phone. All he heard was his racing heart.

“Why? Why…?”

The ground was rocking.

“You said you wouldn’t sin—you promised! Why turn right around, and…? Why?”

_____Answer me!

But no answer came.

He felt like the object he was desperately clutching to his ear had been reduced to a slab of metal scrap. Or perhaps he just wished it had. If only she’d never picked up. He’d rather smash his phone than be in this fix.

She hadn’t hung up on him.

So he couldn’t hang up on her. As long as there was the slightest chance that she’d start laughing and insist it was all a sick joke… Was there one? Or was that just his wishful thinking, what he wanted this witch to do?

Please.

Then he spotted a white figure.

On the roof of the building next door.

By the fence, a phone to her ear, white hair tied up and swaying behind her.

How long has she been there?

He gaped, and her lips moved in sync with the voice from the phone.

“Rogue, let me just say this…”

“…It’s none of your business.”

He gritted his teeth so hard, the muscles in his jaw bulged.

“………”

He couldn’t swallow this. There was no way could he swallow this.

“Prove you didn’t do this!” Rogue yelled. “Miseria!”

“You could have turned away.”

With that, the girl spun on her heel, marching off toward the doors. Rogue watched her vanish into the building—and the line went dead.

His phone hand went limp, dangling uselessly.

He could just see her getting on the elevator. He could run after her, but he couldn’t convince himself he’d get there in time. She’d have accounted for his potential pursuit. She’d be long gone by the time he reached ground level.

But he had to try.

He got on the elevator, taking it down.

Leaving the church grounds, he arrived at the intersection and saw white hair mingling with the throng.

“…Miseria!”

Several pedestrians turned to look at him—but the girl was lost in the crowd.

“You are to remain on standby until the envoy from the Two Great Houses arrives. Do not leave the scene until the body is transferred to them. Do I make myself clear?”

There was no trace of Velladonna’s usual syrupy tone.

Shit must be going down on her end, too.

“…Can I ask one question, Chief?”

“Yes?”

“Does this mean the case is ‘done’?” he asked.

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

“It does. We won’t be reopening the investigation on the crimes Chronos committed, and I doubt they’ll even do an autopsy.”

“And why is that permissible?”

“Rogue, the nobility want to be in charge, but they shun the limelight. They don’t want to leave a single blot on their reputations.”

“And Chronos was a blot?”

“Apparently so. They’ll be going through anyone involved in this, controlling the message. Perhaps that won’t affect you, however.”

That sounded like a loaded statement.

“……Meaning?” he asked.

“The Two Great Houses ordered you to bring Chronos back ‘alive.’ Which means odds are high you’ll be penalized for failing to do so. At the very least, we’re looking at a suspension—a month or more. But it could be far stiffer than that.”

“……I ain’t making excuses, but they’re handling this all wrong.”

“Well, I’ll cover for you as best I can. I’ll prevent them from getting you fired, at least.”

“……Thanks.”

He barely managed that.

“The envoy should arrive within the hour. Handle things then.”

“Got it, Chief.”

He hung up and fought off the impulse to throw his phone at the ground. Barely managing it, he spent a moment catching his breath. Then he called for the witches to come wait with him on the first floor.

“Detective, are you doing all right?” Catherine said the moment she got there.

“……Sure.”

Humafu yawned. “That lady’s a piece of work. She lay some bullshit on you?”

“……Not this time. Better back off a bit,” Rogue added.

He’d just seen a luxury car pull up. It stopped out front, and four men got out—along with a knight in armor and a woman in a suit.

The woman—Auroch—came over to Rogue, the others in tow.

“Where is Chronos Drakenia?”

“In the ossuary below. With the other bodies.”

The four men went into the bell tower, hauling black body bags.

“What’ll happen to his body?” Rogue asked.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that,” Auroch said, a particularly fishy smirk on her face.

“There’re fifteen other bodies down there. Melded with the spell. What about them?”

“Hmm, I haven’t heard a thing. I suspect they’ll be passed along to the Third Precinct.”

“Despite the meld?”

“No one can tell the difference. Detective Rogue, I hear you’re getting penalized?”

“……So what if I am?”

“Don’t look so resentful. I’ll be getting one myself. We’re in the same boat—that’s all I wished to say.”

“……”

They stood in silence until the four men emerged with the full body bags. They opened the back of the car and dumped them in like they were garbage.

“And that’s all she wrote. Well, our time together was brief, but this is good-bye. Should you run into that witch, tell her I said hi.”

With that, Auroch bowed like a clown. The knight merely loomed. And the Headtakers got back in their car.

Later that same day, Rogue was informed of the specifics of his suspension.

He’d never imagined he’d take it so hard.

“……Goddamn it.”

For the umpteenth time that day, his hands clenched the sheets.

That last exchange with the witch ran through his head.

Do I resent her for lying to me? No, that isn’t it. I wanted her to tell me the truth. Even if the truth wasn’t what I wanted to hear, I wanted her to confide in me.

And it hurt that she hadn’t deemed him worthy.

He knew that.

She was a witch, and he was a human, and that divide could never be overcome. But Rogue still wanted…

He grabbed the envelope from his bedside table, reading the contents again. No matter how many times he read it, it still said “three months suspension.” Did Velladonna help me get off light, or was it the other way around? It doesn’t matter to me either way. Not now. The suspension is my problem, and mine alone. A lot of issues would sort themselves out in three months without him ever knowing.

That’s when the doorbell rang. He ignored it the first time. But it kept ringing. His body felt like lead, but he pried himself up, moving to the door and opening it.

A nun stood there.

“……What?” Rogue growled.

The nun took one look at him, and her eyes went wide, but she soon hid her shock.

“Detective, may I come in?”

“……Sure.”

He let in the nun, and they moved to the coffee table. He waved her to the couch.

“You know about the suspension, right? What brings you here?”

“I was just worried about you.”

That took his breath away.

“……It’s only three months. No time at all. No big deal.”

“It sure doesn’t look like it.”

“……”

That silenced him.

“Detective,” she added, “will you tell me the whole story? I might be able to help.”

_____Why?

He felt pain in his heart.

Witches were evil. He knew that for a fact. The girl before him had already betrayed him once. And yet why do they all look out for me? Why can’t witches act the part and treat people like yesterday’s trash?

Before transferring to the Sixth Precinct, things had been simple. Witches were symbols of fear. It was easy to resent them, despise them.

Why can’t things just be easy?

The more he thought, the less he understood them.

Hanging his head, he croaked, “Just leave me alone. I can’t—”

“Detective, look at this.”

“This?”

That got his head up. The girl in the nun’s habit was pointing at her throat.

At the collar.

“I am still here because you saved me. Have you already forgotten that?”

This caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected her to bring that up.

The girl’s brows seemed slightly higher than usual.

“I remember them. As clear as day. ‘You’re gonna live and repent.’ ‘Don’t think you’re getting off the hook that easy.’ Your words.”

“Oh, I was just—”

“Where’d that man go?” the nun asked, leaning across the table. “You aren’t acting like yourself at all.”

A silence settled over the room.

At long last, Rogue whispered, “What would you do?”

“If?”

“……If you had a problem you couldn’t do a thing about?”

His gaze was on the table. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the girl’s face.

He heard clothing rustling.

“Let someone else take care of it,” she said.

“……You’re not mincing words.”

“Well, you can’t do it yourself. That means roping in someone else is your only choice. That’s what I always do.”

When he looked up, he found her smiling.

“You have the Saint before you. Allow me to help you.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or tremble.

But what she said was all true. The Saint did want to help people. Even if a far more twisted compulsion lay rooted behind that.

And that loosened his lips.

“……Mind if we take a trip down memory lane?”

“By all means.”

She put her palms together gracefully.

“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a sheriff,” Rogue said. “My dad was one, and I looked up to him. It was a small town, nothing but prairie and horses, but the times being what they were, no shortage of problems cropped up. Not just magic—regular fights, too. No matter how big the mess, my dad stepped in and fixed it. The man could talk the ear off a donkey. And punch his way out of most problems on top of that. There was no one I respected more. And then the witch came. She looked like anyone else. Like a human being.”

Even now, he felt that shiver run down his spine.

“She asked for someone to show her around. I said I’d do it. Took my time. Right up until she started attacking, I thought I’d done a good thing. I was a damn fool. But my dad—even then, he protected me. His limbs went flying, but he still went after her. Said it was a sheriff’s job to protect and serve. Didn’t say a word against me.”

The nun was just listening in silence.

“The next thing I knew, there was no one left. Not my mom or dad, nor anyone else. They were no longer human. Turned into something else. What had they done to deserve this? Why was this happening? I just wanted to know why she’d come after them.”

His hands were clenched tight.

“That’s why I became a detective.”

