Free Sparks by Laura Bickle Page B

a flurry of fur. Sparky climbed down to the floor and sniffed the glass shards, growling.
    Katie looked across the table at Anya. "Hope. Does that mean anything to you?"
    Anya smiled grimly. "It gives me a place to begin looking."

T HE MORNING PAPER INCLUDED A headline in large type on the front page of the Metro section: DFD INVESTIGATES SUSPECTED CASE OF SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION . The article went on to quote an unidentified source about the grisly details of the Jasper Bernard crime scene and discuss how DFD was "stymied" by the case. Mention was also made about the crime scene being "mishandled" and a break-in occurring, calling any evidence in the case suspect.
    Anya rolled her eyes. She was certain that some letters to the editor would be forthcoming about DFD's incompetence. She flipped the page, scanning for the continuation of the article. Her attention paused on an article discussing the possibility that the Detroit Tigers weren't generating sufficient sales tax revenue for the city during baseball season. The Detroit Institute of Arts had a nice full-color spread about a forthcoming exhibit on ancient Greek art that piqued her curiosity. The photos showed faded urns and amphorae decorated with the shapes of gods and beasts. One of them was even nicknamed "Pandora's Jar." The massive pithos was painted with images from the myth. Scholars speculated that the age of the jar surpassed the age of the decoration, giving rise to debates about forgery and the provenance of the item. One set of experts suggested the jar could have been Pandora's Jar from myth. Another insisted the jar had been used for entirely different purposes, as a burial urn. A third argued it was merely a piece of art, carved from unusual stone.
    "Ms. Kalinczyk?"
    Anya looked up, tucked the paper under her arm. The waiting area in which she sat was worthy of GM Headquarters: potted plants, sleek chrome furniture, pastel watercolor art. Not prints--originals. A massive arrangement of fresh stargazer lilies bloomed on the coffee table, though they were curiously sapped of fragrance. The receptionist who stood before her was impeccably attired in a designer suit, displaying two-inch airbrushed fingernails that had clearly never been used for typing. The posh setting was completely incongruous for a nonprofit organization, housed in a nondescript building in the warehouse district with weeds sprouting between the cracks in the sidewalk. Miracles for the Masses put on a nice front of virtuous poverty, but the inside lining of the cloud was flush. The air-conditioning was turned way up, practically spewing cash from the vents.
    "Yes?" Anya responded, with a slight degree of irritation. She'd been waiting more than an hour for Hope Solomon to finish her coffee and decide to start taking visitors.
    "Ms. Solomon will see you now."
    "Fantastic." She rose to follow the receptionist down a peach-painted hallway lit with broad-spectrum bulbs to mimic sunshine. In this pastel palace, Anya felt as out of place as a crow at a garden party.
    The receptionist opened a door and gestured for Anya to go inside. Anya's shoes sank into the plush white carpeting. A skylight overhead poured a dazzling amount of sunlight into the room. When her eyes adjusted, Anya fixed on a short blond woman sitting on the other side of a glass desk. She was wearing a pink pantsuit.
    "Ms. Kalinczyk." The woman stood and extended a hand that clinked with gold bracelets. She smiled warmly. "I'm Hope Solomon."
    "Pleased to meet you." Anya grasped her hand. Hope's hand was cold as a corpse's.
    And she reeked of magick. She stank of sour, dark magick the way some women emanated cheap perfume. It wasn't the pleasant, white-magick herbal whiff that surrounded Katie. This was the metallic tang of ozone, the smell in the air after a lightning strike. And all the Chanel in the world couldn't cover it up.
    Hope's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly when she grasped Anya's hand. Her blue eyes