I hadn't checked the list Tac had given us and I admit, I'd been distracted by a certain badboy FBI agent and had only committed those contacts on our half of the divide to memory. So, I was not entirely surprised to see Harlee and Agent Adams already here.

  But I was surprised to see them sipping cocktails.

  A beer while on duty, I could accept. But a Gin Twist or James Bond Martini was taking it too far, in my opinion.

  I glanced around the bar, not seeing anything suspicious, and headed off toward my wayward counterpart. Harlee was in full giggle mode.

  As we approached, Agent Adams lifted his glass in greeting. I was saddened to see he spotted us well before Harlee did. It said something about his situational awareness and her lack of any; placing the local NCB (SOG Division) in a bad professional light. The Director would have kittens if he found out.

  I stopped at their table and waited for Harlee to acknowledge me. She knew she was on thin ice because she hunched her shoulders and refused to look up.

  I let out a sigh and slid onto a chair at their table. At least they weren't getting all cosy on a Chesterfield by the fire.

  "What are you drinking?" I asked.

  "Cold Kiwi Coffee," she mumbled.

  "Coffee huh?" I said. I reached across, lifted the cocktail glass up and took a sniff. It did indeed have coffee in it, as well as whisky and some sort of cream float. I stifled a laugh.

  Handing her glass back, I made sure our eyes met. Harlee had the decency to wince.

  "I don't remember this place being on your list," I told them both. That must have been the signal for Raphael to sit. He'd watched the entire exchange from behind me; drifting in the ether like a ghost.

  "It wasn't," Brant said. "Got redirected here by our first contact."

  Just like us.

  They'd been here a while, though; I could tell. Harlee was tipsy. What I didn't understand was why they were sitting here drinking at all. Had they even asked any questions?

  "Okay," I said. "I'll bite. Why the undercover routine?"

  "The White Rose won't turn up for another hour or so," Brant said, "and from gentle probin', the bar staff appear to know nothing. Askin' too much before the main event might could get us in trouble. So we took to havin' a drink instead."

  I checked my watch.

  "Ain't nothin' gonna happen tonight, Cat," Brant added. "If y'all are here for the same reason as us, makes sense to stick it out some."

  I sighed and looked toward the bar. I could probably trust Agent Adams to have asked the right questions. He put the Good Ole Boy act on, but he was astute and didn't miss a thing, I was betting. He'd spotted us as soon as we entered, he'd positioned himself with his back to the wall and at a table that had a good view of the entire place, and everything he'd said made sense.

  I had to let it go for now.

  "Well, I guess we'd better make it look legitimate," I grumbled.

  "That's the spirit!" Brant said. "Rafe'll get you somethin' to drink."

  "I will?" Raphael — Rafe — asked.

  "'Course you will. This here is a gentleman's club. Best be gettin' on with being all gentlemanly."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Buy the lady a drink, Nonpareil. Somethin' pretty."

  Raphael looked at me. I shrugged. Heaving his massive and yet so very fine body up, the Special Agent took off toward the bar for our drinks. I dreaded to think what kind of beverage he thought looked pretty.

  Brant was right, I told myself, as I watched Rafe walking. There was no way we could locate the kids in one evening. But taking any time out for a quasi-stakeout annoyed me. The traffickers might have been forced to come here, their plans destroyed by the Australian Navy, but how long would they stay? There was no way they could offload twenty kids in this country. One or two, maybe. If you had the right contacts. And, I had to admit, those contacts would be found here in our city — like Tac said — or up north in the only other metropolis big enough to house the right kind of criminals.

  Finding those criminals, though, would take longer than a day. Of course, they would want to lie low after such a close call, as well, so add in another day, maybe two or three. But after that, any opportunity to leave our shores and sail away to pastures greener, they'd jump at.

  The clock was definitely ticking, but not as fast as if we were chasing them down in Hawaii or wherever else they took the rest of the kids from.