“So you can’t get stuck here,” the girl—Catherine—said.

“……Sorry I made you come all this way.”

He meant that.

Catherine’s smile softened.

“Don’t worry about it. I mean, I’m your partner.”

“……I am sorry.”

“S-stop apologizing!”

Catherine was waving her hands around.

Yeah—his partner.

They worked together, watched each other’s backs. Even if she was a witch, Rogue should trust his partner.

“I swear to commit no sins…”

“Catherine, lend me a hand,” Rogue said. “We’re reopening the case.”

They drove through the luxury homes to the run-down church.

He parked; he and Catherine passed the identity check and took the elevator down to the Sixth Precinct. The drop always turned his stomach upside down. It had only been three days since his last visit, but it felt like his first.

Outside the elevator doors was a bespectacled maid.

“Welcome back, Detective Rogue.”

There was no expression on her face, no emotion in her voice, no indication she gave a damn that Rogue was suspended. She didn’t even mention it.

“I’m back, Rico.”

If she was one to sweat the fine print, she probably wouldn’t have lasted long here.

“Humafu’s waiting in the conference room,” Rico said.

“I know. Thanks.”

“Also, the curator from the Stolaleid Museum called.”

“He did?”

“He has something to share with you.”

With that, Rico bowed and left.

Time to turn this thing around.

They boarded the interior elevator to the meeting floor.

“Why’s Humafu helping?” Rogue wondered. “The case is closed; this ain’t her problem.”

“Um, well…” Before Catherine managed an answer, the doors opened.

Rogue stepped into the room and found a petite girl leaning way back in a chair.

The crease in her brow was extra deep. Her nails scratched the armrest. She was baring her teeth, growling at anyone and everyone.

She was clearly furious.

Before Rogue even sat down, she was talking.

“Detective! You know what’s really got me pissed?”

“……Nope.”

His answer proved irrelevant.

“You don’t fuck with me. I’m a generous gal. I forgive a lot of shit. But you play stupid games, you’ll win stupid prizes. I’ll make that shit hurt. You can’t run! I’ll follow your ass to the bottom of the sea!”

She uncrossed her legs and put her elbows on her knees, glaring up at him.

“So this true killer’s dead as a doornail. Guaranteed.”

“……I don’t think they’re fucking with you specifically.”

“They fucking are, though,” Humafu growled.

“Suspending the chief of the Sixth Precinct? That shit’s personal.”

It was the last thing he’d expected, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Getting called chief at all was a shock, as was her attachment to the precinct. He hadn’t imagined Humafu would give a shit about either. He knew she drew clear lines between humans and witches. And yet—

“Jackasses out here starting shit.”

Humafu was livid.

“……”

“Huh? What?”

“……Glad to hear it. We need every hand we can get.”

Perhaps he was just another human in her mind. A handy tool that would soon die. But for now, he was grateful for it.

Humafu snorted.

“I’m in this shit for real, so don’t you go coming back with ‘Sorry, they got away.’”

A knife flew past his head, then spun in the air.

“Got it.” Rogue nodded.

“As long as they don’t die instantly, most things work out. Tee-hee,” said a tall witch in the corner—Angene, the Professional.

“Don’t work shit out—just let ’em croak.”

“Tee-hee.”

“Don’t giggle at me!”

“I’m just glad to see you in such fine form.”

“I ain’t doing this for your amusement.”

With that, Rogue moved to the whiteboard. The witches’ eyes gathered on him, and they fell quiet. The collared ones were lending him their ears.

“Sorry I’m late. Let’s get this briefing underway.”

Chapter 4: A Partner Won’t Trample a Dream

It was 8:10 PM.

In a luxury hotel in the imperial capital, Elayl, the sixtieth floor offered a splendid view of the world below. Lights were sparking like fireworks, in red, yellow, and orange. Eyeing each burst through the big windows, the woman let a smile played across her lips. The situation she found herself in suddenly struck her as richly amusing.

She’d come to Elayl prepared for a lengthy mission but never once felt at home. Mingling with those beneath her was nothing but suffering and made her miss home all the more.

Her mission was over, though.

She was unlikely to ever return.

The woman in a dark suit—Auroch—left the window, speaking to the knight in armor standing by the wall.

“It’s high time we checked out. Handle the luggage.”

The knight picked up a massive truck one-handed. They were tools of the trade they’d had no call to use but could not allow a bellboy to touch. Her assistant had handled all transportation.

Auroch ran a finger down the hilt of her magic sword. They left the room, boarded the elevator, and enjoyed the drop to the ground two hundred meters below.

Now, then.

Outside the elevators, they headed across the lobby. It was a vast space, with high ceilings decorated with chandeliers. She’d seen this each day, but something felt off this time.

The lobby was empty.

There wasn’t a single guest, and no one was at the reception desk. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air.

What does this mean?

Auroch’s hand unconsciously reached for her hilt—when a someone spoke to her.

“You’re finally here.”

A voice came from behind a column.

“I had the lobby evacuated. Told everyone else not to leave their rooms. You’ll be taking no hostages.”

The man stepped out.

He was short enough that one might mistake him for a student, with long, narrow eyes and a touch of a baby face around the lips. Auroch placed him right away.

“Come quietly. We don’t need to get rough.”

A girl in a nun’s habit stepped out from behind another column. The black choker on her neck was not very suitable for a cloister.

My, my, she thought.

“Auroch,” the Sixth Precinct’s detective said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Chronos Drakenia.”

It all hinged on the next few minutes.

Rogue Macabesta kept his eyes on the Headtaker woman, his back to the reception desk. The knight assistant was on standby, a few meters to her right.

Auroch fired the first shot.

“You intend to arrest me? Without the authority to do so? Are you quite sure? I’m well aware you’ve been suspended.”

He’d figured she’d bluff her way out of it. If he let her go, he’d never catch her again.

“I know,” he said.

“Turn right around and leave,” Auroch said. “That’s the best thing for you. Drop this now, and I will not have to report it to my superiors.”

“Report it all you like. Don’t blame me if that means trouble knocking at the Ligtons’ door.”

“Ah,” Auroch said, her narrowed eyes widening slightly. “What a fascinating premise. How exactly would I bring trouble to my masters?”

“They’re the ones who ordered you to murder Chronos,” Catherine declared.

Her jade eyes bored through the Headtaker woman.

They’d prepared this speech ahead of time.

“Chronos was never behind this case at all. The whole thing is a fraud, perpetuated by you and the Headtaker Corps. You pretended to investigate it, directing suspicion to Chronos and disguising your own involvement. The mental interference on the victims and the melding with the Bloom spell were your doing.”

“Of all the accusations.” Auroch sighed, shaking her head. “How outlandish. Why would I need to go to that trouble? We are the protectors of the empire. We’re not like witches; we do not kill without meaning, to satisfy our base desires.”

“But what if it did have meaning?” Catherine asked.

“Sacrifices can be necessary to ensure a victory. If a hostage would help capture a witch, we would not hesitate. Even if that hostage was a child—as long as it is effective,” Auroch answered without pause.

But—

“That’s why you’re our culprit,” Catherine concluded.

“If the Ligton plan succeeds, they’ll control all the witches in the Sixth Precinct.”

“More accurately,” Rogue took over, “you’ll ram a Ligton puppet in the chief’s chair at the Sixth Precinct. Witches are the one thing the Drakenias have that the Ligtons do not. The Ligtons may have you Headtakers, but as long as the Drakenias have collars on witches, they can’t win. I’m in their way—so you need merely blow me up with a bomb or find a reason to get me suspended.”

Rogue took a step toward the Headtaker woman.

One step.

And another.

“You had to prop up Chronos as the perp because otherwise, the Sixth Precinct wouldn’t get involved. Witches don’t get called in for ordinary magic crimes.”

“What about the messages? Those made no sense to me,” Auroch claimed.

“Those were meant to convince us Chronos was involved. But not the last message: ‘I know.’ That was directed at the Drakenias. Giving the illusion that Chronos had found a way to completely meld with a spell—a trap laid for them. After all, the man himself was from the Drakenia family. That connection was the perfect excuse to investigate the inner workings of his family. You were not just attacking the Sixth Precinct; you were taking aim at the Drakenias, too.”

“Enough,” the Headtaker woman said. “You have a vivid imagination, but my flight leaves soon. Step aside.”

“Not happening. We’re here to cuff you both.”

Auroch shook her head.

“You should have brought a shred of evidence with you. All you have are vain accusations.”

Finally.

“Fair,” Rogue said. “So far that’s all we’ve offered. But we do have one fact.”

He looked at the knight in armor.

“Your magic sword’s power.”

“………What?”

For the first time, Auroch’s brows dropped.

“What about my assist—?”

