Captain Hugh Frankson of the NYPD stormed to my desk and slapped a file down on the ever-growing stack of misdemeanors I needed to register in our database before I could leave. Any other day, I would have indulged in an anxiety attack over the man’s unexpected appearance.
Whenever the captain showed up at my desk, hell came chasing on the heels of high water, as he went out of his way in his idiotic attempt to prove women had no business being on the force.
Today, however, the hell and the high water had already come calling in the form of the Chief Quinns, who haunted the station somewhere, doing whatever it was chiefs did when checking in on precincts they were responsible for. In addition to dodging jabs over my gender, I’d likely escape from being ribbed over my mixed heritage thanks to their presence. Aware the captain would lose his shit if he believed I wasn’t taking him seriously, I set aside the case I’d been working on and picked up the folder.
Before I had a chance to flip it open and behold the terrors within, the captain announced, “You’re being transferred.” His declaration carried through the open room, loud enough everyone could hear—even the cops busy on the phone. A still quiet fell over the cubicle farm, except for the cops forced to continue their conversations. “I’ll take your cruiser keys now. You’ll have a ride to your new place of employment.”
Well, screw me sideways with a baton while lighting me on fire. With a little luck, the poor bastard saddled with my cruiser would survive the experience; it had needed to retire years ago, but I kept the damned thing running through investing a few hours every week at home convincing the engine to keep trucking along. I opened my drawer, grabbed my keys, unclipped the dying vehicle’s keys, and handed them over. “Effective immediately, sir?”
Captain Frankson snatched the keys out of my hand. “Yes.”
Before I could say another word, he blew through the cubicle farm in the direction of his office and turned the corner. A moment later, a door slammed.
“Damn, McMarin. What did you do?” my now ex-partner, Kit, demanded in an amused tone. “I haven’t seen the captain that pissed since the day you were assigned to our station.”
If Kit ended up with my cruiser, I hoped he survived the experience.
“I did something?” I heaved a sigh, well aware I had an audience. Bracing for the worst, I flipped open the folder and checked the file. A single sheet of paper informed me I’d been promoted to the rank of detective third grade and instructed me to report to my new place of employment under the direct guidance of Mr. and Mrs. Chief Quinn.
My mouth dropped open, and I blinked several times before rereading the sheet, which remained the same. I passed the sheet to Kit, who read it over and joined me in attempting to catch flies in his mouth before he leaned over to hand the news off to the next cop in line.
Typically, those up for promotion endured tests, trials, and tribulation along with a warning of the impending changes. I viewed my daily life as some ridiculous challenge where I needed to prove I could be just as good—or better—than the boys. While the captain loathed me, the boys in blue liked me around, or so Kit often told me. The fact we got requested to serve as backup often implied there was something to Kit’s claim.
The news of my promotion ushered in stunned silence.
“I’d ask you who you slept with, but the incubus at the bar bust this morning made it clear you’re a pure and pristine maiden,” Kit teased.
I regretted the morning half of my shift, which had required me to decline the incubus’s offer. Taking him home would’ve beaten the damned jokes. However, my status as single and unlaid didn’t bother me in the slightest. I was married to my job, so I grinned at my partner and replied, “I reduced him to begging, too. I’m quality, Kit. I put some serious thought into taking a half-day, writing my number and address on a napkin, and taking him up on his offer.”
My ex-partner cackled. “I can’t say I blame you. I would have covered you, too. You know how awful those unexpected stomach bugs can be.”
“Should’ve said I’d contracted the flu,” I stated, gesturing in the general direction of the window. In the morning, we’d gotten snow, which had been reduced to slush, the normal state of January in Brooklyn.
Everyone laughed, and my promotion announcement made its way back to me along with two empty filing boxes. I doubted I’d fill one; Captain Frankson preferred when his cops were white and male rather than mixed and female, so I’d done my best to keep my desk clutter at a minimum just in case I needed to bail out in a hurry. Being half-Irish somewhat appeased the asshole, and my sparkling record had spared me from termination.
The half-Mexican part of my heritage tripped his trigger, reminded everyone in our precinct we worked for a racist bastard, and resulted in a careful dance of the sensible people doing their best to mitigate the damage his idiotic prejudices did to the community we served.