  We were approaching this case back to front. I knew that. We all did. We weren't preventing assailants from leaving the country of origin. They'd already well and truly done that. We were one — two if you counted the failed attempt to land at Papua New Guinea — steps away from the crime scenes. What usually worked in that kind of operation, wouldn't be as useful here.

  We had to think outside the box. But what did we have? Their landing location and, of course, we knew where they had intended to go. But the FBI hadn't managed to find their buyers in PNG, only the middlemen who would have offloaded the kids from this lot. It was a start, though, and they were delving deeper down that rabbit hole. But without knowing why the kids had been taken in the first place, I felt like we were missing something.

  I also felt like someone was keeping us in the dark.

  I wanted to ask Brant why that was. We had the initial missing persons reports, but not the interviews with the children's parents. I'd overlooked that before, bamboozled by a handsome face and intricate tattoos that I could have sworn on occasion moved when they thought I wasn't drooling over them.

  I sat up straighter in my seat, my fingers starting to tingle. These were key questions I should have asked as soon as the FBI got here. We all should have. So it wasn't just me slipping up on the job.

  Shit. Score zero for the Special Operations Group. I glanced over my shoulder again at Raphael talking to the barman. I thought perhaps the barman was having to describe every cocktail in detail before the agent would pick one.

  I turned back to Agent Adams. "Can I look at your ID again, Brant?" I asked. "I didn't get a chance earlier to see if it matches the IDs they use on TV."

  It was a lame excuse, but he let me use it. He acted as if he had nothing to hide. Maybe facing off against suspicious local law enforcement officers was standard procedure for the FBI. He certainly didn't seem fazed by my request.

  His badge and ID were as legit as I could tell without putting them through more scientific testing. They even came complete with the Director of the FBI's signature. The photo matched. I ran my thumb over the leather folder. I couldn't remember seeing Raphael's. Surely I would have stared at his picture longer than I stared now at Brant's.

  I looked up and saw Agent Adams watching me. He wore a curious expression, as if I'd done something out of the ordinary but he couldn't work out why. I guessed others just looked at the ID and handed it back. But I gripped Brant's with fingers that now ached and could not let go of the damn thing even if I tried.

  "How long have you known Raphael?" I asked, my throat dry.

  "We've been partnered for five years," Brant said.

  Way longer than I'd been at Banana House.

  "What are you thinking, Cat?" Harlee asked. Gone was the giggle goose of before. Her eyes were focused and clear, and as I watched, she glanced over my shoulder to the bar. Checking on Raphael?

  I suddenly felt a strong need to protect her. To keep her and the misfits I worked with out of whatever I suspected this was. But I couldn't even put into words what I suspected was going on here. I just simply suspected…something.

  "Not sure what's got your knickers in a twist, Cat," Brant drawled, reaching into his jacket's breast pocket and making me twitch to pull out my gun. He didn't withdraw a weapon, though. He held his cell phone out to me instead; the photo album open on a picture.

  "Me and Rafe at the London Marathon. You can see the year we entered it in the banner hangin' over our heads."

  The date on the banner was indeed five years old.

  The man in the photograph, standing next to a beaming Brant Adams kitted out in running shorts, a singlet, and an entry number pinned to his chest, however, was not Raphael Nonpareil.

  "Is this a joke?" I asked.

  Brant's brows furrowed. "No joke. We ran it."

  I looked at the photo again, thinking maybe I'd dreamt the stranger up. But no, there he was, standing next to Brant and looking just as sickly proud of himself.

  The man was taller than Brant, but that wasn't hard. He was nowhere as tall as Raphael, though. No mistaking that. Dark hair not weird white, hazel eyes not violet, and to top it off and really send the message home, he looked Hispanic.

  Raphael Nonpareil looked like the epitome of a Germanic god.

  "This man is not Raphael Nonpareil," I said, showing both Brant and Harlee the photograph.

  "Ah, looks like him to me," Harlee offered, adding a shrug.

