While Alistair would have liked to detain the witch—somewhere more private where he could truly speak to her—to do so would have invited suspicion. Especially since he’d intentionally stood in her path in order to meet her.

What he’d not expected was for her to fall. It didn’t exactly set the proper tone. But there was nothing he could do about that now. At least he’d managed to get a first impression.

Very attractive. Most definitely human. Humming faintly of magic. And did he mention attractive?

With her generous curves, fiery red hair, and snapping green eyes, she definitely stood out.

She also had attitude.

While Alistair would have liked to pursue the intriguing witch to continue their discourse, he had business here.

Business that could not wait.

The reception desk for the TDCM—which the humans mistakenly assumed was for The Defense and Care of Mammals—was manned by a portly fellow with a face that would have looked better with Alistair’s fist in it.

Alistair’s mood might have been somewhat shaped by the conversation he’d overheard. Insane that in this day and age such discrimination still happened. Human witches might not have the same magical strength as those with pure elven or other blood, but they deserved the same respect as any other magic user. After all, it meant, somewhere down the line, one of the species had frolicked with a human.

But most wished to pretend that embarrassment hadn’t happened—even if it continued to occur, just with fewer accidents.

It always baffled Alistair how the races treated the witches. Their skills were invaluable in many ways, not to mention pissing off the humans seemed rather shortsighted given they outnumbered non-humans about one hundred to one.

The fellow at the desk shot him a bored stare. “State your name and business.”

“Alistair Fitzroy.”

“Never heard of you.” The man didn’t even look down to check his tablet.

No wonder the redheaded lass was in such a temper. Such intolerable rudeness.

Alistair leaned closer. “I didn’t ask if you’d heard of me. You will let me in. I am expected.”

The other man eyed him up and down. “Maintenance crew are supposed to use the back entrance.”

Pompous fool. He really had no idea who he messed with. “I am not with maintenance, and your attitude shall be reported. I am Alistair Fitzroy, and I was sent by La Fratellanza Di Magia,”—the brotherhood of magic based out of Italy—“because of my expertise in ancient languages.”

“You’re the expert?” The receptionist eyed him up and down. “We expected someone older.”

“You must be thinking of my father. He has, however, retired, and I am now taking his place. If you’re done causing me delay…” Alistair inclined his head toward the doors behind the desk, guarded by spelled runes to keep out the riffraff.

Alistair could have busted in, but that wouldn’t endear him to the TDCM, or anyone else for that matter.

“If you’ll sign here.” By sign, the man meant place his thumb on a parchment he slid out of a drawer to register his essence.

With a sigh of annoyance, Alistair imprinted his thumb on the paper and then snapped, “Could you move a little faster? In my country, we don’t make our honored guests wait.”

The rebuke served its purpose. “Just following the rules, Mr. Fitzroy—”

“That’s Grande Mago Fitzroy to you.” At times like these, when dealing with pompous idiots, tossing out a title could prove useful.

With the man put properly in his place, Alistair got a deferential head bob and a scurrying apology as the man stood from his desk and ushered Alistair past. “If you would come this way. Through this door, you’ll find the lift to the third floor and the investigative offices. Grand Whizziar Morfeus is the one heading this particular case.”

“I know.” Alistair knew everything there was to know about the demonic problem plaguing this city. It was one of many in the world suddenly dealing with the body-snatching demons. The planets had aligned. Hell was coming to Earth.

But that wasn’t common knowledge, yet.

The TDCM offices were like any other modern building, he noted as he finally got past the moron at the desk. Lots of gray industrial carpet, grayer walls, chrome finishes, and, hidden in the hanging artwork, runes.

While humans rarely got to set foot in the inner sanctum, the magical community had hidden for so long that they’d implemented necessary spells into their design. Spells such as look away, you don’t see a man with pointy ears or a green-skinned goblin.

Oddly enough, though most of the hidden races had chosen to emerge into the public eye, some had elected to stay hidden. Vampires for one. They claimed that too many movies made them out to be the bad guys, and while Twilight had done much to elevate their status, they still preferred to stay in the shadows. Then there were the wizards, who liked secrecy and games. They also chose to remain a secret, more because they thought themselves too important to care what humans thought.

Soon, no one would be able to hide. It was only a matter of time before technology and an unexpected video outed them.

Taking the stairs because Alistair didn’t believe in the modern practice of enclosed boxes that rose on a pulley system, he made it to the third floor quite easily.

It didn’t prove hard to find the office he needed—it was the one with a voice bellowing from it.

“No. We are not contacting that hearth witch for information. We were all present. We know what we saw.”

