The world swam back into focus through a thick, cottony fog. It felt like a blacksmith’s hammer was trying to beat its way out of Justine Veilstorm’s skull from the inside. She opened her eyes, the fluorescent lights of the police station stabbing at them with vicious intensity. The last thing she remembered was the impossible speed of Blaze Reddington’s fist.

  “Chief? Are you alright?”

  Brenda, her assistant, was leaning over her, her face a mask of misplaced concern. Justine pushed herself up, waving away the offered hand. “I’m fine. I fell.” A pathetic lie, but better than admitting she’d been laid out cold in her own station. Only a fool stands up to Blaze Reddington, and Justine had been a fool. But the prisoners, Blaze… none of it mattered now. That was a problem for another day. She had a real case to solve.

  She steadied herself, her gaze sweeping across the main bullpen. People thought she was just a corrupt figurehead, a Veilstorm protecting her family’s interests. They didn’t see the hours, the real police work. Her eyes landed on the mangled heap of brass and copper near the entrance. Blaze hadn’t just knocked her out; she’d dismantled one of their loyal old steampunk police droids. It lay in a tragic sculpture of shattered cogs and weeping black oil, its intricate clockwork brain exposed to the world.

  “Brenda, clean that up,” she ordered, her voice sharp. Brenda, the city’s leading firefighter, nodded meekly. She was easy on the eye, but soft. All heart and no common sense. She’d done a piss-poor job of containing that cinema fire, and now she was staring at a puddle of oil as if it were a complex puzzle. She needed more training.

  Justine marched towards her office, the pounding in her head keeping a steady, agonizing rhythm. She passed her father’s old desk, a behemoth of dark mahogany that still smelled faintly of his pipe tobacco and iron discipline. She missed him. In the small mirror by her door, she saw the damage. A swollen, purpling bruise was blooming around her right eye. How am I supposed to attend the Petalcrest ball like this? A part of her thought it could be a badge of honor, a sign that the Chief of Police wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. But another, vainer part just wanted to look pretty for what promised to be the first truly glamorous night the city had seen in years.

  Besides, she had to be at that ball. Her key suspect would be there.

  Sinking into her chair, she pulled out the city’s financial ledgers. She was on the board of eight, but the city’s governing body was a joke, a rubber stamp for whatever Elodie Petalcrest decided. Elysia Snowdrift, the banker and city's treasurer, was also on that board. And every year, she produced a meticulously detailed report that no one else bothered to read. No one but Justine.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It started with the numbers. The city’s budget was swelling, year after year. More money was being spent, but where was it coming from? The first thread she pulled was a factory near the Wall, supposedly paying an astronomical amount in taxes. When Justine had personally investigated, she’d found nothing but abandoned, decaying buildings. No one in their right mind would set up a business that close to the wasteland. Then came the sale of the wasteland itself. Her sister Archana had bragged about getting the zombie infested land for next to nothing, yet Elysia’s report showed a hefty sum flowing into the city’s coffers from the deal.

  A part of Justine knew she should keep quiet. Her own police budget had ballooned under Elysia’s tenure; she was benefiting from the corruption. But blackmail material on a Snowdrift? That was far more valuable than a few extra coins. At the ball, she would corner Elysia, threaten to expose her in front of the entire city unless she got what she wanted. Justine didn't just want to be Chief of Police. She wanted to be in charge of the City Defense Force. That was where the true political power lay. Elysia would have to convince her sister, Valery, to step aside, or Justine would burn their family’s reputation to the ground.

  Her theory on what was going on was simple and audacious. Elysia was minting her own money. Whoever controls the issuance of coin in a city, controls the city. Elysia could funnel funds to her allies, securing loyalty and favors. The detective work had supported it. Elysia had used a shell company to buy an ammunition factory, then immediately purchased nearly all the lead in the city. Plating freshly minted lead coins with a thin layer of gold would be child’s play.

  There was one last test. The final, irrefutable piece of evidence. She strode to the evidence locker, the headache momentarily forgotten. Inside, would be a small, heavy bag of coins, brand new, fresh from the mint. She had promised immunity to that little Skylar thief, Tessa, to steal them for her. All she had to do was scratch one, prove it was lead, and Elysia Snowdrift was finished.

  She unlocked the heavy steel door and swung it open. The bag of coins was gone, and in its place sat a single, folded piece of paper. With a sense of dread, she opened it.

  The handwriting was cocky and familiar.

  “Was looking for weapons.

  Will use this to buy them instead.

  Promise to pay you back.

  And give you a thank you kiss.”

  Justine’s vision went white with fury. The headache, the swollen eye, the destroyed droid—it all crashed down on her. Her plan was in ruins; once those coins were spent, her direct evidence would be lost in circulation, giving Elysia the perfect alibi. She crumpled the note in her fist, her knuckles turning white.

  Her first official act as head of the City's Defense Force, she vowed, if she ever got it, would be to sign the execution order for Blaze Reddington.