Rogue cut her off, shoving his phone’s screen in her face.

It showed a bottle—full of grains.

“What do you think this is?”

Auroch’s eyes widened.

“A bottle. With…sand inside?”

“What’s inside this belonged to the museum. It’s what your assistant broke.”

He showed her a photo of the hawk statue.

“The curator got in touch. They were taking photos of the damage your assistant did and found something ‘like sand’ nearby. It was too fine a grain to be part of the rubble, so he kept it in a bottle for safe keeping. And passed it along to the Sixth Precinct.”

Rogue pocketed the phone.

“You’ve seen similar damage elsewhere, right? Say, on Chronos’s right arm.”

“……”

That shut up Auroch, and Rogue piled on.

“Your assistant’s magic sword drains the life from anything it touches. So dramatically that the slightest contact makes them crumble away into grains of sand.”

“……Why would we employ a means so easily traced?” Auroch asked. “That is a side effect of the Control spell Chronos once harbored. Even if my assistant possessed a similar ability, you are merely using it to frame us. Why would we leave the scene without hiding the evidence? Your argument doesn’t hold water.”

“The meld was dispelled.”

He saw her waver and kept pushing.

“You intended to blow me up. That would have hidden any evidence. But something went wrong a few hours before we reached the ossuary. Or perhaps something made it go wrong? Either way, you were unable to turn Chronos back into a bomb before we arrived. You were forced to abandon the idea of killing me off and went with the suspension, arguing that Chronos’s death was caused by the Control spell.”

Silence.

Auroch’s head was down. She said nothing.

The echoes of Rogue’s speech faded into the lobby’s depths.

“We’ve collected the remnants from the ossuary. Analyze those against the museum’s statue, and the results will speak for themselves.”

Then—

Tnk.

—a heel clicked on the marble floors. Auroch had changed her stance.

“……I should have left my assistant at the hotel.”

“You admit it?”

“……”

“We’re taking you to the station. You’re free to tell us your version of events,” Rogue said.

Auroch’s head came up.

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening.”

She flashed her pearly whites.

“Detective!” Catherine cried.

Even as she did, a trunk bounded off the floor in front of Auroch. The clasps came off; it was changing shape in midair. There was nothing inside—just a ton of dark-red writing. It hung in the air and began to glow.

“Obviously, I prepared an escape plan,” Auroch said, reaching for the transport gate inside the trunk. She vanished into thin air.

Shit.

The knight had been carrying that luggage, but his hands were empty now. He’d tossed it, knowing he wouldn’t have time to follow.

Rogue had to try. He reached for the transport gate but felt something unsettling. He got goose bumps all over, and his eyes went wide.

A figure was swinging a sword, and it was reflected in the marble.

Rogue’s fingers hadn’t reached the gate inside the trunk yet. He was convinced his head was about to go flying, but instead, the figure swept past, disappearing without laying a finger on him.

“Go on ahead!” Catherine yelled.

He turned back.

Catherine was grappling with the knight in midair. He had a tight hold on her arm and, even as Rogue watched, was swinging that sword mechanically.

“I’ll be right behind you! Go!” Catherine shouted. She knocked away the knight’s arm, sending him flying. Her opponent smashed through a column and rolled across the floor.

“………You’d better come!” Rogue yelled.

Catherine nodded. He saw the knight getting up—and his fingers touched the gate.

His vision spun. His weight was yanked in all directions—and when he next opened his eyes, he was surrounded by light.

Where am I?

There was iron everywhere, from the floors to the ceiling, like the interior of a submarine. But the lights were far too bright and hurt his eyes.

The area was fairly spacious. Rows of chairs were lined up like in a reception room, facing plastic booths.

As he tried to place it, he heard footsteps.

“Welcome, Detective Rogue.”

Auroch was peering at him from inside a booth.

“This is where Chronos was once held. I set a gate here while I was helping him escape.”

She was leaning half out of the booth, holding a distinctive rapier, and was clearly prepared for combat.

But if this was a prison, Rogue realized, it should be staffed by sturdy types used to dealing with magic crimes. Yet like the hotel a moment ago, he sensed no one else around.

“……Where are the guards?”

“Right here.”

She kicked something at her feet. Some men in guard uniforms rolled out from the booth. No light remained in their eyes, and their spines were curved.

“The Synchro spell in my magic sword has its uses, but mental interference is rather time-consuming. I knew you’d be right on my heels, and this is the result.”

“……What’s wrong with you?”

There was no need to slaughter the staff. Even if the goal was to eliminate witnesses, there was a big difference between brainwashing them and murdering them in cold blood. And the weapon was much too obvious. Was she just getting desperate?

Auroch seemed unconcerned. “All for the sake of my mission. No other reason.”

“Your mission doesn’t cover the deaths of innocent bystanders.”

“They saw me and raised a fuss. With you coming any moment, I had no time to waste on that. Don’t worry, I severed the spinal cords, so they barely felt a thing.”

Rogue grit his teeth.

_____What a scumbag.

But as he swore inside, Auroch slipped out of the booth, facing him down.

“Clearly, I rather underestimated you. I never imagined you’d see through my plans so easily. I’m impressed. As a show of respect, I will point out one error in your deductions.”

“And that is?”

“It’s a small concern, but allow me to correct it before we try to kill each other. You suggested the goal of this operation was for the Ligtons to wrest control of the witches away from the Drakenias. That is the case. But that is only what my superiors want. My ultimate goal…”

“…is to kill all the witches.”

With that, Auroch lunged forward, her thrust aimed directly at his brow. He jerked his head at the last second, and the wind whistled in his ear. A few severed hairs danced in the air. His eyes met Auroch’s. She was grinning.

_____Shithead.

“I was so happy when they picked me for the job! I finally get to kill some witches!”

She unleashed more thrusts, aiming only for his vitals—but then the tip of her rapier scraped his leg. Rogue had been in hundreds of fistfights, yet her flurry was so fast that his eyes couldn’t quite keep up with it.

“They’re evil! They should all be put down! Don’t you agree, Detective Rogue?”

Even as she struck, Auroch ranted on, implacable. She wasn’t even giving him a chance to catch his breath. How does that work? He sure wasn’t gonna last long.

Rather than back off, Rogue closed in. The tip of her blade sought his right eye. He dodged by a hair’s breadth, reached out his left hand, and grabbed her sword arm. The blade stopped dead, quivering a few millimeters from his brow.

“………That’s rich, coming from you!” He roared and gave her a head-butt.

Bleeding from the nose, Auroch said, “But I have the right to say it! Witches tore through my ancestors like confetti. They were slaughtered for hundreds of years. All were brought into this world obligated to risk everything to hunt witches, so their deaths were of no consequence. And yet those witches still live! Is that not insane? This is a righteous vengeance!”

Vengeance? Against witches?

The blade touched his brow.

“Is your strength fading?” Auroch asked. “Do I sense a grain of sympathy? Oh, do you have personal experience?”

The pressure on his brow gave way to pain. Warm fluid ran down his cheek.

“……How did you know?”

“I looked into you. A decade back, a small town in the woods was wiped out overnight! Only one little boy survived. Just eight years old. The investigation at the time concluded that the culprit was a ‘free-range’ witch. Ha-ha! I’d say we’re in the same boat.”

“……!”

He fixed her with a glare, but her smile didn’t waver.

“Witches are cruel. You should know that. Killing them brings salvation to us all.”

Auroch was crowing. There was no trace of doubt in her eyes.

“How much do those collars really restrain them? They’re merely decorative! And once something goes wrong—it’s far too late.”

The force she was using was picking up. He could feel that through the palm of the hand holding on to her. He found it hard to believe she could be this strong. Were it not for his slash-resistant gloves, she’d have cut his hand and head off.

The nature of Auroch’s smile shifted from a thin smirk to a vicious grin.

“Too worried about the witch on the other side? No need to worry about her, I assure you. She’s already dead.”

The battle was dazzling.

Two shadows flitted about the hotel lobby, bounding off the ceiling and walls, fighting in three dimensions. One used Floating and barely touched the ground; the other smashed marble walls with his feet as he vaulted after her.

The distance was no issue for the Saint. Near or far, she was melded with ten thousand spells and had unlimited means at her disposal. The issue was the magic sword in the knight’s hands.

“—!”

The sword scraped her throat. Big beads of sweat on her brow, the Saint retreated to the ceiling. Floating held her hair and veil in place—but several of those hairs were turning to sand.

The Sandmaker magic sword.

A blade made to pierce all defensive spells and even destroy a witch’s flesh. And the knight swung that around like it weighed no more than a wooden sword. The blade flashed, slicing a chunk off the marble floor, which he hefted in one hand. He threw it toward the rafters, at the witch, then kicked off the ground in pursuit.

