After my theatrics in the squad bay, I went out to my car and typed up two memos: One requesting a transfer to the Training Division and another requesting a week of personal leave. Both were immediately approved, and I headed home. The day’s events played over and over on the movie screen inside my head. Try as it might, my poor lizard brain just couldn’t make sense of it all. The alley seemed like a strange dream. Like it happened to someone else, and they told me the story over drinks, the details becoming more and more unbelievable as the glasses emptied. The demotion made more sense and was certainly more immediate. As I mulled it over, I was surprised that it had taken so long. That it had caught me so flat-footed was embarrassing.

Unable to sleep, I ended up sitting in my favorite easy chair, turning Agent Ruthersford’s card over and over in my hand. The front of the card tersely described him as Agent Ruthersford of the United States Homeland Security Division in twelve-point Helvetica. On the back was the address of the Smoky Oak in flawless script. Near dawn, I decided to at least meet with him to see what he had to say. I drifted off into a fitful sleep shortly thereafter.

The next evening I walked into the Oak at exactly 6:59 pm. The Smoky Oak was a whiskey and cigar bar built out of mostly reused wood from old Texas barns. Even though built within the last ten years, it felt far older, and something about that resonated with me. It had been my favorite place since I had discovered it in college. Most of the fixtures were wrought iron, and faux gas lamps provided the lighting. A heavy black cloth with small holes cut in it blotted out any light coming from the ceiling fixtures and created a reasonable facsimile of the great Texas night sky. It was homey and earthy and western.

A quick scan of the room revealed Agent Ruthersford in a booth toward the rear. He stood as I approached and offered me a warm smile and an open palm. He dressed for an off-the-clock meeting with a stylish cashmere sweater and slacks that probably cost more than what I made in a week.

“Detective Renshaw, I am so glad that you decided to join me. Or is it Senior Deputy Renshaw?” He raised a brow.

“Jesus, did everyone know but me? It’s still Detective until the transfer takes effect in two weeks.” I took the proffered hand and gave it a vigorous up and down. His grip was solid and dry.

Agent Ruthersford returned to his seat, and I eased myself onto the bench. The booth was upholstered in cowhide leather with slight imperfections that let you know it was the real deal. The tabletop had only a light coat of varnish so that you could feel all the flaws in the dark grey wood. There were pits in the table where you could insert a fingertip.

“In my experience, the most directly affected are often the last to know. But, I think you will find that your current employment situation is immaterial to our discussion this evening,” said Agent Ruthersford.

He took a sip of brown liquid from a plain glass tumbler as a pretty Hispanic waitress approached our table. She had a large red flower in her hair and a tattoo of a sliver moon on her forearm.

“May I? Teddy asked, picking up the drink menu. I was amused, so I let him order, curious to see what the man would choose.

Agent Ruthersford smiled at me and then the waitress. “Another round of Widow Jane. Double pour, neat. The waitress made a note and hurried away without a word. I was impressed at Agent Rutherford’s selection. Widow Jane was a solid and pricy bourbon of which a bottle resided in my collection at home.

“So! Detective Renshaw! So many questions, I’m sure. Where would you like me to start?”

“I want you to tell me whatever it is you think you know about Emma and Sarah. The fire.”

“Of course, I suppose it’s only natural for you to want me to begin there. But I am afraid what I know, or at least what I strongly suspect, will not make much sense without the proper context. So, before we talk about the fire. Let’s begin with the state of the Universe.”

“That sounds pretty heavy, Teddy.”

The waitress returned with our drinks and set mine down in front of me, smiling. “Can I get you, gentlemen, anything else?” Her voice was smooth with just a hint of an accent.

“That’s all for now, Angie, thank you.”

Agent Ruthersford waited until she retreated. “I suggest you get started on that.” He motioned toward my double pour of bourbon. “I think you are going to need it before I am done.” He raised his glass, “To new friends and new beginnings.”

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse T.” I swirled my Widow Jane and took a sip. Woody and smoky. It reminded me of the alley. Of Billy’s pulsing tattoo.

