Behind me, the aviary had grown unnaturally quiet. Scores of black orbish eyes peeped between the bars of their spacious cages—all looking at me.
When Mystic Critters hired me, they’d warned me that phoenixes are sentient. They’d failed to add that they are shameless eavesdroppers and malicious gossips.
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I’m not seasick—I live on this ship, so you can bet I’ve got my sea legs—but the old hag I stole the chalice from at New Providence must have been a witch. Her nasty shout as I ran made me smirk, but… I’m turning green. She must have cursed me!
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Only someone with a death wish would risk trespassing on werewolf territory during the full moon, but Tari was good as dead anyway.
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In a world where mythical creatures lived and worked alongside a human population, anything could happen, and it usually did. That’s why they called me, Special Agent Ramses II, and my partner, Bernie Clayberg, with Mythical Crime Scene Investigations.
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All Misha had to do was clean up every last bit of the dead dragon, because if even a single cell survived, the dragon could be reborn. This was the last … or was it?
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“A magic system,” the dragon clarified. “You’re supposed to come up with a magic system.”
“Ohhh.” Dave nodded slowly. He glanced down at the book. “You know, rules aren’t really my strength. How about we just let magic do its own thing this time, figure it’ll sort itself out eventually?”
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