Page 14 of Devoted in the Midlife

I pinched the bridge of my nose, summoning patience. Shifting gears, I asked, "Hey, how's Arric handling all this? He's not exactly known for his warm mentorship skills."

Avery snorted. "You'd think, right? But he's been like, aggressively protective of us. It's sweet. Annoying, but sweet."

"Yeah," Allison chimed in, "he's basically Ollie 2.0. Only hotter and with fangs."

Luke choked on air. My eyebrows shot up so high they levitated. "Wait. What? Are we talking about the same Arric 'I-Put-The-Grim-In-Grim-Reaper'?"

The twins giggled conspiratorially. Allison surmised, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Our broody Council rep has been in rare form, flirting and butting heads with the Farm's big boss, Blanche."

"Hold up," I sputtered, "Who is Blanche? I thought Arric was your..."

"Blanche White," Avery supplied. "Yep, that's her real name. She's this badass fae queen who runs the joint. And the sparks flying between her, and Arric could power a small country."

Luke and I shared a nonplussed look, both mouthing 'What even?'

As if on cue, a cacophony of shouts and... neighing?... exploded through the phone. Allison swore under her breath. "Oop, sorry guys, gotta jet! The Kelpie is trying to drown Arric again. Byeeee!"

The line went dead, leaving me blinking at my darkened screen. Luke let out a low whistle. "Well. That was..."

"Bizarre? Concerning? Frustratingly vague?" I supplied, tucking my phone away with a sigh.

"All of the above." He shook his head, lips pursed. "You think we should..."

I pointed to the box with the daggers. "We've got our own supernatural shitstorm to wrangle. The twincicles will have to handle the Farm's unique brand of crazy solo for now."

Luke hummed his pained agreement. We both turned back to the inscrutable weapons, silently praying they'd crack open this case before our sisters landed in another decapitation-adjacent debacle. Just another day in the topsy-turvy world of the Philadelphia vampire-dragon PI.

The daggers sat on my coffee table, all menacing edges and ominous glints. They seemed to stare back at me, smug in their refusal to divulge any secrets. I squared my shoulders, cracked my knuckles, and dropped onto the sofa. Time to get metaphysical.

My fingertips traced the intricate engravings spiraling along each blade. Esoteric symbols and foreign scripts winked at me, incomprehensible messages from a different age. They prickled my skin, an itch of magic I couldn't quite scratch.

These daggers represented a maddening dead end in my increasingly desperate investigation. A set of ritually significant weapons, drenched in ancient power, discovered suspiciously close to a string of supernatural murders no one could solve. It didn't take a Mensa membership to connect those dots. And yet, here I sat, no closer to answers than I'd been two frustrating weeks ago.

Blowing out a sharp breath, I centered myself and reached for my inner well of power. The thrumming energy of my vampire-dragon nature swirled up to meet my call, a rush of heat and pressure waiting to be unleashed. Carefully, deliberately, I pushed tendrils of my magic into the unyielding metal, seeking any chink in its defenses.

The daggers immediately pushed back, repelling my power like similar poles on stubborn magnets. A staticky tingle raced up my arms, the blades' innate energy clashing with my ownin discordant waves. Gritting my teeth, I leaned in harder, compressing my magic into a narrow, focused beam aimed at the heart of each hilt.

For a split second, I thought I sensed a flicker, an infinitesimal yield in the daggers' iron-clad auras. A surge of excitement joined the torrent of my power - and then dissipated just as quickly as the weapons slammed their metaphysical doors in my face once more. The backlash stung my palms and pride in equal measure.

"Fairy farts," I grumbled, glaring holes in the smirking blades. Magical interference was par for the course with high-level artifacts, but this felt different. Personal. Like the daggers held a petulant grudge against my particular cocktail of supernatural energy.

I briefly entertained the petty fantasy of drop-kicking the glittering arseholes into the Schuylkill River. With an aggrieved huff, I dragged my hands through my hair, tugging at blonde tangles. Fine. If the bastards wanted to play hard to get, I'd try a different approach. Kill 'em with kindness.

Marshaling my irritation into determination, I laid my palms flat on the blades once more. I focused on my breathing, slow and even, imagining tranquility as a sweetly placid stream trickling through my veins. Instead of pressing my magic out, I coaxed it to pool beneath my skin, a tempting offering for any receptive energies.

"All right, my pointy little friends," I murmured, keeping my tone coaxing. "I'm not your enemy here. We both want the same thing - to stop the evil asshat who killed the dragons."

I concentrated on imbuing my power with pure, untarnished intent. No aggression, no demands, just an open channel begging to be filled with insight. My third eye pulsed behind my forehead as I compressed desire and need into shining mental bullets.Remember your wielder. Grant us clarity. Lend us your secrets to serve justice.

The blades remained as aloofly unimpressed as snooty cats. I cycled through every intention I could conjure - memory, history, revelation, power, purpose, truth. I focused until a headache bloomed behind my eyes, until sweat beaded my temples from the sheer force of my goodwill.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

The daggers' magical blockade didn't so much as quiver. I was wasting time and sanity trying to crack uncrackable nuts while a deadly mystery continued to bleed Philadelphia dry.

Despair, cold and clammy, slithered in my gut. For the first time since this case landed in my lap, I felt utterly out of my depth. No traction, no leads, no leverage. What kind of supernatural sheriff couldn't even wrench a single clue from her only piece of evidence?

"Hailey." Jax cut through my spiral. Lost in my own head, I hadn't sensed my mate enter the room. His large hand cupped my shoulder, kneading tension-bunched muscles with knowing fingers.