“Well, friends at the minimum.” Agent Ruthersford was unperturbed. “At the heart of it, you must know that it’s all true. Everything you think you know about the supernatural. Magic. Ghosts. Werewolves. Vampires. Everything from popular myth and legend is true, to some extent. Often the details are off the mark of reality, but it all exists.”

“OK. Let me stop you right there Tedro.” I held up my hands like I was stopping traffic. “You’re telling me that not only is magic real, but also every fairy tale and myth I have ever heard of are not fairy tales and myths. They are actual living breathing creatures? And no one noticed? I call bullshit.” I jabbed a finger into the tabletop, narrowly avoiding one of the divots. That would have been awkward.

“It’s a little more nuanced than that. There are about seven point five billion people in the world, Detective. And all those people believe things. And that belief has power. People think vampires are real, or that they existed, or they at least think about vampires. That belief, that supernatural zeitgeist is what makes the impossible, possible.”

I blinked. “So because there are movies about vampires. Vampires exist?”

“Honestly, we aren’t really certain. It’s all very old. Kind of a chicken and the egg problem. We aren’t sure if people think about vampires, so they exist. Or they existed, and so now people think about them. There are raging academic debates, I assure you. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. They exist. I only bring up the human belief part because it does have direct bearing on the second thing I need to explain.

“OK,” a sip of bourbon turned into a swallow.

“There is a whole other class of supernatural beings. The one that you and I belong to. They are called Archetypes.”

“Wait a second, you are telling me that I am a ‘supernatural being’? There’s no way. I am as normal as the next guy.”

“Normal guys don’t shrug off magical spellfire, Detective. You are special, and I suppose you have always suspected. You are what is known as a “Skeptic” and a very powerful one. It’s partly an innate ability, it’s partly part of your Archetype, and partly your own personal beliefs. You are highly resistant, impervious even, to magic.”

“And that’s why Billy’s flamethrower act didn’t burn me to a crisp.”

“Just so. And tell me Detective, what do you know about the fire that killed your wife and daughter?”

“We were all asleep. No one was able to determine how exactly the fire started, but it spread quickly. It was an inferno. I tried to get them out, but the smoke and the heat were too much. The entire house burnt down to the foundation. The fire inspector said…” I paused and blinked. I finished my bourbon in one fiery gulp.

Agent Ruthersford’s eye bore into me. “What did the fire inspector tell you Detective Renshaw?”

“He told me that…” I swallowed again. I couldn’t get the words out. “He told me that the fire seemed supernatural.” That was the word he used. He had been absolutely flummoxed during the investigation. Nothing had added up.

“It was only minutes from when I first smelled smoke to the entire structure collapsing.”

“Detective Renshaw, I know you are not an engineer, but you understand well enough that’s not how fire works. Natural fire, at least.”

“So I survived the fire for the same reason that Billy didn’t torch me yesterday.”

Agent Ruthersford nodded.

“So the fire, the fire that killed my wife and daughter was some kind of magic? That means it wasn’t an accident. Somebody purposefully set the fire. Magical Arson?”

The Special Agent let out a long sigh. “That appears to be the case Detective. No normal person would have been able to survive that fire. Your survival that night combined with the events of yesterday confirms that the fire must have had a magical origin. I can assure you, magic like that is no accident.

My mind reeled. Years of doubt and guilt came flooding back to me. Feelings that I had dealt with, poorly. I had blamed myself. For not preventing the fire. For not protecting Emma and Sarah. For not dying with them. I stared down into my empty glass. “I am going to need another one of these.”

“Of course Detective.” Agent Ruthersford seized the attention of our server and made a circular motion with one finger raised in the air.

“Do you know who did it?” I croaked.

He frowned. “We do not. To be quite frank with you, it was not deeply investigated. There were no obvious traces for us to follow and we could not be sure of the cause ourselves without contacting you directly. The decision was made not to do that, but instead to monitor you.” Teddy made a face that made it clear that he did not necessarily agree with the decision.

“And who is ‘We,’ T?”

“I work for the United States Government. Now the Department of Homeland Security. Agency of Metanatural Investigation. Our directives are to investigate crime with Metanatural involvement and prevent the normal world from intersecting with the metanatural in any way that would prove disadvantageous for either side. Most major governments in the world have such a body, and we cooperate. Mostly.”