A wall appeared before the Saint. A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. Would he wheel around right? Left? Or through the wall itself?

She guessed wrong.

The knight appeared behind her, magic sword raised high.

Instantly, she threw up layer after layer of defensive spells, but the knight’s blade cut through them—well, not all. She had thirty-odd layers, and he’d shattered twenty-five, but the remaining ones soaked the blow. Ironically, a similar standoff to that was happening on the other side of the gate.

But the knight kicked the Saint and her defenses.

The ground shook.

A huge crater opened, with the Saint at the center of it, coughing up blood. She tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain ran down her back.

She’d yet to see the limits of this knight’s might.

She heard the sound of something heavy in free fall—the sound of her impending doom.

Eyes blurry, Catherine raised an arm. A wind blade assaulted the knight’s head.

He dodged it with a crick of the neck.

Her blade sailed across the lobby, accomplishing nothing but venting a hole in the front doors.

The knight was looking down upon her coldly.

In mere seconds, Catherine would be impaled upon his magic sword. But then—the helmet covering his face cracked. Her spell had nicked the helm.

The sound of cracking metal tore through the air. A line ran up the visor, across the head. The helm split in two and fell away.

“No…why…? How?!” Catherine gasped.

There stood a girl with a collar around her neck.

“My assistant is a witch,” Auroch gloated, even as they strained against each other.

“……A w-witch?”

He was stunned. A witch? Did she really say that?

“Oh, the look on your face. It’s not just the Drakenias who have witches in their clutches.”

She’s bluffing. Why would the Headtaker Corps have witches in their ranks? They captured a witch outside the precinct?

“Such a shame about the Saint. That magic sword goes through mana like there’s no tomorrow, and it’s by far the most lethal. With a witch wielding it, your Saint can’t just wait for her to run out of mana. I do wish your partner the best of luck. She’ll need it.”

As this distracted him, Auroch pushed hard.

_____My head’s splitting open.

Rogue bent his knees as much as he could, twisting his left shoulder into a full-body turn. This left a shallow groove all the way down the side of his head, and the rapier tip scraped the floor with a shrill sound.

“And I was so close to putting you out of your misery.”

He righted himself, putting his hands on the ground and pushing himself so he leaped to his feet. Auroch was not coming after him. She doesn’t think she has to?

Gasping for breath, Rogue asked, “You despise witches but employ one?”

“That I do. One must take advantage of the tools at one’s disposal. Here, I have a witch to call my own—best to make effective use of her. It was actually my suggestion to allow Giselle out of her cell. I mean, I’ve got a magic sword melded with the mental interference spell Synchro. I thought it was worth doing an experiment.”

She whipped her rapier to the side, sending drops of blood flying.

“I imprinted her as follows—she’s no witch. She’s not a witch; she’s human. She’s done nothing wrong; she’s the good guy. Bluntly speaking, I brainwashed her. For a far longer time than any of those bombs. I was very thorough. I didn’t mind if it ended in failure. The only downside would be the death of a witch. But the experiment succeeded. Now I have a witch who kills witches and can slaughter far more of them than I could ever manage.”

“……Vile.”

“One must be vile to stand a chance against a witch, Detective Rogue. Or do you actually believe it’s possible without sullying your hands?”

Auroch shifted her weight, holding the rapier in front of her.

“The ends justify the means. Why would I not do whatever it takes? Even if people must die for it, the lives of complete strangers are worthless to me. Getting turned into bombs contributed far more to the world. I cannot fathom criticizing that.”

The air grew tense.

_____Here she comes.

The Headtaker’s blade became a blur.

Dust clouds bloomed.

A sword larger than she was tall slammed down—but the Saint was no longer there. A black blur sped out of the dust.

Catherine, the Saint.

Her nun’s habit sullied, she moved fast.

“Stop this! We’re both witches! We have no need to—”

She received no reply. The knight’s next swing threatened to cleave her in two. By now, Catherine knew it could slice through her barriers, so she was forced to flee. Each Floating-assisted step covered a dozen meters.

But despite her retreat, the knight remained immobile at the center of the crater. Catherine frowned.

She could sense no thoughts from her. Even with her face exposed, the knight remained impassive. Yet when Catherine took a second step, she burst into action.

She flipped her grip on the hilt.

Her legs spread wide, she held her sword to the side, at ear height—

—and she threw it.

“…Wha—?”

The sword moved faster than Catherine’s spell. Her eyes went wide, and she thrust both hands out before her, making barriers—but they were far too thin. They shattered as the sword struck them. The blade reached Catherine’s white-gloved hands…with a wave of heat.

“Aughhhh!”

The Saint was sent flying, knocked away. She hurtled toward the side of the room and was slammed against the wall.

Her gloves crumbled away. There was a deep gash on her palms.

The pain made her go fetal, but she kept one hand out in front, aimed at the knight. She shot projectiles of light, fire, and wind—but none of them even scratched her. The knight had leaped over them. Tracing a gentle arc and scraping her head on the ceiling, she landed right in front of Catherine.

Not a flicker of emotion remained on her face.

_____Kill the witches.

_____Right these wrongs.

_____Punish all evil.

Those “thoughts” had wormed their way into the knight with astonishing ease.

Giselle, the Einherjar.

Born into a knight’s family, she’d become a witch—but had always wanted to be “good.” She’d longed to thwart villainy and save those suffering under its thumb. However, her heart was too pure for the task at hand.

The nobles whom her house served took advantage of her.

They hid the fact that she was a witch. She herself never acted like anything but a true knight and was granted status in accordance.

But the missions she was given were all assassinations.

They’d feed her a line about a lord exploiting the serfs. She’d buy it hook, line, and sinker and take down any thorn in the noble’s sides.

She heard rumors about an assassin but didn’t care. No protections could stand against a witch like her. The only problems came when her targets had children. Even she knew what would happen to children when their parents died—but she could not stop now. She had already killed too many.

By the time she worked out who her masters really were, this had worn her down.

She attacked their manor, then left, as if fleeing all the crimes she’d committed. Decades passed, but it felt like the shadows of her victims were always on her heels. She hid in the forest, trembling and alone—and even after the collar went on, that did not change.

“You did nothing wrong,” the woman told her. “All blame lies with those who gave the orders. Raise your head and look at me.”

The woman wore black. She had a faint smile on her lips, her hand outstretched.

She scrambled across her darkened cell, grasping at that hand. Desperate for salvation. To the girl, this woman was the light. The light that would save her.

The woman offered a way to end the suffering.

“You mustn’t think. Become a person without any thoughts at all.”

She obeyed.

And it worked. In no time, the girl’s suffering ended. There was only one downside—she could no longer act on her own. She let herself think just a bit and asked the woman what to do.

“I’ll do the thinking for you. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Cast all thoughts aside.”

She’d saved the girl.

She would never say anything wrong.

The woman pointed a sword at her, and thoughts flowed in. In them, the girl was human. Not any kind of witch—but a righteous knight.

This was what she’d wanted.

But was that really true? Squishing that dissonant note like a pimple, the girl let Synchro take hold.

She was sure she’d made the right choice.

_____Kill.

_____Kill.

_____Kill her now.

Do what the voice said, and she need not think.

Need not fear her sins.

The girl swung her hand, slicing down the construct. This construct had infinite mana. A human could never win, but the girl could kill it. The girl had no hesitation. She could even turn her sword on children.

She looked at the Saint.

Another witch.

Crush her head with one fist—a blow that wouldn’t allow resurrection.

So she need not think.

“I’m sorry…”

“…I adore hopeless people like you.”

The Saint caught the knight’s fist with one hand, staggering to her feet. She was far smaller than the knight, and yet she loomed large.

“So I let this drag on a while.”

The knight tried to shake her off but could not budge. She had no idea this simply meant her foe was the better witch. The thoughts implanted in her head ordered her to resist—

“But I really don’t have time to be dealing with you…

“…so again—sorry.”

There was a snap.

The knight was assailed by compressed air. A spell unleashed from the palm on the knight’s chest. The Saint was almost as good with air and wind as she was with fire.

The knight did not even scream. Her mind slipped away, and she toppled toward Catherine. That was the end of the witch who killed witches.

A rapier was bound for his eyeball, then was batted aside by the back of his hand. There was no time to waste on the numbing pain. Auroch unleashed thrust after thrust, but Rogue fended them all off.

His throat was parched.

Sweat beaded on his brow.

The nigh endless flurry of thrusts was accompanied by Auroch’s voice.

“You suffer so. Perhaps you deserve some rest.”

The muscles in his shoulder jumped. He felt his face twist. He took a swing, but Auroch bent backward, avoiding it. Her lips never stopped flapping, but neither did she let her guard down.

“Don’t worry, once you’re dead, I’ll burn you alongside that benevolent ‘Saint.’”