In his book, Mexican was one step up from anyone else who wasn’t white or European; he claimed most Mexicans were at least part Spanish. If my parents found out about his idiocy, they’d give him a talking to, as I was a solid fifty percent Mexica, and my mother was damned proud of her heritage, which hadn’t been conquered by the Conquistadors.
In good news for everyone involved, Captain Frankson generally knew better than to test his luck against the labor board, opting to keep his discrimination somewhat to himself.
My pens and journals went into the box first, with my prized dry-erase markers following in their wake. As I had zero scruples about reminding the men that a woman worked among them, I placed my stash of feminine hygiene products on top. I chuckled at the mix of blatantly pink to plain white to camouflage, making certain there was a little something for everyone who crossed my path and might need to make use of them.
My personal stash stayed in my locker, which I would raid as soon as I had half a moment. The rest would eventually find their way into the hands of the needy. I put the lid on and gave the box a pat. “I’m ready. Give the poor bastard inheriting my desk my condolences. He’ll need it. If he needs some love, don’t warn him about the chair.”
It took skill to sit without the devil-spawned chair establishing dominance and declaring itself the winner over its latest victim, usually me. On a good day, it dumped me on the floor. On a bad one, it attempted a cruel violation before dumping me on the floor.
A door slammed down the hall, and Captain Frankson yelled, “Move it, McMarin!”
Damn. Who had pissed in the captain’s coffee? Picking up my box, I hauled it to his office to discover the Chief Quinns lounging together on his couch.
I stepped into the doorway, forced my expression to be calm and neutral, and held my box as though I meant to go to the filing room rather than my locker to empty out my gear. “Sir?”
“Chief Quinn will be taking you to your new station. They have need of a detective, and you were up for promotion. Empty your locker on the way out. Dismissed.”
For a woman rumored to be pregnant yet again, Chief Bailey Quinn hopped to her feet with admirable grace, although her husband beat her to the door and snagged my box, claiming it.
“Sorry for the lack of notice, Detective McMarin,” he said, and he herded me out of the captain’s office, snagging the door with his foot and easing it closed. “The commissioner dumped a huge stack of files on our desk yesterday. I was permitted to bring in one new body to help deal with it. A new hire wouldn’t work, so I inquired with Captain Frankson who would fit well in the position, can handle excessive amounts of paperwork, and has a high tolerance for bullshit, as he’s got the most robust numbers in the area. Upon reviewing your file, Bailey decided we were taking you, and as she’s willing to fight me over it, I thought it wise to cooperate. Don’t mind Captain Frankson’s temper. He’s annoyed we took his best paper pusher, and the commissioner has also decided he isn’t accepting no for an answer. First things first; unless reporters are nearby, I’m Sam or Quinn. She’s Bailey.”
Chief Bailey Quinn glared at her husband and the box he held. “If you want to put him in his place, call me Gardener. It drives him crazy.” Placing her hands on her hips, she continued to glare at her husband. “I could have carried that.”
“You could have, but you won’t.” Chief Samuel Quinn grinned. “As I’m busy carrying this box, I won’t be able to defend your saddle, which I happened to bring with me today.”
The woman bolted down the hall, hit the stairwell door at full throttle, and bounced off it before yanking it open and plunging down the steps.
My mouth dropped open, and I struggled to come up with a single thing to say.
“The kids are at their grandparents’ place today, and she is enjoying her freedom. As she’s no longer nursing, she had her first cup of coffee today since month five of her first pregnancy. This time, she gets to have coffee until month eight. This will delight her until she realizes that she’s already working on her timer before she’s cut off again. She has not had coffee in months. She’s once again forgotten cindercorns don’t appreciate the cold, which should have been her first clue she’ll be losing her coffee rights again by the end of the year. Have you ridden a horse before?”
I grimaced at the memory of being stuck with one of the force’s worst assholes of a horse during my training period. “I have basic mounted patrol training, but I was passed over for duty,” I reported.
“That’ll do. You’ll ride Bailey to the station. Maybe that’ll calm her down. I’ve a pair of goggles for you to wear, and I had a vest made for her so she’s not cop bait. She is excitable today, and cindercorns have a habit of disregarding speed limits when excited. Hell, who am I kidding? Cindercorns hate speed limits.”