Angie came with another round of bourbon. I grabbed my glass as soon as it hit the table and took a drink. My hand was shaking. Angie took the opportunity to lift the old glass lantern on the table and light the tea light underneath. The warped, bubbled glass emitted a wobbly yellow light.

“And while we are on the subject of the AMI,” Teddy went on once we were alone again, “we would like to extend you an offer of employment. Special Agent.”

My wandering mind snapped back to the here and now. “You want to hire me? Me? Why?”

“I would think your performance yesterday in the alley would make that obvious.”

“Because I didn’t get burned by Billy.”

“Exactly. That and your Archetypal powers.”

“You mentioned that before. Archetype. What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s difficult to explain, and you must be nearing information fatigue.”

I sat up straighter. “No, I’m OK, Teddio. Lay it on me.”

Agent Ruthersford looked at me appraisingly. “People believe in a lot of things. Not just myths and legends. Monsters and Demons. Other things. More normal things. That belief gives those things power.”

“I am losing you, Theo.”

He sighed. “Maybe I can explain by example. Let’s take me. I am what’s known as the Refined Gentleman. I exist as a physical embodiment of what you think of the uptight, upper-class gentry. Educated, persnickety, rich. I am all those things. And importantly, I cannot not be those things. Archetypes bestow limitations along with their powers. It’s physically difficult for me to use profanity. I would never choose to dress poorly. If I were somehow forced to do so, I would experience physical discomfort and a dampening of my other Refined Gentleman abilities.”

“So a plumber’s crack is your Kryptonite?”

Agent Ruthersford laughed. “Close enough, I suppose. But it’s all generally much more subtle than that. I was born rich. I have always been rich. I will always be rich. If I were to somehow lose or give my money away, I would get an inheritance from an unknown relative or win the lottery. That’s how most Archetypal powers work. Luck. Chance. Coincidence. Compulsion. Resistance. Unusual aptitude at normal skills. I am, for example, a very skilled swordsman. I’ve had lessons of course, but I am much better than I have any right to be. Overt power like our poor friend William displayed is much more uncommon for Archetypes. They are mostly reserved for magical beings like mages.”

“So mages aren’t Archetypes?” I questioned.

“Mages are not Archetypes. They are more like supernatural beings with powers passed down through familial bloodlines. They look human, but I assured you, they are not. For now, it’s enough to know that there are people in this world that typify certain societal tropes. And you are one of them. Care to take a stab at which one?”

“Lawman.” It felt right, and individual moments in my past all snapped together like a thousand-piece puzzle. My well above average accuracy with firearms. My unerring gut feeling about the guilt or innocence of a suspect. My fervent desire to see justice done.

“Got it in one.” Agent Ruthersford smiled. “So Detective, I imagine you have the right of it.”

He circled the rim of his glass with a forefinger before holding it up for inspection. Whatever he was checking for passed muster because he smiled. First at his finger, then at me.

“All that is left to discuss is if in two weeks from today, will you be reporting to the Alhambra County Sheriff’s Office Training section as Senior Deputy Cash Renshaw? Or will you be reporting to the DHS office to begin your career as Special Agent Cash Renshaw?

“Just one more question, Agent. Do you really think that I can do a good job? I haven’t exactly been setting the investigative world on fire.”

Agent Ruthersford had just been about to take a sip of his bourbon. He stopped mid-knockback and carefully replaced the glass on the table like he was afraid he would break it. He then fixed me with the most intense glare I had seen from the dapper man. It was the same look Mrs. Monroe had given me in the third grade when she caught me eating candy in class. Terrifying.

“Detective. I just told you that you physically embody the spirit of the American Lawman. Your recent poor performance was entirely due to guilt and shame you felt over your wife and daughter’s death. Which you just learned was not an act of cowardice or neglect on your part, but rather an insidious plot of some sort against you. In addition, the only thing that this great country of ours loves more than a comeback story,” now he finished his drink in a single swallow, “Is a tale of righteous vengeance.”

I reeled back in my booth, the room spinning slightly more than it should. Thankfully, the plush leather bench stopped my rotation. I closed my eyes and spent much less time in contemplation over such a momentous life decision than I probably should have.

“Fucking A Teddy. I’m in.”