_____Ha.

Forgetting his pain and fatigue, he let out a laugh.

Benevolent?

That really hit his funny bone. This lady calls herself a witch hunter, and she doesn’t even know what the Saint is about? Like I once did, she only sees what’s on the surface? That proved she wasn’t all that.

Auroch’s brow furrowed. This was the first time he’d got under her skin.

“What’s so funny—?”

He stepped in.

Auroch’s rapier snapped up in front of her face. She was trying to block his blow with it—but he didn’t care.

He smashed right through it.

She wasn’t the only strong arm here. Rogue threw a mean punch himself. His fist snapped the magic sword. The broken half soared high into the air. That felt good, so he swung again, and Auroch’s feet left the ground.

“Gah!”

She flew backward.

Auroch landed and, with a clang, stabbed her broken sword into the ground.

“If only that was all she was,” Rogue muttered.

His head turned to Auroch. Her hair was dangling over her face, but he could see her biting her lip, glaring up at him.

“……You’ve gone and done it now,” she growled, standing up. Her hand was still gripping the broken magic sword.

“Yeah, you bet I did.”

He didn’t bat an eye.

“……I’ve changed my mind about how you get to die. I’ll make you into a puppet and feed you to my dogs.”

“You’ve dropped the pretense, scumbag.”

“Watch your tongue, lowlife,” Auroch spat. “Giselle will be back any moment. And then your doom is sealed. I’ll make you suffer for smearing dirt on my face.”

The gate began to glow. Auroch flashed a triumphant grin—but it soon froze.

“Detective!” Catherine called, vaulting out of the gate.

“………………”

“Guess my backup showed. Your move.”

Auroch said nothing. One hand remained on her broken sword, while the other covered her face. After a long moment, her head came up.

That same phony smile back on her lips.

“Oh dear. It seems the odds are stacked against me.”

“……Got a backup plan?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I have no plans. You’ve demolished them all. Without Giselle, I cannot slay the remaining witches. I must give up. Loathe as I am to admit it, this is the hand that fate dealt me.”

“In that case, come quiet—”

“However…”

She cut him off.

“…I can still make you suffer.”

Thunk.

A loud noise came from the cellblock.

He’d heard that sound before. He’d heard it a lot facing criminal scum.

Auroch smirked.

“I’ve released everyone under my Synchro. They’re barely a backup plan, but since you have me cornered, I must now resort to them.”

That sounded unpleasant.

Her glare followed his every move.

“Not just prisoners, of course. All the citizens I turned into bombs will get their chance to Bloom. Oh, I just triggered them. How many will die? I never intended to come back here at all, but you’ve forced my hand.”

As she spoke, the door to the cellblock opened. People in prisoner uniforms poured in. All of them had fuses sprouting from them. If she’d turned every prisoner in the block into a bomb, there must be over a hundred.

And she slipped off into that crowd.

“Auroch!”

The noise of the crowd drowned him out. None of the prisoners seemed to have a clue what they were doing, but they were rushing toward him, covered in blood, their arms and legs bent asunder. Some even had their skulls caved in. That explained how they’d escaped their cells: unpleasantly.

They’d forced their way out, heedless of the physical toll.

That piece of shit.

Prisoners now filled the space around the gate. The only other way out was the entrance proper. Since the first row of prisoners broke into a run, Catherine and Rogue did, too. Explosions went off behind them, singeing their napes.

“Where is she?” Rogue asked.

“Breaking down walls. She’s outside, in the garden. But I don’t get it; she’s stopped there.”

Catherine was using a detection spell.

“For someone who claims she had no plans, she sure had traps galore ready. Dammit!”

Rogue pulled out his phone, dialing.

“Humafu! She had backup. You ready?”

“Fuck you, I’m always ready,” she yelled back. “I’m already on the move!”

It was reassuring how she never changed.

“You holding up your end?” Humafu asked.

“We’re chasing her down!” Rogue claimed.

“You gotta kill this bitch for me. Else, you gonna make me bust a cap in your ass.”

“I hear you! Later.”

He hung up. Catherine was waggling a finger, making metal doors fly off the hinges. Through the last door, they found blue skies waiting for them, along with dazzling sunlight and a pleasant breeze. Were this not a jail, it would have been perfect picnic weather.

The explosions continued. Glancing back, he noted there was way less of them. Those fuses weren’t very long. Even as he watched, one after another went up in smoke.

“Detective,” Catherine said.

“What?”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

It was a bit late for that. But it tickled him pink.

“……You gave your word.”

“But it pleased me. The fact that you trusted me again.”

“……”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Rogue didn’t have the words in him. He just made a noise, running alongside her, his eyes on the wound on that right hand.

“……You’re going to the hospital once this ends.”

“So are you, Detective.”

“Yeah.”

“Heh-heh, we’ll go in together,” Catherine said, chuckling.

That witch smiled the smile of someone far older than anyone around.

…Goddamn it.

Everyone looked like this when their lives were on the line. Like they’d looked death in the face and taken something away from it.

…Arrests first.

Catherine’s detection spell showed them the way through countless cellblocks, into an open courtyard. The place didn’t exactly scream prison. Grass covered the ground. A white brick fountain stood in the middle. There weren’t even the fences one might expect in a place like this.

Auroch was alone at the center.

The surviving Headtaker rested on the fountain’s rim, out of breath, shoulders heaving.

“The bombs bought me some time, I suppose…,” she said when she saw them coming.

This shitstain…

“You think you can get away?”

“Hardly. This is the end.”

She turned toward them, revealing the side of her body that had been facing the fountain. It was a sight that made Rogue freeze.

She was impaled on the magic sword.

In hindsight, she had impressive physical stats; a little jog like this would hardly leave her gasping for air. But with that sword in her—

“……What’s the big idea?”

“I imagine you know better than me,” Auroch said, sweat pouring down her brow.

Catherine gasped.

“You can’t mean—”

But Auroch was nodding.

“Yes. I’ll be like you—a witch.”

At first, he assumed she was bullshitting him with a desperate lie. But her eyes meant business. Her face had gone quite pale, but the light in her eyes were uncanny.

Rogue had no clue how spells wound up melded to a person. Was there a specific process? Was it pure happenstance? But he’d heard her magic sword was melded with one. Perhaps it was possible to transfer that meld to a human body.

He sure wasn’t about to find out.

“Don’t, it’ll kill you!” he yelled, dashing forward.

Auroch flashed him a toothy grin.

“Ha.” She laughed once, then toppled over on the grass. A moment later, she let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Aughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Her hands grabbed fistfuls of grass, her legs thrashing despite herself. She was foaming at the mouth, her eyes open so wide, they seemed ready to pop out.

_____Dammit!

“Detective! Stay back!” Catherine called, yanking his hand.

“………Is there any way to stop her?”

“None. We can’t stop this anymore. But…this isn’t…”

Catherine looked downcast.

That reaction baffled him but also shut him up. He saw Auroch pull the rapier out of her arm. She was upright, on her knees.

“Oh…,” she said. “So this is how you see the world.”

……Too late.

A new witch was born.

And she was the worst person imaginable.

“How wonderful… I’ve never felt the like… I no longer need resign myself to anything! I can do anything! My whole life was leading up to this moment! Ha-ha-ha, wonderful…wonderful.”

The sword on the grass was magic no more. Auroch herself spared the broken blade no attention at all.

“Ha-ha-ha, what should I do first? I know! I’ll kill the thorns in my side. That’s what’s best. That’s a good first step.”

Her eyes narrowed.

And then…

“■■■■■”

An unknown language.

“……What was that?”

Auroch’s head swiveled, looking around.

“Who said that? You’re not making sense. Stop hiding! Come out where I can see you!”

She seemed to have forgotten them entirely, searching for someone who was not here.

What the…?

Catherine’s lips parted. “She’s melded with a spell. But that is all she’s done.”

_____She had not become a witch.

Auroch could no longer hear the actual witch’s words at all. She was spinning—and black smoke began belching all around the doomed defect, much like it had with Chronos Drakenia.

“Who is that? Stop this!” Auroch demanded. “I’m a witch! Obey me! Obey, obey, obey me, me, meeeeeeeeeeee—”

The black smoke concentrated around her head, and a moment later, the volume expanded exponentially. Wind swirled, shaking the grass.

“■■■■■”

Something massive emerged from the smoke. At a glance, it resembled…grapes. The head on Auroch’s shoulders had swelled, multiplying in clusters. Each head swiveled like that of a lost child. Human words mingled in with that unknown language: “Me? Me? Me? Me?” like that was the one word she still knew. There was an unsettling innocence to it.

“……You were a very sad person,” Catherine said, clasping her hands as if in prayer.

