The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1)

by Brad Magnarella

  “Just…” Vega forced another breath. “Just give us time. A month, at least.”

  Stiles’s toothpick journeyed back and forth for several more rounds. “A week.”

  “Get real,” Vega said.

  Stiles muttered something over his shoulder, prompting NFL to step forward and punch the button for the elevator. As the three moved past Vega, the Mexican wrestler dug into his pants pocket and handed her what looked like a business card. Vega begrudgingly gave him one of hers.

  “Fine, a week,” she said as the three boarded the elevator. “But we have a deal, right? No retribution.”

  The flaps of Stiles’s coat billowed as he turned, his henchmen flanking him, their assault rifles at opposite shoulders.

  “We have an understanding,” Stiles said. “But only because it’s you.” Though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt them looking over the rest of us in contempt. “Now take the bodies and get out of here. I don’t want to see another blue uniform or flashing light tonight.” Though he spoke evenly, his words carried the promise of real violence. He inclined his head forward. “And Ricki.” The barest smile lifted his lips. “Welcome home.”

  The elevator door rattled closed.

  I stood over the casting circle, aiming the opal end of my cane at the kerchief with the swabbed-up saliva. Though the confrontation upstairs had been heart-pounding, I wasn’t as concerned as Vega over the one-week deadline. Chances were good we’d find the bloodsucker tonight.

  I spoke an incantation and white light swelled from the gem, absorbing essence from the steaming fabric. “That’s right, my homicidal friend,” I whispered. “You can run, but you can’t—”

  Without warning, the light sputtered and went dim. The cane took on weight as the power rushed out of it.

  What?

  I looked from the opal to the kerchief before pushing more energy into the incantation. The kerchief smoked, then broke into flames.

  “Crap,” I spat, stomping out the fire.

  I retreated from the smoking casting circle and examined my cane, which remained heavy and dull. Something was blocking the spell. I circled the room, head bowed low, until I saw what. At the angle between the wall and floor, the thin trail went all the way around the room.

  “Well that’s just flipping fantastic.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I turned to find Vega entering the room. “The killer covered his tracks. Made it so any part of himself he left behind—hair, skin cells, saliva—couldn’t be connected back to him. At least not energetically.”

  “How?”

  “Salt.” I scuffed my shoe over the barrier. Power left the room in a soft whoosh. “It’s often used as an energy container, less often as a disrupter, but it gets the job done. Magic that tries to push past it sort of craps out.” I shook my cane as one might a faulty electrical appliance.

  Vega stooped over the salt. “The techs thought it was boric acid, for pests. Guess you can’t blame them for not thinking magically.” She straightened again. “Can’t you just do the spell in another room?”

  I shook my head. “Once the connection’s broken, it’s broken. The killer knew what he was doing.”

  “Pretty clear thinking for a mindless blood slave.”

  “Yeah,” I grumbled, “that’s bothering me, too.”

  Vega paced the room, swearing under her breath. Her anger wasn’t hard to translate. Unless she caught the killer, Ferguson Towers was going to erupt.

  She stooped beside a grate in the floor, opened it on a rusty hinge, and shone her flashlight down. Apparently deciding the pipe was too narrow for someone to have climbed, she huffed and kicked the grate closed.

  “If we can’t track it,” she said, “what does that leave?”

  I swept a shoe over my casting circle. “Stiles is going to allow witnesses to talk to you, right? Maybe someone saw something. And then there’s forensics. If you can make this a priority case—”

  “You’re telling me my job, Croft. I’m asking what you can do.”

  I scratched the back of my neck. The truth was, my specialty was nether creatures, not vampiric beings. Meaning if I was going to help Vega, I needed to study the crap out of them.

  “I’ll look into it,” I said at last.

  “Look into it?” Her eyebrows collapsed down. “We only have a week, Croft.”

  “I’ll have something before then. I promise.”

  “Yeah,” she said thinly. “I know about you and deadlines.”

  I held up three fingers of my right hand to form a W. “Wizard’s honor.”

