Miles walk was longer than he expected. He stood out on a cliff, overlooking the northwest territory of the reservation. At night the big city lights were just visible off the horizon, he remembered. While there were only wisps of clouds Miles could taste the coming rain fall. He didn’t need his magic to tell him that rain should reach the reservation in early morning. The city should be drenched this evening..

Many thoughts lay heavy on Miles’ mind. He had past another initiation, the last for a while, his granduncle had said. Two Rivers had said it was time for Miles’ real journey to begin. He had over heard his granduncle on the phone with Prentice Two Moons who now worked and lived in the city. He was trying to find Miles a job. It almost felt like he was pushing him out, getting him to leave.

The return trip to his trailer was shorter than he expected. As he approached he saw another car parked next to his, a grey BMW sedan. Sitting in his lawn chair, under some of his hanging plants was some belagana. He read a thick book, flipping the pages back and forth, as if studying something rather than reading it. As Miles rounded his truck the man stood up, folded his book, and removed his small glasses placing them in a case in his breast pocket. He smiled as he approached Miles with a hand extended, “Hello, my name is James De'voreaux, you must be Miles.”

Miles smiles his slow, warming smile as he approaches the man. Switching the sprigs of sage he'd gathered from his right to his left hand, he grasps the white man's hand, shaking it with a firm but painless grip.

"Mister De'voreaux," he greets, looking the man into the eyes. His own dark eyes are bright, catching the receding sunlight.

Miles opens up the door to his trailer, which wasn't locked. His movements are unhurried. "Could I interest you in some coffee," he says in way of invitation, holding the door open for Mr. De'voreaux to enter. The heat from the day has warmed the air inside the trailer, and as the warm air wafts out, it carried with it the scent of numerous herbs.

Without waiting for a response, the young Indian starts putting coffee grounds into a old-style percolator. There door opens straight into the kitchen, and there are three old, aluminum framed chairs surrounding a plastic-topped round table. Miles motions towards the table to indicate that De'voreaux can take any seat he likes.

"No thank you," James says as he pulls at this collar. "Summer seems like it comes earlier every year."

Stepping inside the trailer James takes the seat closest to the door. Carefully placing his book down he patiently waits for Miles to seat himself before he begins.

Miles strikes a match and lights the stove. Adjusting it, he puts the coffee pot on it then pulls out a mug from the cabinet. Knowing it will take a couple minutes for the coffee to be ready, he turns his attention to his visitor. Sitting down opposite De'voreaux and near the stove, he takes a slow, deep breath.

"Well, you aren't BIA or fed," he observes, more to himself. "What can I help you with?"

Creases appear at the corner of James lips, "That's funny; from what your Uncle said I expected that you were expecting me." Seeing his mistaken assumption he takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts. "I just came from your Uncle, Jimmy Two Rivers, and he mentioned that you were in need of a job. With your background in law enforcement and shamanistic magic you are an excellent candidate."

Miles gives a knowing chuckle, nodding his head as if at some joke his uncle must have told him. "Yea-ah," Miles replies, stretching out the word. "Shida didn't give me any details, just said someone would contact me. I didn't expect you to come to me." Roan Horse pauses, though the feeling is as if he has something else to say but it thinking about it.

Standing up, he tends to the coffee pot, cutting the flame from underneath it. Pouring himself a mug, he waits until he can face James before speaking again. "So what is this job? There wasn't much call for me as a hataalii on the Tribal Police, and half of the excuses we'd get from perps who weren't under the weather had to do with some sort of magic claims." He smirks, again as if at a joke that James hasn't heard. Taking a sip of the coffee, he returns to his seat, relaxing back into his chair.

“Miles…” James pauses in thought again, “I’m sorry do you mind if I call you Miles, or would you prefer Mr. Roan Horse?”

"Miles is fine," he replies.

“Miles,” James continues on, “I am the head of a small private…” he pauses as if searching for the right words, “detective agency for a special community. Our responsibilities include much of what normal police do, however, the cases we handle… they could not possibly comprehend… And for the record, magic is very real in my world.” There is almost a curl at the edge of James’ lips as he says his last sentence.