“■■■■■”

The Headtaker Corps woman reached out a hand and—

—burned out.

Catherine released her hands, her eyes on the black ash dancing in the smoke. A fitting end for a woman who’d turned hundreds of people into bombs.

“……Guess that’s all she wrote,” Rogue said.

On their way back to the gate, he sent Velladonna a message reporting the casualties, the situation at the prison, and the death of the perpetrator. He also collected the magic sword she’d left behind, wrapping the blade in a handkerchief. It was unshakable evidence.

What the nobility chose to do with it was none of Rogue’s business.

“……You sure didn’t hold back,” he said, surveying the hotel lobby. They’d jumped there from the prison.

“Um, I didn’t do most of this,” Catherine said, getting very shifty.

“Nobody’s gonna yell at you. Probably.”

“At least sound sure!”

What had once been the height of luxury was now full of holes. The marble had been peeled off the floor, and there were cracks in the walls and ceilings. Worse, there was a massive crater, like someone had dropped a bomb here. Was this how bad it got when witches fought each other? He couldn’t even begin to imagine what had actually happened.

There was a witch resting against the wall.

The surviving Headtaker—the girl in armor.

She was lying there, her face twisted in pain. He could hear her breathing, so she was still alive.

The real problem—

“What do we do with her?” Rogue asked.

She’d been under Auroch’s control, but she was still a dangerous individual. What would she do once she woke?

Catherine nodded, her mind made up.

“Detective, can I request a favor?”

That doesn’t sound good.

“What?”

Catherine took a deep breath.

“Will you save her?”

“……Save her how?” Rogue asked. “She belongs to the Ligtons. Nothing good comes of messing with nobility. You know that, Catherine.”

“Then you’ll stand by and let them turn her into a puppet again?”

“……”

“Detective,” Catherine insisted when he said nothing. “You stepped up to save me, right? Will you not do the same for her?”

Rogue knew exactly what Catherine meant.

“……You think we should bring her to the Sixth Precinct?”

“I do.” Catherine nodded.

“—! The Ligtons and Drakenias are enemies! We can’t!”

“Leave that problem to Chief Velladonna.”

“Even the chief can’t— Well, I guess we don’t— It’s out of the question!”

He shook his head, eyes on the floor.

I’d like to…

He knew better.

How could I abandon her to that fate? Knowing that rejecting this offer means she’ll be sent right back to hell—how could I go on living? He couldn’t.

Goddamn it.

“Detective.”

Catherine’s eyes were on him.

His mouth opened and closed. He looked at the knight—and his shoulders slumped.

“……Just don’t betray us,” he muttered.

Catherine’s face lit up.

“Thank you, Detective!”

“Promise!”

“I do!”

…That’s why you’re a sucker, Rogue, he told himself. This was beyond his reach. Rogue couldn’t do a damn thing if a witch turned on him. All he could do was choose to trust them. And he knew better than anyone how hard that really was.

“…………Ungh…”

The girl in armor groaned, and Rogue sighed.

He’d just have to convince himself he was out here saving an ordinary girl.

He had Catherine carry the girl, but the other thing—the magic sword, which was taller than he was—proved a conundrum. Catherine tried picking it up but only managed to lift it by the height of her pinky nail before she had to let go.

“Rather frustrating…,” she admitted.

“Leave it someone else, then.”

“No, I’ll figure it out!”

“……Some things weren’t meant to be.”

With that, they left the lobby, hurrying to the underground lot. Velladonna was taking care of the hotel guests and staff; it was Rogue and Catherine’s job to get the armored witch out of Dodge. If she was discovered, that would make everything worse.

On guard, they swept into the lot. Everything down here was still quiet.

They found the car parked near a pillar. He opened the rear door, and they shoved the knight into the back seat, folding her knees so the door wouldn’t hit her legs.

It’s like we’re kidnapping her.

Uncomfortable with that, he closed the door—and finally let himself relax.

Now it really was over.

There was still trouble ahead, but the case was closed. As he got into the car, he saw the Saint stretching. Her back was to Rogue, defenseless.

Hang on.

An idea struck him.

Humans were no match for witches. The Headtaker Corps had proved as much. But time and place might well be a factor.

There was nothing in the rules saying someone had to fight them head on. If one went after them in their sleep or while they were eating—a human might stand a chance. Witches didn’t age, but they could die. They weren’t invincible. That was how the Headtakers had caught witches in the past.

He was suddenly conscious of the magic sword in his belt.

A blade designed to kill witches.

Rogue couldn’t use magic. And he didn’t think any ordinary blade or gun would be able to kill a witch. The Saint had killed hundreds of thousands of innocent people. And right now, he was in possession of a magic sword. This was most likely his one and only chance to kill her.

It almost certainly was. He highly doubted anyone else would be ever be capable of it.

_____I’m the only one.

Only Rogue could kill the Saint.

He felt his arm tensing up.

He knew more than anyone just how dangerous witches could be.

White lilies surrounded him.

This had once been the town square. But now it was covered in flowers that had grown so dense, you could not walk across it. He stepped in anyway and saw his father deeper in.

“Dad!” Rogue called.

His dad had been a sheriff.

As kind as he was strong, everyone had relied on him. Even once the magical revolution made the world go mad, his father had stayed the same, thinking only of keep the peace.

His father’s body was midtransformation.

Flower petals bloomed round his shirt collar, and his arms had already turned to countless white lilies. His lower half was buried in the sea of flowers, out of sight. The transformation must have brought unendurable pain, but his father’s lips were still intact, and he moved them, smiling at Rogue just like he always did.

“Run, Rogue.”

Every flower in this square had once been human. Out of thousands of villagers, only he and Rogue remained.

But those words proved his last. His father vanished. His clothes, his hair, all trace of his dad gone.

Only flowers remained.

Eight-year-old Rogue just stood there.

Nothing made sense.

He didn’t get why this had happened to his father. He couldn’t even tell if this was real or a nightmare.

“If you misbehave, a witch will come for you.”

Was that really true?

Had they done anything wrong?

Of course not.

There was not a single reason why his father deserved to die.

And yet he had.

Rogue’s grip tightened on the magic sword. He carefully pulled it free, his eyes on the witch’s back. How long would she live if he slit her throat? She’d kept talking when the Lifetaker opened a hole in her neck, and she survived with treatment. Witches were far more durable than humans.

_____Doesn’t matter.

If the first cut didn’t kill her, he’d just keep stabbing. He would never give up. A witch’s life was finally in his hands. Even if Rogue died in the process, he’d take her down with him. No matter what.

He made a conscious effort to keep his breathing even. He couldn’t let her notice. He had to do this.

He stepped forward, his feet making no sound. The broken blade was held backward, raised high above his head.

Almost there.

So close to killing her.

A frothing heat took hold of him, but his head stayed clear. Once he took out the girl in front of him, he’d have a chance to act, though not for long. If they got him surrounded, he’d have no chance of escape. He had to return to the Sixth Precinct first and kill as many witches as he could. He might not accomplish anything, but he didn’t care. What mattered was the attempt.

One more step, and he’d be in reach of the Saint’s throat.

He would show her no mercy. If she fought back, Rogue was only human—he’d be dead meat. Dead on his feet, unable to take her down with him.

His mind was made up.

He inhaled, then held the breath.

Now.

“Detective!”

She caught his wrist.

The Saint stopped him just before the blade hit home. How? Rogue wondered, shaken. She’d had no idea. Then he saw himself reflected in the car window. Ah. She’d known all along. He was a fool.

“D-Detective! Don’t do this! Sto—”

Even as the Saint cried out, he kicked her legs out from under her. She hit the ground, and the blade got closer to her neck.

Nearly there. He could almost slit her throat. Rogue’s lips were moving as if he was chanting: Stab, stab, stab!

It scraped her just a bit—and a red line formed.

“Stop…this!” the Saint rasped, her voice strangled.

He paid her no attention. He would slit her throat. He would kill the witch.

What for?

It felt like there was someone behind him.

“Detect…tive…”

Red drops formed from the Saint’s throat.

Her eyes were wide-open.

Rogue couldn’t believe he was actually trying to kill Catherine—yet his body would not obey him. Not only was he unable to let go, but he was also putting his full weight behind the blade.

This was mental interference. But Auroch was dead. This wasn’t happening. Had she put a death curse on him? She’d lost her mind, and her body had crumbled away.

“Kill the witch. Do not hesitate. Do you know how many people she’s murdered?”

There was a hot breath on his ear.

Behind him.

“De……”

Catherine’s arms were quivering. Could she not hear the voice? She was just staring up at him, brow creased in agony.

“She massacred innocent people for fun. Can you forgive that?” the voice went on. “I’ll say it again. You will not be her only victim. She will kill far more.”

Something touched his back.

