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argue?
    Yes, I had been a cop, and that would always be in my blood. But I’m still a weremyste, and I will be until the day I die. And for better or worse this was where my magic was leading me. I could tell that much from one glance in a mirror, be it a looking glass or a scrying surface.

CHAPTER 3
    I read the rest of the article about Claudia Deegan, my insides winding themselves into knots as the details of the “Angel Murders” investigation flooded back into my mind.
    Murder cases are never a picnic, but trying to chase down a serial murderer is about the worst part of a homicide detective’s job. You feel that the killer is mocking you with every clue he leaves behind, and you feel responsible for each new murder he commits after you’ve taken on the investigation. But bad as that is, the worst part is the time in between killings, when you know another one is coming and that there isn’t a damn thing you can do to stop it. It’s no wonder that cops who investigate serial killings become obsessed with their victims and suspects, and that they’re even more prone to drinking, drug use and emotional problems than their colleagues.
    Kona and I worked the case from the beginning. We were the first detectives on the scene when Gracia Rosado was found in Red Mountain Park three years ago. It didn’t take either of us long to realize that this murder was unlike any we had seen before. Gracia herself was all too typical of murder victims in the Phoenix area. Young, pretty, poor, Latino. She’d been involved with drugs for a couple of years and in the months leading up to her murder had started turning tricks to pay for her habit.
    But in every other way, Gracia’s killing was chillingly unique. Her body was found by a jogger in a small ravine deep in the park. She was fully clothed and there was no sign that she’d been sexually assaulted, which is pretty much the first thing you check for in a case like this. There were bruises on her neck, but I knew right away that her killer hadn’t strangled her to death. Red magic shone like fresh blood on her face and chest, though I was the only cop working the scene who could see it. On the other hand, every cop and reporter there could see that her eyes had been burned out of her skull.
    “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new freak to track down,” Kona said at the time, staring down at Gracia’s body and shaking her head. “Just what Phoenix needs at the start of the damn summer.”
    “It’s worse than you know,” I said, keeping my voice low.
    “What do you mean—?” She stopped and stared at me. “Oh, don’t tell me, Justis, because I don’t want to hear it.”
    Kona was the only person on the force who knew I was a weremyste. I’d told her early on, following number seven of my father’s ten rules for being a successful cop: “Never keep secrets from your partner.”
    She hadn’t believed me at first, but it hadn’t taken more than a spell or two to convince her. And after my magical abilities helped us clear a couple of cases, she began to think of it as a good thing, even if it did render me useless three nights out of each month.
    But on that morning in June, standing over what turned out to be the first of at least thirty murder victims—thirty-one, if the papers were right about Claudia Deegan—she wasn’t amused at all.
    “Talk to me, Justis,” she said. She and my father were the only people who called me Justis rather than Jay. “What are you seeing?”
    “There’s red magic on her face and chest. Powerful magic—it’s already starting to fade.”
    “If it’s already starting to fade—”
    “The faster the residue fades, the more powerful the sorcerer,” I told her for what had to have been the twentieth time.
    She nodded. “Right. I always get that backwards. So you’re saying she was killed by magic. For sure.”
    “For sure.”
    “Well, that’s just great. What do your magic senses tell you about that shit her killer