The Changeling's Ghost (Thirteen Gates #1)

The Lay of the Land

I wake up and find my nose unusually close to the ceiling. I roll over onto my side, feeling the bright blue sheets crinkle against my sides. They're a little starchy, not that I haven't had worse, and whoever used to sleep here must've had some issues, because there are tick marks all over the place in conspicuous patterns. Currently my bets are on this being one of the two missing persons, and Asher's shifty responses have only helped to solidify my hypothesis. I run my hands down the marks and swing down to the floor. I kiss my American flag for good luck on the first day and begin changing, only to hear an unsubtle groan (not unlike that of a zombie)  from the other side of the room.

Asher's eyes shoot open and he rises, his face a bright, vibrant red, as he looks at my bare chest. "Are you changing?"
   
I slip my shirt over my head. "I guess so. Do you go to sleep in your sweaters-- wait, no. Jumpers, right?"
   
"No, but I change in private like a normal bloke." Asher leers my way, still looking at my chest area. He blinks, looking up to my face like he's never seen chest hair (well, I shave occasionally, but when you're blonde), and then proceeds to take his neatly folded clothes into the bathroom and slam the door.

I very carefully put my earphones in and open up The Freedom Playlist (warning: may contain eagles) on my phone. My phone tends to freak out when I put the integrals in, as if it could possibly know that I'm inserting magical artifacts instead of earbuds, but the sound is incredible. I lean into the bedpost, taking in the room. The room smells faintly like teenage guy, but that's masked by how much the whole house smells like this combination of a library and your average grandfather's house. I haven't been to a grandfather's house, at least not either of mine, but if you asked me to give it a guess? Here we go.

It's hard to remind myself that this is a scene of gross misconduct and potentially even murder, given how suspicious 'missing persons' tends to be. However, if I'd learned anything from the time we investigated a nice old cat lady who turned out to be hoarding transfigured humans instead of felines, it's that looks can be deceiving.

I pry open a drawer, relishing in the scent of wood and sentiment-- this house is a veritable bonfire-- and rifle through what seems like several pictures of animals, annotated in loose, loopy handwriting. Huh. I walk across the room, nearing the closet, and draw open a drawer of clothes... definitely at least a size too large for Asher. I hear the clicking of a doorknob and shoot up.

"What were you doing?"

"Examining this poster of Harry Styles." I say, leaning against the wall. "You know for a man, he's got nice hair. Look how it just swoops back." I run my hands through my own hair. "Wow."

Asher stutters under his breath, "Y-yes. It does." His face is still flushed.

That worked.

Casually, I move out of the corner and stride towards the door, exiting onto the floor proper (as the British would say). "So, do you have a schedule? Do you have a first call or what?"

"A first..." Asher crinkles his brow as he guides me down the wooden banister. "We depart for the First Gate around nine most days, but we're at least having breakfast first."

"Oh. Around nine?" I nod respectfully. "If you don't get your ass through the gate before seven you're probably out of the force where I'm from. I've spent weeks on the first gate, but sometimes that hollows recruits out. I appreciate the chill, though."
   
Asher looks back to me with revulsion. "Danu's grace, that's harsh."
   
See, now that? That's suspicious. I recognize the name of the fae goddess, but I just give him a nod back. "It's fair." I'll have to communicate all of this to Sheryl when we get some time alone. Sheryl's currently picking at pancakes at the table, of course, I can tell this when we swing into the expansive dinner hall... do they call them pancakes here? This was not covered in my five-minute check-over of the Britishisms list on the bus on the way here.

I take my seat at the long, almost entirely empty table, and a frizzy-haired woman leans down and scowls at me. "What would you like, sir?"
   
That's a grimalkin. I fail to keep myself from gaping at her feline ears and those pronounced canines. "Oh. Huh. Pancakes are good."
   
I look down the rest of the table to see what else they have going on. There's the parents, of course, and next to them sits a dark-haired adult whose hair falls in a messy bun, the right side of her face covered by a long scar... well, she doesn't look very magical at all, whoever she is. In fact, I can't see her integral, even though the parents are immediately obvious. Asher sees me looking over and gives me a long eye roll. I'm still trying to identify what this person's deal is when the grimalkin hits me up with the pancakes.
   
Asher's eating his in silence. I mutter appreciatively, pointing to the pancakes and giving a thumbs up. He tilts his head and his face cracks open into an expression of moderate disgust.