A hand, he realized—even as it sank into him. Into Rogue’s body. Deeper and deeper. He felt no pain; it even felt good. It fit, like he’d been born this way.

“We are comrades. Let us kill together. Kill all the witches.”

So, she was taking over his body.

He realized the voice was coming from inside him.

A surprise attack was the best way to kill a witch. Only a few people would have ever been in a position to attempt that. Rogue was one of them.

He wasn’t sure if Auroch had always planned to take control of him. If she had, she likely would have tried it earlier. Was this a last-minute improvisation?

If so, there might still be a way to get out of this. A weakness in her control…but Rogue was past the point of searching for one.

All he could think about was killing witches.

He gritted his teeth.

He tried to refute the thoughts assailing him. But they weren’t stopping. Why should he stop himself? Why shouldn’t he just end her? Had he forgotten his vendetta against witches? Did he think they could just be friends?

Kill her.

She’ll kill you if you don’t.

You have to kill her.

Auroch’s bloodlust was implanted in him, forcing his own mind out. No, this fury was not hers alone. He couldn’t pretend it was. Part of him had it in for the witches, too.

He remembered how everyone back home, his own family, had been turned into flowers.

All he could see was lilies.

“That’s your answer. You despise witches.”

His strength, his will, was draining away.

And yet the force behind the blade grew stronger. He couldn’t fight it any longer. The tip of the blade was about to touch Catherine’s skin.

And then he heard a voice.

“Hang in there, partner.”

His strength returned. He gathered the fragments of his mind from the mist and put them back together.

_____I’m a moron!

He was furious with himself.

Falling for an easy trick, about to kill my own partner—how stupid is that? That’s just what she wanted!

Anger made his blood boil. Raging against her and himself.

“Claim your vengeance. That is what’s best for you.”

I let this get to me?!

Auroch’s voice was echoing within him. The same message, only the wording changed. He sensed no conscious mind behind it, did not believe she had any grudge of her own. Auroch herself was long since dead. Which meant he had nothing to fear.

He poured all his might into the sword hand. His muscles screamed. The tip wavered slightly. Catherine’s eyes went wider still.

The magic sword scraped the side of her neck and slammed into the ground. The half blade broke again, shattering like glass.

And an instant later, a shudder ran through Rogue.

Like he’d shattered his own body.

Fuck it.

He shook Catherine’s grip off his wrist, freeing himself, and stood up. He slammed the blade again, breaking everything below the hilt. He kept going, damaging the decorations on the hilt itself, warping them out of shape, slamming it into the ground.

“Witches… Kill…witches…”

Auroch’s voice was cutting out.

“Witches…”

At last, it faded to a mosquito’s whine—and was gone.

Rogue tossed the hilt aside, badly out of breath.

“D-Detective?” Catherine ventured. “Is it you?”

She timidly came closer.

Rogue nodded.

“Thank god…you’re back to normal.”

He tried to answer, but his tongue wasn’t working. His vision was blurred. Maybe breaking the magic sword had been a bad idea.

He watched himself topple over, like it wasn’t even his body.

Rogue’s hands were on the wheel.

He was in the driver’s seat, with one foot on the gas. They must have hit a bump, because he felt himself bounce, his vision shaking.

How long have I been driving?

He didn’t recognize the road. It was just a long, straight path, with white roofs on either side. There were no signs of life, not even a bird chirping.

Did I drive straight here from the hotel lot? No, he told himself. Auroch had taken control of him. Breaking the magic sword had backfired. Is this a dying dream?

Rogue pulled over and stopped the car, taking stock of the interior.

This was the company car provided to detectives. That matched his memories. Nothing about it seemed amiss.

An idea struck him, and he leaned over the back seat, making sure there was no one on the floor. His suspicion didn’t pan out. He was alone in the car.

Sighing, he turned back—

_____Huh?!

There was a girl in white beside him.

“Hi, Rogue!”

His jaw hung open.

“What’s wrong? You act like you’re seeing a ghost,” the girl in white said, her blue eyes smiling.

“……What’s going on here?”

“This is where the dead go… I’m kidding, of course. You’re still very much alive.” The girl in white—Miseria—shrugged. “So where are we? Simply put, we’re inside you.”

What the hell does that mean? This reaction must have shown on his face, because she turned around and drew (poorly) a human figure on the window glass. It had a single hair coming out of the head. That seemed to earn her approval, and she moved right along.

“This is a mental landscape, formed from the mess your memories and emotions left behind. No matter what you do here, it will have no influence on the real world and vice versa. You could call it the ultimate in private quarters.”

“No, wait…”

“Hmm?” Miseria crooked her head at him.

“If this is inside my mind, then why are you here? Are you with me in real life?”

“Hardly,” Miseria scoffed.

“Th-then how—?”

“You’re thinking small,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “You still don’t get how much that collar suppressed my powers. My threads are far longer than you imagine. If you must know the specific logic, let’s just say I planted one on you the last time we met.”

“……And the truth?”

“Doesn’t matter here. Move along.”

Miseria reached for the glove compartment. She dug around inside it and came out with a black orb that was approximately the size of the human eyeball.

“This is the doodad that was messing with your head.”

He gave the orb a closer look. He’d thought it was black, but it was more like countless shadows overlapping, writhing around within.

“……What the?”

“Remnants of the Headtaker Corps.”

“Remnants…?” Rogue echoed.

“Nothing significant,” Miseria said. “Not even a proper postmortem grudge. The Synchro magic sword merely siphoned a portion of its wielder’s aggression. It’s a fragile thing that’ll soon fade away on its own.”

“Yet it tried to wrest control of me.”

“That it did. It almost synchronized with your personality entirely. Best we squish it.”

With that, she clenched her hand, crushing the orb. There was a cracking sound, and when she opened her hand again, it was gone, as if it had dissolved into the air.

“All done,” she said, dusting her hands.

The mood relaxed. If what this witch said was true, Rogue wasn’t on the brink of death or anything; he was probably being hauled off to the hospital. By the time the doctors looked at him, other detectives would be hitting the hotel and prison. They’d handle the rest.

But in Rogue’s mind, there was one thing still unresolved.

“……So, uh,” he said.

“Hmm?”

Unable to look her in the eye, he glanced out his window.

“……Sorry I doubted you. You were only there because you were dispelling the triggers set on Chronos, right?”

The Saint had said that once a human was melded to a spell, the one way to undo it was by reaching deep into their minds—like only Miseria could. If Chronos had been turned into a bomb, then it was clear who had fixed that.

In hindsight, he wasn’t sure why he’d freaked out like that. He’d disgraced himself. Just thinking about how he’d acted a few days before made dank sweat form on his brow.

“……You’ve had my back the whole time,” Rogue acknowledged.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He glanced her way, and she had a very phony smile on. “But if you wish to be grateful, I won’t stop you. Thank away! I’ll especially appreciate it if it comes with donuts.”

He rolled his eyes. He was being all earnest, and she was making a joke out of it. No matter what he said, she’d spin it into nonsense.

Still.

Thank you—

He mouthed the words.

_____for calling me back.

“So, uh, how do I get outta here?”

The witch grinned.

“How do you think?”

Epilogue

He followed Velladonna into the hospital room. Inside, there was a single bed, and the curtains were drawn, keeping the light out. Rogue moved to the side of the bed, looking down at the girl.

A girl with a collar on.

“Sound asleep,” Velladonna said.

The girl had been out for a full day now. The blow to her chest aside, there were no obvious injuries—likely because she had a witch’s physique.

“Yeah, not clear if she was ever allowed to rest. It’s entirely possible that lady took out her frustrations on her, too,” Rogue said.

“How vile. I can hardly believe it!”

Rogue had a feeling that statement had layers.

“Chief, you knew she had a witch under her thumb?” Rogue asked.

“Hardly.” Velladonna shook her head. “But I did suspect. The Headtakers are only human. They die so easily yet can’t be easily replaced. I had a feeling if they ever got their hands on a witch, they’d keep her for themselves, never reporting it to the Drakenias.”

So the power struggle between the Two Great Houses reared its ugly head again.

“They must have planned for her to be a trump card, played at the right moment—but they forgot how much resentment festers in the lower ranks. Placed too much faith in their master-servant relationship.”

“……You keep an eye out for resentment, Chief?”

He was thinking about how she’d forced him to take over the Sixth Precinct.

“Of course I do,” she said, making duck lips at him. “The last thing I want is a mutiny.”

“……Always putting yourself first, huh?”

“Don’t we all? I don’t see the problem.”

As she spoke, Velladonna was poking the girl’s face. That got her to groan in her sleep.

“……Just because she’s sleeping…”

“That’s why I’m doing it now.”

“……”

She caught his look and said, “You should give her a poke, Rogue. She’s got squishy cheeks!”