  Brant stared at me and then slowly reached forward and took the cell phone. He looked down at it in his hands.

  "What do you see?" he asked.

  This was an FBI agent who had been confronted with any number of strange things. He didn't believe me, but his training made him ask.

  They couldn't see it, I realised. And none of it made sense. If Brant — with somehow Harlee playing along — was pranking me, they'd done so poorly. I could see through the joke as soon as I looked at the photograph.

  But if this wasn't some warped sense of humour at work, what was it? They both thought that the stranger in the photo was Raphael.

  "That is your FBI partner of five years, right?" I checked, nodding at the photo on the cell phone in Brant's hand.

  "Of course it is," he said; sounding frustrated now. "That's Raphael Nonpareil."

  Harlee vigorously nodded her head.

  I studied them both, aware now — and God knows how I knew when my back was to him — that Raphael was heading back from the bar. They honestly and truly believed that the man in that photo was Rafe, Brant's FBI partner of five years.

  But it wasn't. Not even close. Who was the stranger in the photo?

  Or, more importantly, who the fuck was Raphael Nonpareil and how was he fooling us?

  Rafe

  Icarefully held the alcoholic concoctions by their stupidly delicate glass stems. They smelled disgusting. I did not want a drop of the vile liquid on me or my clothing.

  Remembering to breathe, I approached the table where Catalin and the others were sitting. I knew immediately that something was off. They were too quiet, and Special Agent Adams and Senior Operative Forster were staring strangely at Catalin.

  My eyes swept across the group to land on the witchling. She stared back at me with such anger and accusation that I almost fell to my knees before her and begged her forgiveness. But this one had not yet been claimed. Until then, she was all but impotent without The Involition's backing.

  An oddity, they very much wished to contain.

  I held no allegiance to Catalin Aguirre. That thought made it easier to ignore her piercing sapphire gaze. If my duty demanded it, I would simply end her. Her fury did not scorch me. I smiled at that and sat down. Her face hardened as she watched me. She had not yet learned to hide her emotions from us. But given time, she would be just like the others.

  Frozen, deadly, and insane.

  I placed the cocktails on the table as if nothing were wrong. Nothing could harm me here. Perhaps, that weasel Giordano could have given me a run for my money. But let's face it, he was no Jagole. Simply a Barrandari; a spy for The Involition. His task — whatever it was to be assigned here — had nothing to do with any of this.

  I was in charge of Catalin's fate; a delicious sensation of power I rarely possessed. I would bask in the notion for as long as I could. Or for as long as The Involition allowed me to before they demanded an update.

  "These are called The Upper Hand," I told her. "Vermouth, Campari, chocolate bitters and champagne." The dusky pink colour matched her lips. That hadn't been a conscious choice on my part. I'd simply liked the name of the cocktail.

  "The Upper Hand, huh?" she muttered. "Is it drugged?"

  "It has alcohol in it. That is a drug."

  "Not exactly answering the question there," she muttered.

  "Cat's been pitchin' a hissy fit with a tail on it," Special Agent Adams drawled. It took a second or two for me to translate his English into something resembling coherent thought.

  "About what?" I asked, taking a sip of my drink. Urgh, not quite what I expected.

  "She…" he started, but Catalin cut him off.

  "Can we talk in private, Agent Nonpareil?" She stood from her seat and walked away, expecting me to follow.

  There was the witch she would become. Superior, arrogant, contemptuous. It took effort not to react to the demand. But centuries of training and the curse that flooded my veins made me swallow any retort I might have given.

  I took some measure of delight in reminding myself that she was not yet a member of The Involition. She was alone, unguarded, and untrained. I could perform such horrors on her, bring her such pain. She could pay for the sins of her kind if I so desired it. I could do something. Anything.

  And yet, knowing what she was and what she would soon be stopped me. My mind was a tumultuous jumble of thoughts. My chest ached with too many mixed emotions.

  Not once in my many, many years had I ever felt such conflict.

