Kate Daniels 06 - Gunmetal Magic

I’d shoot my way out of it.
    I left the closet. Outside my window, past the bars, thick gray clouds clogged the sky, promising rain. Against that faded backdrop, the crumpled husks of once-tall buildings hunkered down, dark and twisted, tinseled with green plants stubbornly trying to conquer the crumbling city. On the fringes of the business district graveyard, new construction sprouted, stout buildings of wood and stone, no more than four stories high and built by skilled masons. Human hands, no machines.
    In the distance, police sirens wailed. Just another fun morning in post-Shift Atlanta.
    I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. The woman who looked back at me seemed sharper than she’d been yesterday. Meaner. Stronger. Too rough around the edges for most of the things in my wardrobe. Normally I wore jeans, khakis, off-white shirts. Neat professional attire, meant to inspire confidence and communicate safety to prospective petitioners for the Order’s assistance. The motto was confident but nonthreatening.
    I was done with being nonthreatening. There had to be something in my closet that fit the new me.
    Input Enterprises had a southeast address, on Phoenix Street. Despite the ruined condition of the neighboring blocks, this street was clean of garbage and refuse, brand-new houses lining both sides like soldiers on parade. There must’ve been some serious money behind that rebuilding project, because the houses had been tastefully embellished with cornices and decorative brackets. Even the bars on the bay windows were stylishly ornamental, with metal squiggly shapes. The area clearly was making an attempt at becoming a respectable business district.
    I parked the Jeep in a small lot and walked, looking at the building numbers. The overcast sky finally decided to cry on my shoulder. The rainwater turned the asphalt dark. It was good that I wore a hat.
    When I found the right number, instead of a building I saw a stone arch with a sign that read INPUT ENTERPRISES on the wall, complete with an arrow pointing inside the arch. Fine.
    I walked through the long narrow tunnel and emerged into a wide space. A large patio stretched in front of me, all sand-colored stone, with vegetation confined to narrow rectangular flower beds, running in two lines toward the building in the back. The structure rose three stories high, but the three floors were oversized, pushing the height of the building to a dangerous level. Another foot or two and magic would take notice of it.
    The main part of the structure was all modern office: glass,steel, and pristine white stone combined into a sleek elegant whole. The top of the building suddenly broke with the plan and turned into a cupola of glass and crisscrossing metal beams with a golden sheen.
    I walked through the front doors. A polished tile floor rolled from where I stood to the marble counter, manned by a receptionist. She was in her early twenties, her makeup was heavy, her suit powder blue, and her pale brown hair was arranged in a picture-perfect French twist. Behind her a large banner affixed to the wall, golden letters on black, read, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOSS!
    I walked across the tiled floor. The receptionist looked up and did a double take. I wore a light brown duster. I had left it open in the front, and it showed off my blue jeans, combat boots, black T-shirt, and twin Sigs in the hip holsters. An old cowboy hat sat on my hair.
    I stopped by the counter, tipped my hat, and drawled in my native tongue. “Howdy, ma’am.”
    The receptionist blinked. “Ehhh, hello.”
    “I’m here to see Mr. Anapa.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No. I’m investigating a murder on behalf of the Pack.” I handed her my PI ID.
    The receptionist gave me a practiced smile and nodded at the low couches on the right. “Please take a seat.”
    “Sure. So boss is having a birthday? Is he throwing a party?” Raphael had mentioned getting an invitation. It nagged at me so I thought I’d check it out.
    “It’s tonight,” the secretary informed me.
    Ha. Either my guns had made an impression, or nobody had explained to her that she was not supposed to give strange women confidential information. Most receptionists would’ve told me to shove off. “Wonderful. How old is he?”
    “Forty-two.”
    I went to the couches and sat. Minutes trickled by, slow and boring.
    A quiet creaking of plastic wheels rolling came from the hallway. A man emerged—Latino, late fifties, early