  Vega shook her head. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  7

  Detective Vega and I left the tower together and hurried toward the cruisers. When we were safely in her sedan, I remembered something. “Hey, what did Stiles mean when he said, ‘Welcome home’?”

  She yanked the gearshift into drive. The sedan jerked forward, scraping a neighboring cruiser. “What do you think?”

  I looked from Vega to the grim towers and back. “You lived here?”

  “Tower two. Room twelve thirteen.” She peeled from the plaza. “Six of us in a one-bedroom.”

  “So you have three siblings?”

  “Four. All brothers. Our dad raised us.”

  That went a long way toward explaining her take-no-crap attitude.

  “For how long?” I asked.

  “Till I was twelve. Our dad got us into a subsidized home in the Bronx. More room, safer neighborhood, though both were sort of relative.”

  As she jounced the sedan off the curb, I craned my neck around at the towers. “And you knew Stiles back then?”

  She hesitated before answering. “He was my first boyfriend.”

  I looked back at her with a surprised laugh. “What?”

  She shrugged. “I was young and dumb.”

  I’d picked up on some sort of familiarity between Vega and Stiles, but wow. That gave the standoff in the lobby a whole new context.

  I searched for something to say. “So … were you able to stay friends?”

  “Where am I dropping you off?” she asked abruptly, glancing over at my tux. “The Copacabana?”

  I was surprised she’d tolerated my prying into her past for as long as she had, but with my concerns shifting back to Caroline, it was just as well. I dug out the address for the gala.

  “Upper West Side,” I said. “One Hundred Fourth Street.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled in front of the crenellated apartment building.

  Vega’s dark eyes glinted over at me. “Look, Stiles might play the cool cat, but he’s got a quarter-inch fuse. That much hasn’t changed. He says he’ll stomach us for a week, but if the creature strikes there again, forget it. Which means we can’t let that happen. I need you to commit to this, Croft.”

  “I’m committed, I’m committed,” I said, my gaze wandering to the front doors. I hoped I hadn’t missed Caroline, especially if she’d left with—

  Vega’s hand clamped my jaw and squeezed.

  “Ow!” I cried through smooshed-together lips.

  “I’m serious, Croft. No crapping around or getting pulled into other things. Not until we find the killer.” She released my jaw, the place where her fingers had pressed still throbbing.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s a deal.” I worked my jaw around. “Geez.”

  “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

  Before she could decide to grab my jaw again, I backed out the passenger side door. Vega watched me, concern for the residents of the Towers anchoring her stare.

  “It’s my spring break this week,” I said. “No teaching duties. I’ll give it my full attention.”

  “Good.”

  As the sedan sped away, I paced to the front doors of the building. The concierge, a pleasantly plump man with an obvious toupee, opened the door a couple of inches and raised his thick eyebrows.

  “Yes?” he asked, pronouncing it jes?

  I read his gli
nting nametag. “Hi, Javier. I was here a little earlier, for the gala?”

  “Jes, Mr. Croft. I remember you from check in.”

  “Good memory. Is it still going on?”

  “Oh, no-o-o,” he said. “Gala over. Everyone leave.”

  Damn. “Did you happen to see a young woman with blond hair done up in back? Light purple gown with lace up here? She would have been carrying a small white purse.”

  “Beautiful woman?”

  “A stunner, Javier. An absolute knockout.”

  “Ahh, jes, I remember. Your date?”

  “I … yeah, I think so. And you saw her leave?”

  “Oh, jes. I see.”

  “Did she leave with…” I swallowed. “…with someone else?”

  The man’s face tilted in what appeared confusion. “What you mean, Mr. Croft?”

  “I mean, did a man escort her out?”

  “You mean someone else?”

  I squinted at him. That was what I just asked, wasn’t it?

  “That’s right, someone else.”

  “No-o-o-o?”

  “Look, just dish it to me straight, Javier. Yes or no?”