Miles listens to James' explanation, not showing any particular expression but the generally pleasant face he rests back into when not talking or agitated. He sips some more coffee while looking at James in silence. Putting the mug on the table top, he speaks up. "And you want me to be a detective." It's a statement, not a question. "Where does magic come into this?" The word magic seems alien on his lips. "I trust Shida's guidance, but you surely know the kinds of medicine we deal in. Not particularly geared toward investigative work." Miles wraps his fingers back around the handle of the mug but doesn't raise it to his lips, yet.

"I know the potential of shamanistic magic," his statement is bland, but spoken with a hint of knowing. "Your Uncle tells me you are very talented but just starting your..." again James pauses a brief second searching for the proper word, "your 'Open Walk', your apprenticeship if you will."

Leaning forward and placing his elbows on the small table, "I'll be frank with you; recently, we have had a few deaths in our organization and so right now I'm willing to invest time and energy to develop a green Hataalii."

Miles looks at his coffee mug in a contemplative manner for a long moment. He finally picks it up and drinks, as if he'd been debating just that action. Looking up, it is clear from his face that a decision has been made. "Tell me more about this organization of yours. Is this a nine-to-five or more involved than that? And who will I be working with? What kinds of people?"

James nods, knowing that he can take Miles to the next level, “We are the police for the supernatural community in San Cibola. Conventional authorities do not know about us or the community. We deal with the typical major crimes, and some minor ones. We also police the exposure of the community.” Pausing briefly to lean back in his chair, “The hours are long; people usually stay till their work is done. We employ a variety of people. They are all, however, dedicated and loyal.”

"Supernatural community?" Miles returns, assuming that the white man will fill him in with simple prodding. A few years of interrogating suspects had gotten him into the habit of letting the other person fill in as much information as possible on their own - it was usually more revealing.

"I don't have to tell you that magic is real. But what you have learned and experienced here is just the beginning. Most people don't believe in magic and walk around oblivious to what is around them. They will make excuses for themselves to explain things that are simply magic. There are a few of us who see things as they are. We live in a place where magic is very real. This Neighborhood," James uses his fingers to quote the last word, "is filled it a variety of beings and creatures. A few that formed the basis of man's mythology, and others who found there way to the truth of things."

"So, like werewolves and vampires and those fellows in Shakespeare," he says, half as a question. He takes another drink from his coffee mug. "I guess I'll have to see it to get a good idea. I garner that these folks are usually fairly civil?" He arches an eyebrow in question. Clearly there is something else he is wondering about, but without something more tangible to work with is holding off.

With a small gesture of his wrist he answers, “Sometimes… Neighbors, like everyone else, have their own prejudices and bad blood. Our job is to make sure it doesn’t spill onto innocent bystanders or the mundane world.”

"I hope that doesn't mean a lot of glorified babysitting," Miles muses. He finishes off his coffee. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

There is an extreme amount of seriousness in his voice, “Make no doubt about this, Miles, this is very dangerous work.” James takes a moment to fish out his wallet and then pulls a business card, handing it to Miles, “Be at this address at 7 tomorrow morning. You will be placed on probationary status until I feel otherwise. Your pay will be roughly three times what you made as Tribal Police. Anything else you need to know you’ll learn as you need it.”

Miles takes the card and stuffs it in the pocket of his shirt. He looks around briefly, rubbing his left wrist that has been without a watch since he left the force. He'll have to locate the watch in whatever drawer it made its home now that he was going to be on white-man time again.

Standing up, James offers his hand, “Nice meeting you Miles, I hope our relationship will be prosperous one.”

Miles stands up with James, pushing his coffee mug deeper toward the center of the table as if afraid it might fall to the floor. "I'm sure it will be. See you this tomorrow." Miles shakes his hand then stands in the doorway as the man gets into his car and drives off. Dust trails marks the path of the grey sedan as it leaves.