A voice murmured, and whatever they said caused another loud outburst. “I said no, and that is final.”

Final according to him, not according to Alistair. It didn’t take a genius to guess that the witch he’d met downstairs was the one being argued about. If she did have information, then he would gladly question her. Over dinner and a drink.

With a firm knock, he announced his presence.

The door was whipped open. A tall and gangly fellow poked his head out. “Who are you?”

“Is that the tea and biscuits?” asked someone else from within the room.

“No. Just some maintenance fellow who is lost. You have the wrong room.” The reed-thin guy went to close the door, but Alistair had endured quite enough from fools already today.

He blocked the door and shoved it open, sending the guy stumbling.

“Just because I am not wearing robes or a suit doesn’t make me maintenance,” Alistair barked. “I am also not in the wrong place. I am here because my presence was requested.”

“I requested tea and biscuits, not some male model,” announced the man who’d been yelling but a moment ago.

Alistair took in his appearance; as was the case with most elves, the rude fellow stood rather tall. He was gray-haired, the strands combed back and held in a queue at his neck. The sharp features and porcelain skin tone hinted at a strong elvish background, yet he wasn’t pure. His round ears, hidden by hair, yet not peaking at the tips gave that away. He wore a suit, the pale yellow linen of his shirt matched by the striping in his gray tie.

Alistair’s lip curled. “You must be Morfeus.”

“I am Grand Whizziar Morfeus. Who are you? How dare you interrupt important matters.”

Alistair tucked his hands behind his back. “As mentioned, my presence was requested. La Fratellanza Di Magia sent me. I am Fitzroy.”

“You’re too young to be Fitzroy.” A frown creased Morfeus’s brow.

“You’re thinking of my father. He retired.”

“I wasn’t informed of this.”

“Because you didn’t need to know,” Alistair remarked.

“And you’re here to what, take his place?” Mockery hued the words, and Alistair could have taken offense, except…I am better than he is.

“I am as knowledgeable as, if not more learned than, my father when it comes to ancients languages and forgotten histories. Now, are we going to indulge in a boring exchange of credentials, or shall I do what I came here for? I was told you had something that no one could decipher.”

Morfeus struggled, wanting to assert his superiority, yet at the same time, refusing to show Alistair what he’d come to do would make him appear weak and petty. “It’s gibberish,” he finally declared.

Gibberish that couldn’t be photographed or drawn. There’d been many attempts. Even live videos failed to show it. Fascinating stuff. It meant Alistair had had to travel here in person to see it.

“Are you an expert in languages?” Alistair asked. “Have you studied ancient Babylonian and the lost language of the Hunnic? Are you versed in the dead scripts of the Eteocretan?”

“No, but—”

Alistair interrupted. “There is no but. You are not qualified to speak on this subject. Only I am. You would do well to stick to the things you can do. Like perhaps finding out where that tea and those biscuits have gone to.” Petty perhaps, but enjoyable.

“You can’t speak to me like that. I am a—”

“Step below me in status. I know. And yet, I am allowing you to speak freely. Or would you prefer we turn this gathering more formal and use our proper titles?” Alistair arched a brow, his lips pulled in a half smirk.

The other men in the room, three besides Morfeus, fought to restrain their snickers while Morfeus turned a shade of red that probably wasn’t healthy.

“You can’t speak to me like that. I am a Grand Whizziar.”

“Which is below a Grande Mago, which means I can and will speak to you any way I like. The World Council of Mages has put me in charge of this investigation due to your lack of findings.”

“They did not!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, I assure you, they have. Apparently, they could no longer ignore your incompetence.”

“You lie. If that were true, they would have—” A flurry of ringtones went off, from a delicate bird chirping to the honk of a boat.

Alistair ignored them as the wizards present whipped out their phones to check the urgent message. He tucked his hands behind his back as he studied his new workspace. The office was boring with its pale gray walls, and small. It also lacked a decent view. Nothing like his usual quarters, but it would have to do.

He’d have Morfeus clean out his things—after the pompous fool fetched their refreshments.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” Alistair asked with fake innocence.

“I’m to give you my office while you are heading the investigation and offer you any assistance you might require. There must be a mistake.” Morfeus couldn’t have looked more appalled.

Alistair, though, felt quite gleeful. “No mistake, and mighty kind of you to step down while those more qualified handle things.” Alistair rubbed his hands together. “Now that we’ve settled that, I think we need more than tea and biscuits. Fetch us some sandwiches, would you? No crusts. And on fresh bread. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

It wouldn’t be long before the next demon attack occurred, and he wanted to be ready to meet it.