  “Beautiful woman leave with someone else?” He shook his head. But he was still giving me that wtf? look, meaning something wasn’t quite translating. I peeked past him to the concierge desk, where I could make out the top of a telephone. Probably easier to get the answer from the source.

  “Would you mind if I made a call?”

  “Oh, no-o-o, Mr. Croft. Only I can use. Building rule.”

  “All right, fine.” Exhaling, I looked around. “Do you know if there’s a payphone close by?”

  He pointed past me. “Two block. But you should not be out at night.”

  Thanks for the public safety tip, pops, but you’re not leaving me much choice. I nodded and wheeled to leave, but then turned back. “Tell you what, Javier. While I find that phone, would you mind calling me a cab?”

  “Jes. Can do.”

  “Great, have him swing by the payphone.” I was about to leave again, when I noticed Javier holding out a hand. “Oh, right.”

  I pulled out my wallet and flicked through the nest of small bills until I found a five. I handed it to him, stuffed my wallet away, and set out at a fast walk, hoping there was enough left for the taxi. Though I earned a decent salary through the College, the costs of wizarding remained just shy of prohibitive. Another reason to log some hours with the NYPD.

  But first I needed to contact Caroline, make sure she’d arrived home safely. Leaving her with a full-blooded fae was feeling more and more careless, especially with Javier’s odd responses now clunking around my stomach.

  I was halfway down the block when I heard footsteps. I drew my cane apart and wheeled, but not fast enough. A force rammed me in the jaw. When my knee banged into something hard, I realized I’d dropped to the sidewalk, sword and staff clattering from my grip. A throbbing pain spread from my right cheek, its epicenter the size of a fist.

  I blinked up as I pawed the sidewalk for my weapons. A short distance away, three men stood in dark suits. Rising to my feet, I turned and hawked a rag of blood.

  “Excuse me,” I said woozily. “Think I just ran into one of your fists.”

  “Everson Croft,” the blond-haired one said.

  A bone-deep chill radiated from him. Coupled with the hollow voice, I knew why. Arnaud Thorne’s blood slaves. I glanced down at my naked ring finger. Wonderful. This would be the one night I’d remove Grandpa’s ring and leave it on the dresser because it didn’t go with the tuxedo. The same ring that just happened to protect me from Arnaud and his vampire ilk. But maybe that was a good thing.

  “Sorry, fellas, but if you’re here for the ring, you’re out of luck.” I held up my fingers. “See?”

  In dark slashes of motion, the three surrounded me. “We have a message for you,” Blondie said.

  I looked from one circling set of hollow eyes to the next. Eyes at odds with their smooth, youthful faces and tailored suits, but a chilling reminder of their preternatural strength, speed, and blood lust. Silently, I called power to my casting prism, grip tight around my weapons.

  “A message?” I said.

  Blondie, the designated speaker, pressed closer. “Stay away from Ferguson Towers. It’s not your concern.”

  Though my mind was still foggy from the blow, it wasn’t hard to work backwards. If Arnaud had blood slaves watching the crime scene and tailing wizards-for-hire, he had some sort of interest in the crime itself. Which seemed to fit with the theory I’d floated to Vega.

  “Aww, what happened?” I asked. “Did one of your pals wander off the reservation?”

  A blow collapsed my stomach, the sick pain folding me over.

  “Do you understand?” Blondie asked.

  I gasped for air. Okay, maybe popping off smart to one of Arnaud’s undead had been a bad idea, but I had this thing about being muscled around—which seemed to happen an awful lot.

  “Understood,” I whispered. “Just do me a favor and tell Arnaud…” I gathered my breath as the blood slaves leaned nearer. “…respingere!”

  My staff crackled with light and an orb-shaped shield exploded from its white opal. The force blasted the blood slaves up and back a good twenty feet. All three landed on their feet, however, stunned but not hurt. Maintaining my shield, I turned in a slow circle, sword held out.

  The slaves started forward. A single blood slave I could probably handle. But three? I swallowed hard, the taste of copper slick on my palate. This could get really ugly really fast.

