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bright crimson, endlessly cast off her body to ascend into an angel-filled heaven vaulted with radiant yellow.
    Paul had always been told ’mancy was a violation of natural order. But standing before the illustromancer, he felt like the world had been robbed of something precious – and only here could it be regained.
    Then the illustromancer had seen Paul, and Paul’s police uniform, and screamed. Before Paul could explain that no, he was in love too, Emperor Charles had thundered out of the frame to protect her, a lantern-jawed brute on a black steed, crushing Paul’s right foot beneath one massive hoof.
    Paul, panicked, had blown off the top of the illustromancer’s head. As she died, the great steed crumpled into old newspaper. The remaining posters had sagged away from the walls, bowing like mourners before collapsing into her blood.
    The papers touted the triumph – Mundane Kills ’Mancer! He was an unlikely hero, scrawny and stammering, but his superiors had offered Paul a promotion.
    Yet every time he thought about moving up the ladder, he’d remember those grieving paintings. After a few months, he’d quit the force to take a job with Samaritan Mutual. The world wanted to reward him for murdering miracles?
    Why would he fight for a place like that?
    So he resigned himself to investigating insurance claims and – on those rare occasions his supervisors deemed it necessary – looked into potential magical interference.
    Until last week, when he had become potential magical interference…
    “Not all ’mancers are bad, sweetie.” He envisioned the churn of paperwork in his office, pulsing, growing. “The ’mancers in the army protect us.”
    “But the one you killed was wandering around !” She started to climb up on his shoulders, a strange habit she’d developed whenever she got agitated. “They should all be in the army! Or dead!”
    He froze. Aliyah was right; he was a criminal.
    “When I grow up,” Aliyah announced proudly, “I’m going to hunt ’mancers. Like you.”
    “I don’t hunt them, sweetie. I find them. The cops and the military capture them.” That is, when I don’t overlook evidence to let them get away . “And I’m not quite sure why you woke me up when it’s already half an hour past your bedtime.”
    “Because I was boooooored.”
    “Bored girls need their sleep. Go on, brush your teeth.”
    “But I have !”
    She put her hands on her hips in mock outrage, but a gentle swat on Aliyah’s butt as he set her down sent her scurrying with a giggle. Paul smiled, watching her go – then winced as he pulled his prosthetic foot over the transtibial stump jutting out below his right knee.
    The foot clicked into place, but his stump no longer fit into the cupped receptacle that held foot to body; it had shed muscle over time, as stumps do. The looseness caused blisters as the remains of his shin rubbed against the silicone sheath – a pain he’d learned to live with, since Paul’s insurance only covered a new prosthetic fitting every two years.
    He limped into the bathroom to check in on Aliyah. Good thing he’d lost the foot back on his cop’s insurance plan, or else he’d be walking on a wooden peg leg. Government insurance had gifted him with a battery-operated top-of-the-line model, one with a motor that adjusted to his gait. His friends all thought he had great insurance thanks to his employer, but Samaritan had hired Paul so they could argue – whether it was true or not – that any expensive claim was ’mancy and, hence, Samaritan Mutual could cut you off without a damn cent. His continued employment was proof of Samaritan’s craptastic coverage.
    Imani had accused him of taking the job as punishment. Paul couldn’t argue.
    He limped to the bathroom. Sure enough, Aliyah had neither brushed her teeth nor washed her face. He abluted her, then tucked her into bed – she needed no night-light – and watched her until she fell asleep. She drifted off quickly.