Dirty Magic by Jaye Wells Page B

work—chasing perps after the crime had happened—I was excited to be involved in building a case proactively. It felt more … I don’t know, productive. Which was ridiculous since all we were doing was sitting in a car.
    “Has anyone on the team actually seen Gray Wolf?”
    “Harkins said he saw it once.” He nodded. “It’s a gray powder, like ash, he said.”
    I nodded. Most potions were sold in powder form. Alchemical potions were usually mixed with alcohol or narcotics and smoked, while blood potions were mixed with blood and injected or snorted.
    “He also said it can be smoked or injected,” he continued. Which supported Mez’s theory that it was a combo of alchemy and blood magic.
    “What’s the street price?” I asked.
    He finally put down the magazine and turned toward me fully. “Two hundred an ounce.”
    “Fuck off! Who the hell are they selling that shit to at those prices?”
    “My guess is they’re trying to scare off the curious.”
    I frowned. “The demographic in the Cauldron that can afford that kind of scratch is so small it’s laughable.”
    He shrugged. “Well someone’s buying. Gardner got a call from your boss at BPD this morning. There was a mugging last night. Vic said the perp bit him, but he managed to beat him back with his briefcase, which the perp promptly ran off with.”
    “Why do they think it’s related to Gray Wolf?” I lifted the binoculars to watch the corner again.
    “The vic said the guy looked like, and I quote, ‘One of them ugly werewolves from the movies.’”
    I nudged him with my elbow. “Speaking of ugly—get a hold of that mug.”
    The guy leaned against the building, smoking a cigarette. He was a six-foot-plus-tall sack of tough meat and gristle. His lanky frame was pretty much the only thing noteworthy about him. Brown hair, ashy skin, brown eyes.
    Morales turned and lifted the binoculars to get a gander. “Recognize him?”
    I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “He’s a regular corner boy. One of the Votary boys.” Which wasn’t a surprise since the Green Faerie sat smack-dab in the middle of the territory Uncle Abe used to run. Now, of course, no single wizard was in charge of these corners—just low-level guys duking it out for prime real estate.
    “I busted him a couple of times for vandalism. Real name’s Marvin Brown, but on the streets he’s known as ‘Picasso’ because he’s a coven Herald.” Personally, I thought the nickname fit because his face looked like one of those cubist paintings—all angles with no symmetry.
    “Herald?” Morales shot me a curious eyebrow raise.
    “Covens sometimes use graffiti to spread messages to the troops. The ones who paint the symbols are called Heralds.”
    Morales nodded. “Some of the covens in Los Angeles do something similar. What kind of code do they use?”
    “The Sangs tend to use Egyptian hieroglyphs. The Votaries use the alchemical language of birds.”
    He shot me a look that I was too smart to mistake for respect. “What about the Os?”
    “Aphrodite Johnson doesn’t bother with that cryptic bullshit.”
    “So our friend is a tagger. Any history of dealing?”
    “Hasn’t been collared for it yet,” I said. “But he’s looking awfully nervous for a graffiti artist without his paints.”
    Marvin’s posture was casual, but his eyes worked over the street as if he was waiting for someone to attack. Morales and I were parked in a lot down the street, so he hadn’t eyeballed us yet.
    “Should we have a chat with him?” I asked.
    Morales watched for a few moments. Finally, he picked up his magazine again. “We’ll wait.”
    “Why?”
    He sighed and dragged his eyes from the magazine. “Because, Nancy Drew, we’re trying to find evidence, not have a heart-to-heart with the guy.”
    I considered calling him to task on the Nancy Drew thing, but it was better than Cupcake, so I let it slide. Plus, as soon as Morales said it, a limo pulled up to the corner. We