I kept my hands on the counter, forced myself to stay calm, to look bored, even while I was fuming inside. But anger wouldn’t do me any good now, and panic would only make them suspicious. Mild irritation might help. Their believing I didn’t have anything to hide might get them out of here sooner.

“Agent Broussard.”

He walked forward, and the agents fanned out across the front of the store.

“Claire. Lovely to see you again.”

“I’m sure. What brings you and your . . . crew . . . in today?”

“An inspection,” he said. “For potential violations of the Magic Act.”

I made myself laugh, but my chest ached with fear. Had they found out about our meeting yesterday? Had we been followed? Had Burke been a plant?

“That’s hilarious. Is soap a Magic Act violation now?”

His expression didn’t change. I guess the joke hadn’t landed.

“You’re serious?” I said, with mock surprise.

“Very.” He extended the piece of paper to me. I scanned it. It was a form legal document that named me and my store, gave Broussard and Containment “permission” to search the store under the Magic Act. There was nothing to indicate who’d signaled Containment that I might be hiding something . . . except for the Commandant’s seal at the top.

Gunnar’s name wasn’t on it, obviously, but the possibility he knew about this—and hadn’t warned me—made my stomach churn with anger and fear. We were going to have a long talk when this was through.

“This paper gives Containment permission to search the store for violations of the Act, tools of magic, and the like.”

I leaned forward, voice as fierce as I could make it. “As you damn well know, there are no violations and no tools in this store. There’s nothing that could be here. Everything I get comes from the ground or a convoy.”

“I have a valid warrant.”

Fear began to transition to fury. “If you’ve got a warrant, then use it, and get the hell out of my store.”

His smile was thin. “You heard her, folks. Let’s use it.”

They didn’t waste any time. Each agent moved in a different direction, began ripping open drawers, emptying baskets, opening boxes. An agent reached into a vintage Redwing butter crock that was obviously empty. When he didn’t find anything, he pushed it over. It hit the floor with a crack, sending shards of pottery across the wood. Another agent moved to the stand of walking sticks, pulled one out, rapped it hard against the edge of a bookshelf, shattering it in two. I flinched at the sound, which echoed off the brick walls like gunfire.

“Damn it, Broussard, control your people.” My voice was pleading, but Broussard didn’t intervene. When I tried to move around the counter to stop it myself, Broussard stepped in front of me. He was close enough that our toes met, that I had to look up at him to meet his gaze.

“If you attempt to interfere with a Containment investigation, I’ll have to arrest you.”

“This isn’t an investigation!” An agent pulled a framed oil painting from the wall—a portrait of a planter who’d owned land on the River Road outside town. The agent, a woman with a square face and cold eyes, ripped away the paper backing, felt around the frame for something that might have been hidden there, which she obviously didn’t find. She tossed the portrait away like trash.

“You’re destroying my store.”

“We’re investigating,” Broussard said, and made no move to rein in his people. And Paras were the bad guys? Nix had helped me learn how to not become a killer. Broussard was as human as they came, and a bully.