“Why was she here late at night alone?” Stella wondered.

“Working on a book, apparently,” the firebug said.

Steps echoed down the hall—someone walking toward us, briskly.

I surveyed the scene again. The more I could figure out about the artifact’s guardian, the better.

“How old was Professor Walton?” I asked.

“Forties,” the firebug said.

“No cane, no mobility problems?”

“If she had a cane, we didn’t find it.”

“What are you thinking?” Stella asked.

I carefully walked around the circle to the desk and stood behind it. I could see both the door and window. The desk had been positioned to enjoy the view of the woods. “About twelve feet to the door?”

Stella nodded. “Give or take.”

I pointed at the window. “A giant flying creature tears the grate out of the wall and tries to force its way inside. It’s too big, so it claws at the window frame, trying to wedge its way in. You’re a forty-year-old college professor sitting behind this desk. Your next move?”

“Run for the door,” the firebug said.

“Twelve feet.” Stella’s eyes narrowed. “She should’ve made it.”

“She jumped out of the chair,” the firebug added. “It’s pushed back. But then she didn’t run.”

“Why wait?” I thought out loud.

“Maybe the creature has some sort of hypnotic magic gaze?” Stella said.

“But she jumped out of her chair and came around the desk,” the firebug said. “If there was some sort of hypnotic gaze, she would have stayed seated. If it was me, I would come around the desk so I could fry its ass without damaging the furniture.”

“Maybe Professor Walton had some sort of offensive magic we don’t know about,” I said.

“She didn’t,” a new voice said.

A stocky, white man stepped into the office. He appeared to be in his early forties. His tousled dark hair stuck out from his head in all directions, as if he’d rolled out of bed and hadn’t even bothered to drag a comb or even his hand through it. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He wore khaki shorts, work boots and a blue T-shirt with a pointy hat printed in white ink. The words below the hat said Keep calm, I’m a wizard.

The firebug stopped slouching and stood straight, suddenly looking alert and professional.

“Crap,” Stella muttered.

Luther Dillon. When I left, he was a higher-up in Biohazard. Whenever Kate had to report something to them, she called him first. I’d met him a handful of times, twice because Kate asked for my help with a crime scene and on a few occasions at family gatherings, like Kate and Curran’s wedding. All I remembered about him was that he called Kate a heathen and pretended she bothered him, while helping her in every way he could, and he was brilliant. On the recognition danger scale, he ranked pretty low.

Luther gave me a cursory glance and focused on Stella. “Knight Davis.”

“Assistant Director Dillon,” Stella squeezed through clenched teeth. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

She winced as soon as she said it.

“I’m a wizard, Knight Davis. We are always exactly where we’re supposed to be. You, however, are not where you’re supposed to be. I was wondering who was cavorting around my crime scene, asking smart questions, and imagine my surprise when it turned out to be you.”

Uh-oh.

Luther crossed his arms. “Do you remember the song I taught you last time you interfered with one of my crime scenes?”

Stella looked like she’d swallowed spoiled milk. “Yes.”

“Splendid. Let’s sing it together. I’ll start. Biohazard is a law enforcement agency, yes, yes, yes. Your turn.”

Stella unlocked her teeth. “The Order is not a law enforcement agency, no, no, no.”

“All the crime scenes in Atlanta Metro are mine, mine, mine.”

“All the crime scenes in Atlanta Metro are yours, yours, yours,” Stella intoned.

“When are you allowed into one of my crime scenes?” Luther continued.

“When I’m personally invited, invited, invited.”

Wow. What did she do to make him that mad? I’d never seen him like this.

“Knight Davis,” Luther said without any trace of humor. “Were you invited to this crime scene?”

“No.”

“Begone, ye unfortunate.” Luther pointed at the door. Stella headed straight for it without another word, and I followed.

We walked down the hallway with Luther about twenty feet behind.

“What did you do?” I whispered.

“Later,” Stella ground out.

“No, no, Knight Davis,” Luther called. “Don’t be shy.”

Stella shut her eyes for a second. “We were working a murder case jointly. Several people died standing up with strange bulbs growing out of the bodies. One of them came to life.”

“And in blatant violation of the safety procedures established over the last four decades, Knight Davis didn’t give way to the pyrokinetic specialists. Instead, she had a lapse in judgement.”

We turned onto the staircase and headed down.

“I hit the corpse with a sword,” Stella said, her tone resigned. “It exploded.”

“And because Knight Davis was in the way, the explosion couldn’t be contained in time.”

“What do you mean, exploded?” I asked.

Stella grimaced. “I mean its insides, suddenly and with great force, became its outsides. People got splattered, nobody died.”

Luther’s voice held no mercy. “Nobody died because they were in the ICU for five days receiving cutting-edge medical care. Many of them wished, loudly, that they had died, and some even asked us to kill them. And this is why this particular Feldman minion is not permitted at any of my crime scenes.”

Okay then.

“Stella, did you get sick?” I asked.

“I don’t get sick. Ever.”

“Accurate,” Luther called out. “She was covered in gore. Some of it even made it into her mouth. She didn’t have a single symptom. No agonizing pain, no projectile vomiting, no bloody diarrhea. Fresh as a daisy.”

“You really don’t have to walk us out,” Stella said.