  “Hey!” A sharp whistle. “You the one that called a cab?”

  I turned to find a taxi idling at the corner. I started to wave him to safety, but when I peeked back, the sidewalk was empty, shadows of buildings where the blood slaves had once stood. I sheathed my sword and limped toward the cab, jaw aching, a nauseous stone in my stomach. There was a reason I had stayed out of the Financial District for the past six months.

  Behind me, a cold voice cut through the wind: “You’ve been warned.”

  8

  It was after midnight when I stepped over my threshold and into my West Village apartment, locking the door’s three bolts behind me. I stood for a moment in the dark, the tension easing from my neck, my shoulders. It had been a hell of a night, and to be back in a familiar, protected space, remnants of my own magic charging the air, comforted me. Until my cat spoke.

  “You look like shit, darling.”

  I found Tabitha’s ochre-green eyes hovering above the divan beneath the west-facing window. I sighed and turned on the floodlights. “You know, a simple ‘welcome home’ would be nice now and then.”

  “Why does your face look like a catcher’s mitt?”

  I touched the hard knot on my jaw where the blood slave had driven his fist. “Here again, starting with ‘Are you all right?’ would be the polite approach. Then you could bring up the mitt.”

  I paced over to the kitchen, dug an old bag of peas from the back of the freezer, and pressed it to my throbbing jaw. No sense wasting healing magic on a little swelling.

  Tabitha shifted her forty-pound pile of fur so she could watch me without lifting her head. “Any luck with what’s-her-name?”

  “Who?” I asked, knowing full well she meant Caroline. I did my best to keep Tabitha out of my personal life. She approved of roughly zero of the women I had dated, and wasn’t shy about telling me. I suspected at least some jealousy at play, not to mention frustration. Tabitha was a succubus spirit trapped in a cat’s body. Her days of seducing and consuming men were long past.

  “Oh, don’t play coy with me,” she said. “I heard you on the phone earlier.”

  I eyed the rotary behemoth on the kitchen counter, the need to call Caroline burning inside me. But I wasn’t going to call her in front of Tabitha.

  “Have you done your tours tonight?”

  “Oh, not this again,” she moaned.

  “A deal’s a deal. F
ood and five-star accommodations in exchange for a tour of the ledge every two hours.”

  “Five-star? This place?” She snorted and closed her eyes. “No one’s interested enough in your dump—or you—to be watching.”

  “Excuse me. Were you not here this past fall? What were those creatures called that came and attacked us? Oh, right—demons.”

  “Old news.” She paused to stretch, while a yawn showcased her impressive teeth. “The six months since have been an absolute bore.”

  “Well, cheer up. That’s probably about to change,” I said, thinking of Arnaud’s warning. “Out. Now.” When she didn’t move, I exercised the nuclear option. “No more goat’s milk until you do.”

  She sighed and heaved up her bulk. Only after staring daggers at me did she drop from the divan. “You’re such a brute sometimes.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary,” I reminded her. “Or anyone watching. Especially if they’re young men in expensive suits.”

  She muttered something I probably didn’t want to hear and squeezed through the cat door. With Tabitha out of the way, I swapped the bag of peas against my face for the phone receiver and dialed Caroline’s number. Just hearing her voice would do wonders for my anxiety.

  I got her recorded voice instead. Nuts.

  “Hey, Caroline,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just wanted to check in and see how the rest of your night went. Make sure you made it home all right. I’m sorry again for ducking out like that. There was a good reason, actually. I was hoping I could tell you about it over breakfast. Or brunch, whichever. My treat. Anyway, if you could give me a call when—”

  The voice mail cut me off with an abrasive beep.

  “—you get this.”

  I hung up, feeling like a bumbling fifteen-year-old. Good thing Tabitha hadn’t been around—I would never have heard the end of it.

  All right, so either Caroline’s phone was out of service range, which would never happen in the city, or she had shut it off for the night to sleep. Alone, I hoped.