I considered running away and searching for the incubus I’d rejected earlier in my shift. Testing my luck with the incubus seemed a great deal safer than riding a unicorn with a habit of breathing fire and destroying entire city blocks at her whim. “Understood, sir.”
“You’re going to be one of the ones who struggles with first names, I see. We have a rule for the newbies at the station: those who don’t use our first names get extra paperwork.”
“Are you serious?” I blurted.
“Not really, but it’s fun making the more formal cops squirm. You’ll get used to it.”
No one had warned me Mr. Chief Quinn was as crazy as his cindercorn wife. Doing my best to mask my skepticism, I replied, “If you say so, Samuel, sir.”
“I’ll take it. Let’s hurry up before Bailey creates extra trouble or breaks something in her general excitement. Had I been a little wiser this morning, I wouldn’t have reminded her she can now have coffee. It’s your first day with us, and I’m already going to have to issue you a hazard bonus for coping with my wife’s insanity. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m really not.”
All I could do was hope heaven might help me, as I doubted there was any other force in the universe capable of stopping a pregnant fire-breathing unicorn with a reputation of creating havoc wherever she went.
Chief Samuel Quinn observed while I emptied my locker into the duffle bag I kept in the bottom, aware I ran a high risk of being let go at any time. My firearm would be returned to Captain Frankson with the promise I’d get my choice of new weapon as soon as we made it to the station. I’d also be receiving a new badge, I would have an office of my own, and I would have my choice of partner from a pool of thirty men and women being shuffled as part of their reorganization.
The reorganization, according to Mr. Chief Quinn, might be the thing that shattered his flagging sanity, although he loved the perks of working with his wife, even when she was a demoness high on her first cup of coffee in months.
Ten minutes after I started emptying my locker, returning everything belonging to the station and otherwise regretting I hadn’t taken a half day to enjoy a dalliance with an incubus, Chief Bailey Quinn pranced into the locker room, her dark head held high. Her hooves clicked on the floor, and she lashed her tail.
Up close, the cindercorn seemed a great deal less dangerous than expected, although I respected that her horn could inflict a great deal of damage. The red mottling her black coat resembled smoldering embers, and I wondered why she didn’t smoke or steam.
Snorting, she went to her husband and nuzzled his chest. He smiled and dug his fingers into her thick fur. “We’ll tack you up in the garage, and we’ll see how Detective McMarin takes to riding you. You may do one and only one teleportation test with her, so pick your test wisely.”
“Only one?” the cindercorn whined.
“Only one. The goal is to see if she’s able to handle teleportation, not break speed records getting back to work. You also need to remember that most people get sick from your teleportation, and I’d rather if you didn’t end up in the bathroom holding her hair for a few hours because you got rambunctious again.”
Heaving a sigh, the unicorn with a reputation of destroying anything that got in her way regarded me with a dark eye. “Most cops throw up when I teleport. Hope you don’t. You seem nice. Tolerant. I need nice and tolerant. Mostly tolerant. Please don’t throw up.”
Chief Samuel Quinn snickered, gave his wife a final pat, and grabbed my bag, tossing it over his shoulder before taking my box. “Bailey, why don’t you return the detective’s vest and gun? Make sure he gives you the return receipt so he can’t be a pain in my ass later. You know how annoyed I get when the captains try to claim we didn’t return the vests and firearms after stealing one of their cops.”
“Much annoyance, much whining.” The cindercorn grabbed the vest and holster in her teeth, lifted her head, and stepped with care to keep from tripping over the straps. Her husband opened the door for her.
Once she left, he said, “All right. Let’s get downstairs and start sorting through her tack while she inevitably starts an argument with Captain Frankson. And if anyone asks why I allowed my wife to cause trouble, I’m just going to ask how they expect me to stop the fire-breathing unicorn. That usually stops most of the complaints. He annoyed her. We can talk down in the garage.”
Without anything to carry except my purse, I led the way, holding the door for the chief while he wrestled with my possessions. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I know what’s going to be put on your desk as soon as you arrive at the station. While you’re getting that promotion you’re overdue for, you’ll be earning it.”
“Wait, overdue for?”
