Eleanor Tregellan did not like to be rushed. For ritual magicians rushing got you killed and that was only if you were very, very, lucky. Fortunately or unfortunately, working with the Sunday Group had given her a great deal of experience with the sensation. Her eyes flicked to Primrose, noting with relief that she seemed to have concluded her interview with Stevens. That was something. For a moment she considered Fynn’s suggestion, weighing the pros and cons.

 

“Leave it,” she decided, “we can’t conceal the glyphs and we don’t have the resources to break down the car forensically. If we let the cops run with it we can follow their investigation and let them swing the wrenches. If we let them have the full deck maybe they will come up with something we can use.” It was a risk, the authorities were at best an irritation when the supernatural was involved. At worst they either impeded the Group’s work, at worst they charged in and got themselves killed to no purpose. Why the hell was this guy on the scene so fast, she still had ten minutes of the window she had been promised. For a moment she considered asking Primrose to make the whole crime scene disappear, but the approaching car was already crunching onto the gravel and even the most gullible observer was likely to have questions if a half dozen cars vanished before his eyes. Eleanor headed for the car, intending to buy Fynn a few more seconds to conceal his tampering. As she approached the flashing lights flicked off and a handsome looking man stepped out. He was dressed in slacks and the cuffs of his dress shirt were rolled up against the heat. He wore a shield and sidearm on his belt, the emblem identifying him as a detective with the State Police.

“I’m…,” Eleanor began, lifting her card from a pocket and flashing it at him. Rather than recoiling from the charm he plucked it from her outstretched hand.

“Eleanor Tregellan?” he read, squinting against the morning sun on the white paper. Eleanor felt her thumbs prick. The card worked best on people who considered themselves part of a chain of command, it was much less effective against sharps, people who had some degree of magical talent, even at a latent level. Was it possible this detective was a latent? Or was he just so strong of will he could ignore the geas? The other possibility was that he had some kind of active magical defense. The Sunday Group routinely monitored Law Enforcement types for any kind of magical ability. More than once they had shut down well-meaning mediums who had been brought in as consultants. The risk of one player or another in the supernatural world deciding the police were a threat was too great. Such things had happened in the past, and they never ended well.

 

“What the hell is the Sunday Group and why are you interfering with a crime scene?” he demanded, looking over her shoulder at the assembled group, all of whom were now well clear of the car.

 

“I’m a physician,” Eleanor explained smoothly, “merely rendering aid as a Good Samaritan detective… Schilling.”

 

His eyes narrowed as she read his name of his badge and at what she had just said. In addition to being a biblical allegory, a Good Samaritan was a specific legal category, one that held individuals legally blameless if the intervened and tried to provide first aid.

 

“And what is this Sunday Group Miss Tregellan?” Schilling asked extending the card back to her.

“Doctor.” His hand froze in mid reach.

“Excuse me?” Schilling demanded.

“It is Doctor Tregellan,” she corrected, plucking the card from between his fingers and making it vanish into a coat pocket.

“As for what the Sunday Group does, we leverage unique skillsets to provide a dynamic best-of-breed service to facilitate optimum outcomes for a variety of clients.”

“Uh huh,” Schilling replied, a slight burr of irritation at the evasive answer evident in his tone.

“And just driving through were you? When you saw the crash?” he asked, making a gesture towards the wrecked SUV.

“Company picnic,” she replied blandly and she could almost hear him grinding his teeth. Something about the man bothered her and her attempts to rattle him didn’t seem to be shaking it loose, for a moment she considered magic, or even using Nacho to read him, but that might tip their hand if something strange was going on.

 

“Right…” he drawled, pulling a pair of sun glasses from a pocket and slipping them on. Eleanor was vaguely disappointed he didn’t make a pun CSI style.

 

“You have contact infor…” Schilling began but trailed off as Eleanor produced another business card, this one simple card stock as opposed to arcane geas. He took it from her.

“Just in case I have any questions, or I need to leverage unique skillsets to get a dynamic best-of breed service to facilitate an optimum outcome,” he deadpanned, letting her know that he could play too.

“Best of luck detective,” Eleanor called and waved for her people to move out. Better by far if they were gone before Schilling started asking questions about