  Perhaps delaying my report to The Involition was not wise. I did not like this. I did not like it at all.

  I raised my eyebrows at Adams and Forster, swiped up the two cocktail glasses, and followed in the witchling's wake.

  "Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, Bubba," the Special Agent drawled behind me.

  I grew tired of his teasing. I grew tired of this place. And most of all I grew tired of this assignment. Freedom, it may have given me. But freedom at what cost?

  Catalin moved through the lounge with sinuous grace. She knew exactly where she was going, and I wondered if she had been here before, or simply assessed the locale as soon as she entered the place. I'd been mildly surprised at her professionalism. She was so different from what I knew of her race.

  She actually liked the humans she worked with. She actually worked willingly with them. It amused me that she put such effort into solving an unsolvable case. Petty though it was, I enjoyed watching her scramble to save them.

  They were never meant to be saved.

  She approached a leather sofa beside an unlit fireplace. A couple were sitting on a similar couch nearby, absorbed in a board game. I considered it an unusual pastime in a place like this but thought nothing more of the strangeness as Catalin sat. Again, most gracefully. Her lithe body folded in half, her trim behind hit the padded sofa with minimal compression, and her blazing blue eyes met my face.

  "Sit, Special Agent," she said through a clenched jaw.

  What had happened? Why was she so angry?

  I sat, placing her cocktail before her. She glared at it and then visibly relaxed her frame. It was intriguing to watch. Such control. Unheard of in her kind. Is this what they were like before the curses? What had we been like back then?

  I looked directly at her, my heart beating as if it had never stopped. I felt more alive in her presence than I had ever felt before. I felt invigorated.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  I answered automatically. "Raphael Nonpareil," I said.

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "Then who was the guy in Brant's photo?"

  "What photo?" A twisted sense of unease unfurled inside my belly.

  "The photo of him and his FBI partner of five years at the London Marathon. Brant seemed to think he was you but he was not."

  She stared at me, daring me to deny it. The maskara, I realised with a flash of irritation, must have worn off. I shifted in my seat to better face her and she suddenly broke eye contact with me.

  How had she known to do that?

  "Of course, I could be going mad," she muttered, taking a sip of her drink. She grimaced. Then took a bigger mouthful of the rose-coloured liquid.

  Several options raced through my mind. One after the other after the other. Compel her to forget what she had seen. Destroy the photo and kill Adams and Forster. Confirm she was indeed going mad. End this now and report to The Involition.

  There have been times in my life when I have broken my conditioning. Times when I have been moved to such a degree that the chains that bind me have meant nothing. This was not one of those times, and yet…

  And yet, I found myself saying, "That man is not me."

  Her eyes darted up to my face and now was my chance. I leaned forward, my magia sparking.

  And I did nothing.

  What was wrong with me?

  I studied the witchling. She did not appear to be using her own magia. Was she that deft at controlling it that I could not even sense her call on the power of her people? I had always been able to tell when a witch reached for her magia. Always. It is how I have stayed alive over the centuries.

  This woman before me should not have been able to deceive me. That was not how this exchange was meant to go. In my confusion and hesitation, I lost the upper hand.

  My eyes darted to the cocktail glasses between us. How appropriate.

  "If you're not him, who are you?" she demanded, and there was magic behind the words. She did not realise it. But she was trying to influence me.

  And suddenly, the small measure of freedom this assignment had given me was washed away in a bitter flood of dread.

  Just how powerful was this witch? Alone, unguarded, and untrained. What would she be like when The Involition claimed her?

  I had never felt such a swell of fear as I did right then. I had never felt more powerless. It was not a sensation I welcomed willingly.

  "My name is Raphael Nonpareil," I said, trying with every fibre of my being to deny her more than that.

  It helped that I wore two lotu given to me by the All-Mother. Her magia was the strongest of everyone, so the spell bound to the bracelets was more powerful than the compulsion Catalin weaved inexpertly.