Chief Samuel Quinn snorted. “That’s part of why Bailey is going to pick a fight with him. His prejudice has cost the NYPD a detective for at least three years now. Part of my job as a chief is to monitor the staff in all stations and precincts we’re responsible for. Since the restructure, I’ve been going over the Long Island precincts. Your record is as good as it gets, you’re active on the streets, there have been virtually no complaints from your partners, and it’s no accident you’re the only woman in that station. Captain Frankson has just enough seniority to cherry pick the new recruits, and the only reason he ended up taking you was because one of the other chiefs told him if he didn’t improve his diversity numbers, stat, the commissioner would be coming in to take a look at the situation.”
Ah. As I checked off several diversity quota boxes, I could understand why my ex-captain would tolerate me. He’d be able to claim he had a woman, a second-generation immigrant, and someone of mixed heritage. At the next family dinner, I’d have to thank my parents for coming to the United States as children and getting their citizenship young, not that they’d been given a choice in the matter.
My parents would have a field day when they found out about my transfer.
The chief waited until we were in the garage to say, “Captain Frankson is going to be particularly displeased when I come around next week, as I will be clearing out half his station and requiring him to do a full diversity hire. I’ll be spreading people around, giving him a pool of cops he must pick from, and none of those cops will be white and male. It’s time he joined modern times—and ran his precinct more in line with our values. Don’t get me wrong; he has a lot of good cops, but he also has one of the highest incident rates for non-violent racial disputes in his precinct. I’m hoping having a more diversified pool, better matching the residents of the public he serves, will resolve some of those problems. He was smart in how he used you, but he could do better, and honestly, this should have been addressed years ago.”
“Well, someone started to address it. I was hired,” I replied.
“While true, this should have been taken care of already. The chiefs allowed themselves to think his precinct was predominantly Caucasian. It’s not. It’s surprisingly diverse, but there’s little of the racial violence we have in other precincts with this sort of mingling. I was hoping you could shine some light on that, actually.”
I considered my ex-precinct, which included parts of Crown Heights, Weeksville, and Prospect Heights. In some ways, I felt bordering the Brooklyn Botanical Garden helped.
The people who lived in the precinct viewed themselves as belonging to the middle and upper classes, laid back enough compared to other neighborhoods, and more concerned with accumulating wealth and raising families than causing trouble. While the precinct had its fair share of crime, it also had a diligent patrol, one I’d participated in from the day I’d been issued my badge. “I’d say it’s less about the staff diversity and more about Captain Frankson making it clear he’d be rather angry if he had any reports of brutality or anything that smeared his reputation. He’s very concerned about his reputation.” He cared more about his reputation than he cared about the public we served, but neither Chief Quinn would hear that from me. “Our demographic helps. People are concerned for their own safety, they’re typically diligent, and there are several active security companies patrolling the communities here. That keeps the crime figures low. It doesn’t hurt there are folks with stronger magic who have made it clear they like their neighborhood quiet and peaceful.”
“That definitely helps. A self-policing populace makes our job easier—if the self-policing populace also follows the rules. Still, there are enough racial problems in this precinct it has drawn the commissioner’s attention.” The chief set my box on the hood of his cruiser, unlocked it, and put it in the back seat along with my bag. He then went to the trunk and began the process of unloading a saddle, bridle, and various pieces of protective gear, some of which I recognized. “All right. Bailey is fast, she’s got a ridiculous amount of endurance, and she has zero respect for lights. It’s impossible to run a siren on a cindercorn; it annoys her and she eats the damned thing. Flashing lights? Those also annoy her into eating them. I have not convinced her that sirens and running lights aren’t edible, so I stopped trying to get her to wear them. Instead, she gets this nice blanket that protects her body and chest. It is bulletproof, and while she complains it’s heavy, it doesn’t slow her down. Unbeknownst to her, it’s heavier than it needs to be because she needs more exercise, so it’s weighted so she builds healthy muscle. Once she’s back to a good weight, I’ll exchange it for a lighter one.”
I admired the man’s sneakiness. “That’s really clever.”
“I’m a dead man when she finds out,” he admitted in a cheerful tone. “Have you ever jumped a horse before?”
“No, I can’t say I have,” I admitted.