He just shrugged.

The girl’s fate was delegated to the Sixth Precinct. Arguably, Catherine’s wish came true, but it all went a bit too smoothly. Velladonna didn’t even need to persuade anyone; the Ligtons just foisted her off on them. Pressed for a reason, they simply insisted, “Our family has not once deployed a witch in the last thousand years.” A completely delusional statement.

Naturally, he’d offered the magic sword as evidence, but they’d refused to acknowledge it. At that point, Rogue—a mere commoner—could only give up. The case itself was closed and out of his hands; the chips would fall where they may.

He left the hospital room, heading for a waiting area. A nun was seated alone on a couch against the wall. She saw him coming and looked up.

“Is she still asleep?”

“Yeah. The chief’ll handle the rest,” Rogue said.

There was a lot that Giselle, the Einherjar, had to hear before she could be admitted to the precinct. That was Velladonna’s job. She could talk circles around Rogue.

Catherine rose to her feet.

“When she wakes, I’d like to apologize to her again.”

“Again?” he asked, frowning.

“Er, um, never mind.”

Her eyes swam.

“……I’m lost, but suit yourself.”

They left the building, headed for the lot. As he got in the car, his phone vibrated.

I’m coming over tonight.

Signed from the Puppeteer.

Life is a joke to her; she isn’t even trying to disguise her identity. And what is she coming over for?

He made to send her a long argument but stopped himself. The more he let her wrap him round her finger, the worse things got. He shoved his phone in his pocket.

“What next? If you wanna make a stop, we can.”

Catherine considered this, eyes on the ceiling, then smiled, raising one finger.

“Let’s celebrate a successful case!”

“Fair, we should do that.” Rogue nodded.

It’d be a good way to thank everyone for their help. He better let Rico know. They’d need a room laid out. He’d have to pay extra attention to Humafu; he’d wound up shoving all the busywork on her. He also needed to check what provisions they had on stock at the precinct.

He went to get his cup out of the cupholder and yelped.

His hand had bumped the wheel and sloshed the contents all over his wrist and sleeve.

Goddamn it.

Catherine saw the brown spatter. “Should I steam the stain out?”

He shook his head.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

That was the hand he kept the collar on—and he’d told no one that. He didn’t plan to for a while yet. At least, not while he felt indebted to the original owner.

He took a sip from his cup and put it back in the holder.

“Detective,” Catherine said. “There’s something I’d like to say.”

“What?” Rogue asked, turning toward her.

She shot him a worried frown. “Um, this is an awkward subject to broach myself.”

“You’re making it worse already,” he said, wincing.

“Uh…I know.”

“I’m not gonna be upset by most things.”

“Th-then I’ll say it.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not going to confide in me, are you?”

He felt a chill spreading outward from his heart.

His lips flapped, and her jade eyes crinkled. She held an index finger over her lips, shushing him.

“Headquarters is right over there.”

“……”

“I’ve been waiting. For you to tell me.”

Catherine reached over from the left side passenger seat, touching his arm. She started at the elbow, running her fingers down it.

“But you never said a word about it, Detective.”

She reached the coffee stain and deftly undid the buttons on his left sleeve. Like she already knew what he wore there.

“Is that how bad you want to let Miseria roam free?” he heard her say.

Her gloved fingers ran their way along the black choker.

She’d shown no indication she knew. Rogue had no such memory. Catherine had never once mentioned that Control might allow someone to resurrect. She hadn’t brought it up in any briefings.

Which means…

His spirits sank.

“……You knew all along? That she’s alive?”

“I did.”

The Saint nodded. Her knowledge of Control? No, the collar? He wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell what the Saint was thinking. He’d been keeping an eye out. Unsure how to handle this, he bit his lip. It was very dry.

“……So what’s your next move? Gonna tell everyone she’s alive?”

“Not at all.”

“What—?”

Her answer came so readily that it left him reeling.

“……The two of you tried to kill each other. And you—”

“Yes, I’ve never cared much for Miseria. The thought of getting sent back into that nightmare gives me hives.”

That only raised more questions. She had plenty of reasons to screw Miseria over. So why isn’t she?

Catherine leaned in.

Her face drew close to his, and her arm wrapped around his. One finger after another slipped between his, locking his hand down.

“I know why you want to protect her. You worked the case together, risking your lives for it. If I was in your position, I’d want to help her, too. But remember, Detective…

“…I’m your partner now.”

Rogue’s face was reflected in those jade eyes.

That familiar brilliant smile, her fingers tapping the back of his hand in a happy jig—they took his breath away.

He could not take his eyes off the witch.

The girl in white was falling through darkness.

Each time she swung her arms, the darkness parted, revealing the expanse beyond.

Skyscrapers rose from fields where horses grazed. The girl had leaped from the top of one such skyscraper, descending through the clouds. The offices were shrouded in gray and hundreds of stories tall. She plummeted past them all to the ground below.

This was a dream world, largely constructed from memories of the subject she was diving into. The white-clad girl was god here—and no one could ever change that.

“How should I fill the time?” she murmured.

She’d already ransacked the memories here; there was nothing more for her to see.

As she stifled a yawn, the once-banished darkness rolled back in. The world changed from day to night. She raised a brow, amused.

There was a wolf ahead of her.

It stood up, shifting forms. The clawed forearms became those of a human, and the black fur turned into clothes and hair of that same color. The amber eyes narrowed, and a high nose bridge appeared. The girl who remained was still clearly a carnivore. Even fully transformed, there was something animalistic about her. Like she’d devour any human lost in her woods.

“Long time no see. How’ve you been?” the white-clad girl asked. “I thought you’d be here. I mean, you sent me a message, saying, ‘I know.’”

“You always were a loathsome wench. I knew you wouldn’t die that easy.”

Her voice was like the snarl of a beast.

The white-clad girl threw up her hands.

“I’m glad I’ve earned your trust! You haven’t changed a bit. Make up your mind, and nothing can stop you. When did you get in touch with the Headtaker Corps? Poor things. She believed she was acting of her own free will until the bitter end.”

The beast did not answer, merely staring at the girl.

“Cat got your tongue?” the white-clad girl said, not the least bit bothered. She adored putting what they both knew into words, but it was not strictly necessary.

She’d known at a glance that the Headtaker woman was under a mental interference spell. That’s why she’d taken that fight, pinning down who’d meddled with her. It was possible to overwrite a mental interference spell with superior technique and talent, but the spell on the Headtaker woman was prodigious. Even the girl in white would have struggled. She’d lived one thousand two hundred years and knew only one person capable of this. That was not her only motivation, but it factored into why she left the Headtaker alone.

“You’ve come all this way, I must show some hospitality,” she said. “What would you like? A fruit tart? A macaron?”

The beast ignored her.

“You met the ferrywoman?” was all she said.

The woman in white had seen that coming.

The beast had not yet given up.

“I did. I knew I’d be revived, so it was no use; she won’t speak unless you’re actually dead. You’ve got to take the proper route to the other side.”

“Ah.”

The beast’s amber eyes gleamed. The white-haired girl’s skin pricked, sensing her hostility.

“I’ll find my way there. Get in my way, and you die.”

“I would love to see you try,” said the white-clad girl, and she snapped her fingers.

The darkness above parted. And then the beast’s body crumbled. She showed no signs of consternation. She’d known her opponent had the upper hand in that place. The beast—the girl in black—simply glared at her in silence.

Until the last fragment faded.

Afterword

I’m Yuri Yumemi.

This was Witches Can’t Be Collared, Vol. 2.

Miseria escaped in the first volume, and we’ve got her relationship with Rogue to deal with, the problem with Catherine (don’t you just love the look in her eyes on the cover?), the secrets of the witches, and new characters; it’s a lot. I’m glad I could fit it all in. I could crow with glee.

Progress the plot, Rogue.

Let me touch on Humafu a moment—her curse where she can’t sleep unless she kills people? That was originally from a different novel. It was a very sad story (or would have been), but I never actually wrote it. The road is paved with discarded plots, but Humafu took this one in. I myself wonder if she’ll ever get a good night’s sleep, but that thought is tinged with ambivalence. Maybe the world is better off if she doesn’t. Perhaps the real fun comes while she’s teetering on that conundrum. I hope she keeps teetering. Rogue had a lot of trouble sleeping himself this volume, and perhaps it took its toll on him.

Salutations.

My editors, Mori and Kobara—you really pulled me out of the fire on this one. My illustrator, Wata—I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your beautiful art. I’ve set that Catherine image to my desktop and gaze upon it whenever I need to escape reality. To my family—thank you for looking after me. I never could have put out a second volume without your help. And finally, a big thank-you to anyone who picked this book up.

I hope we will meet again in the third volume.