I slump onto my desk. I haven’t slept. The whole night I tossed and turned and battled with myself until I called it quits and headed to the precinct to work on the case instead.

When I'm not in Henry's presence, it's easier to combat a lot of the adverse effects but not all of them.

I can concentrate better.

My hopes that the bond isn’t permanent have faded though. I know they are by the tight, hot, pining sensation that lurches in my stomach every time I breathe.

I force myself to look at the photos in front of me. All males, all young. They have a similar look to them. They all have long hair. They are all Caucasian, or if they are fae, light skinned. All slim, but not muscular.

Four photographs of young men who have lost their lives over the last four months. The last of which was only a week ago. At the equinox. The killer had gagged them. They had eventually died of strangulation. There are handprints around their necks.

Vicious.

Personal.

“Wishing they could speak to you?”

I look up. Senior Special Agent Ether is a Will-o’-the-Wisp. A shimmer of floating light sustained by sheer will and magic. They’re my mentor, and most importantly, my friend.

“Seances in the case of violent deaths are too risky.” I push the photos away. “I don’t want to create a poltergeist or call a demon and get no answers for my trouble.”

“A wise decision.” Ether perches above my desk and casting a ghostly light on the gathered photographs. “Any luck with the undertaker?”

My cheeks grow hot. I had managed to distract myself.

I try to look anywhere but at Ether. At the mahogany but well-worn desk in front of me, at the ugly mint-green tiles of the floor, at the ancient computer screen in front of me that still runs an operating system from the 90s.

“He’s dropping by later to make a statement,” I say, when I manage to kick my brain into gear and respond.

“A statement? He saw something?” Ether asks. The light around them spikes in curiosity.

“No. I just... I was off-balance. I want to interview him in a more neutral space.”

I'm making excuses for myself, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sully my professionalism by admitting what has happened.

And I’ll be damned if I’m pulled off this case. I’ve been working on it since the second murder, six months ago. Soulmate or no, if Henry is responsible, I am putting him behind bars.

“Yeah, I know what you mean." Ether moves a little to the right, nearly knocking over my lamp onto my cluttered desk. “He's silent. I mean, I’m not exactly a loud mover, but I don't have feet. Creatures with feet should have footsteps.”

I'm glad it’s not just me who found that so unnerving.

“Do you know of any fairy that has those abilities?” I ask, not because I want to know more, but because I need to know more about the potential suspect. That is the only reason I’ll admit to. “If Thistle can move silently, it might make more sense as to why there are no defensive wounds on the men.”

“What? Abyss-eyes and silent footsteps? Sorry, that’s not anything I've heard of anyone having. Betcha the CIA knows though. Those Celestials are all over shit like that.”

I sigh. There's no luck there then.