“Do your best. Bailey does slow down when she’s about to jump usually, but be on your guard, keep your heels down, and do your best to stay astride. Hold on tight with your legs and don’t worry about pulling on her mane. Her rider’s cursing amuses her, so go to town if you want. If you handle teleportation well, you’ll end up in rotation on our team. We hadn’t anticipated it being so difficult to find people who could ride her without throwing up afterwards.”
The clop of hooves warned me the cindercorn had returned, and she trotted over, trails of smoke streaming from her nostrils. “Why can’t I bite him?”
“You can’t bite the captains who annoy you, sorry. He put up a fight about the receipts?”
Bailey bobbed her head. “I stood over his shoulder until he sent it, faxed it, and texted it to Perky. Perky texted back a con-fir-may-shun of receipt to the captain’s phone, but I will confirm with Perky when we return.” Bobbing her head, she turned her nose away from us and snorted flame. “Why no bite?”
“He’d give you indigestion if you ate him. That’s why.”
“True. Probably taste bad, too.”
“How about I order you a burger and some of those greasy fries you love as compensation for not being able to bite the captain?”
The cindercorn’s ears pricked forward. “Extra mayo? Coffee?”
“May everyone in the station forgive me, but yes, you can have some more coffee to go with your lunch, and I’ll make sure they slather your burger with mayo.”
The cindercorn pranced in place, and the idea that food motivated the woman that much would amuse me for at least several hours. “Okay. No bite idiot captain.”
“Detective McMarin has not ridden a jumper before, so you need to be extra careful so you don’t lose her. If she does handle your teleportation well, we’ll enroll her in riding lessons so you’ll have a proper rider while on duty. I’ll have whomever she picks as her partner trained as well. Unlike you, I don’t view sunshine as a mode of transportation, so I’m compatible with anyone who can ride a horse.”
“Not my fault I fast, beautiful, and magically inclined to ride sunshine. Blame my daddy, I dare you.”
“No. I value my life and don’t want to find out what your daddy would do if I complained that your decision to use sunshine as transportation causes me trouble. Don’t you love me anymore? Why do you want your daddy to deal with me?”
“Extra fries or I’m telling my daddy you’re complaining about my perfection. And if you protest, we hunt sea bugs this weekend.”
Chief Samuel Quinn laughed, went about putting the bulletproof blanket on his wife’s back, and replied, “I’ll make sure you get extra fries, and we can go look for some sea bugs this weekend if you want.”
“Extra fries mean I feed you fries, and you eat less than bird.” The cindercorn stilled while waiting for her husband to finish strapping her saddle and bridle into place. “Okay. Show her gear check. Not like other horses. I far superior.”
“Yes, you are the most marvelous of cindercorns, although our cindercorn children are also marvelous cindercorns.”
“All our children are best children,” she replied in a solemn tone.
“All right, Detective McMarin. You should be familiar with most of this gear, but if there’s a problem with her tack, you may struggle with it, so listen up.” The chief ran me through the differences between a regular horse’s tack and his wife’s tack, which boiled down to extra straps, a slightly different placement on her back, and allowing only one finger’s worth of space instead of two. “Her bridle has no bit, so all it’s there for is to help you balance and give her cues if you want her to look a certain direction. If you see something dangerous, if you pull really hard, you’ll astonish her into stopping, as I’m always gentle with her reins. If in doubt, pull as hard as you can and dig your heels in. Generally, she’s good at spotting trouble, but sometimes she wears blinders, especially if she’s thinking about lunch.”
“Should have eaten lunch before coming, you right,” the cindercorn complained.
The man laughed and rubbed his wife’s neck. “You’ll survive until you get to the station, and I’ll call in your order so you don’t have to wait long. Try not to create too much mayhem on the way, okay?”
“Will do best, but very hard. Snow and slush and ice make drivers stupid, not all idiots have broken their cars yet this year. Where I go, mayhem follow. Where snow go, more mayhem follow.”
I took that as my cue to get onto the cindercorn’s back, and I mounted as I’d been taught, hurrying to get into the saddle to mitigate how long she dealt with all my weight on one stirrup. Chief Samuel took my purse. “I’ll make sure you get this back. If you get pulled over, just tell them to give me a call, and I’ll explain there’s no such thing as licenses to ride crazy pyromaniac unicorns here. They’ll cope.”
“They better,” the cindercorn replied.