Finally Rachel looked up and tossed the article onto her desk.

“Sounds interesting in principle,” she said, “but it’s kind of short on specifics. Supe is usually a decent enough source for news, but it’s no academic journal. It’s hard to know how much of this story is accurate.”

“There’s academic journals for magic?” I said. I’d never thought about it, but I guess it made sense. They’ve got professional publications for every other field. Christine had once showed me an article that had appeared in the online edition of something called Vampirology. The title was “Free Choice vs Influence: Ethical Issues in Recreational Exsanguination.” Or something like that.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “The Quarterly Journal of Thaumaturgy is one of the big ones. Then there’s Critical Studies in Sorcery, the Annals of the American Academy of Witchcraft, and a whole bunch of others.”

“OK,” I said. “I guess I can see how an issue of Supe doesn’t belong in with that crowd.”

“On the other hand,” Rachel said, “it so happens I’ve heard of the witch who carried out this experiment. Annabelle Araguin has made quite a name for herself in thaumaturgical research circles over the last few years. So it’s possible that this article is actually on the level.”

“How fast can you find out? Like I said, we haven’t got a lot of time.”

Rachel shrugged. “I can send her an email right away. But how fast she responds is up to her.”

“You know this Annabelle …?”

“Araguin. Yes, slightly. We’ve met at conventions a few times.”

I used to smile at the idea of witches attending conventions, until Rachel set me straight. All fields have their own professional meetings, she’d explained, and witches were nothing if not professional. I knew that much – you’ve got to be licensed to practice magic, and that license is a lot harder to get than the kind that lets you drive a car.

“Have you got her email address?” I asked.

“No, but I should be able to find it online easily enough. I’m sure she’s got a website. Most practicing witches have one.”

“Of course they do,” I said. “How soon can you track her down?”

“As soon as you get out of here and let me start looking.”

I stood up. “I’m practically gone already,” I said, and headed for the door.

Our shift ended about ninety minutes later, and I checked in with Rachel before leaving.

“No joy yet,” she told me. “I got Annabelle’s email address without too much trouble, and sent her a message. She hasn’t replied, but it is pretty damn late for people who don’t keep the kind of hours that you and I do.”

“How about a phone call?” I asked.

“I’m working that angle, too. Her number’s unlisted, which isn’t surprising. But I’ve sent out some more emails to people who might know her, asking for the phone number. No responses yet, but, again…”

I nodded. “Most people are still in bed. Well, I’m heading home, but if anything develops, don’t hesitate to call – no matter what time it is.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

I went home, spoke with Christine briefly, then went to bed and slept for eight hours straight. Normally, that’s a good thing – but this time, it meant that Rachel didn’t have any news worth reporting.

When I got to work, there was no message from Rachel waiting for me. I was about to go down to her office when McGuire sent Karl and me out on a call. There’d been a near-riot at Eric’s, one of the local dance clubs, the night before.. Word was, every male patron in the place had tried to rush the stage during the final number, performed by a local band called the Banshees. After a certain amount of head-scratching, management had finally decided that a supernatural influence had been at work, and called the Occult Crimes Unit.

The band members weren’t really banshees, of course. Those Irish spirits are harbingers of death, and nothing else. Their singing, although beautiful enough to break your heart, isn’t something anybody looks forward to hearing. Besides, it hasn’t got much of a backbeat.

As soon as I learned that only the male patrons had been involved in the disturbance, I thought I knew what we were dealing with. Karl and I had a conversation with the band members in the club’s dingy dressing room before they went onstage, and it didn’t take long to find out that I’d been right.

The Banshees’ bass player was a crew-cut blonde who called herself Scar, but whose real name, I finally got her to admit, was Meredith Schwartz. She didn’t usually sing, I learned, but last night they’d let her take lead vocal on the final song of their set.

I turned to Meredith. “You’re a Siren, right?”

She locked eyes with me for a couple of seconds, then looked away. “Ain’t no law against it,” she muttered. She wore a sleeveless black top, and I saw that her upper right arm bore a large heart tattoo – not the valentine kind, but an anatomically correct human heart, valves and all.

“Of course not,” I said. “There’s no law against being anything. It’s the stuff you do that can get you in a shitload of trouble.”

“There’s a city ordinance against Sirens singing in public places – or at least, in front of any audience that includes males,” Karl said. “You guys know that – or you ought to.”

“And if you’re wondering why that ordinance exists,” I said, “what happened in the club last night should give you a pretty good idea.” Looking at the three male members of the band, I asked, “How come you guys weren’t affected by her voice?”

After a moment, their leader, a beanpole named Artis Bowdin who went by the name of “Daddy Longlegs”, shrugged and said, “Earplugs, man. We always wear ’em when we play. Nobody wants to end up stone deaf, like, ten years from now. You know?”

“If you let Scar sing lead again, going deaf is gonna be the least of your problems,” Karl told them. “Incitement to riot is a felony, no matter how you do it. And you guys could also be sued for any damages that result, either to the audience or the joint where you’re playing.”

“We’re not going to bust you this time,” I said. “And the club management says there wasn’t enough wreckage to worry about – not much more than they get on an average night, anyway. But if this happens again, you guys are gonna find yourselves in a world of hurt. Understand?”

Nobody gave me an argument, which was probably the closest this bunch was ever going to get to “Yes, officer, whatever you say, sir.”

As we turned to leave, Daddy Longlegs said, “Hey – we got a gig next week at Susie B’s. You got any problem if Scar sings at that one?”

Susie B’s is the city’s biggest lesbian bar. For reasons nobody’s ever been ever to explain, women are immune to the Siren’s song.

“Sounds OK to me,” I told him. “Go wild.”

“Just be sure they keep all the windows closed while you’re playing,” Karl said. “Wouldn’t want guys who were driving past to crash their cars against the front of the building, would we?”

When we got back to the squad room, our PA, Louise the Tease, handed me a message slip that read, “See Rachel Proctor, ASAP.”

“It took a while, but I finally hit the jackpot,” Rachel told me. “Unlike most people I know, Annabelle isn’t compulsive about checking her email. I never was able to dig up her phone number on my own, but when she saw my message, she got back to me right away and suggested I call her. Which I did.”

“And how did that go?”

“Quite well, actually. Once I explained to her the seriousness of the matter – without telling her too much, I hope – she sent me a PDF of an article she’s written that’s already been accepted for publication in the Journal of the American Magical Association. That’s the most prestigious journal in the field, although Annabelle’s article won’t see print for another couple of months.”