“Let me guess. They were surprisingly clean?”
“Squeaky. It might be worth getting Harper’s team in there, though. Maybe they can pick up a trace of something.”
“Either way, we can cross them off the list. Thanks for looking into it.”
“It wasn’t for you,” he admitted. “Before I could get away to check out the addresses myself, Creed sent us out. Between the steel factory and the slaughterhouse, he sees the connection to the Gant family—whether you want him to or not.”
My attention drifted as a familiar face popped into view at the end of the hall. “Can we pick this up later?”
Curious, Evans turned to follow my stare. “Marshall Parish?” His gaze zipped back to mine in excitement. “You think he has news on Marnie?”
“If he does, I’ll call you.” I shoved my chips and soda in his hands and sprinted down the hall. Slick, in a charcoal windowpane suit and pink tie, Oren’s affable expression earned him a few waves and smiles. He returned them warmly. They had no idea his friendly persona was simply another part of his human wardrobe.
He stopped in front of me. “You and your police friend looked cozy.”
“I had my head bashed in and got locked in a freezer yesterday, and that’s what you open with?” I moved toward one of the empty meeting rooms. “Let’s talk.”
“Here? Now?” Oren’s head swiveled to see who was watching.
“Everyone thinks we’re old family friends, remember?”
“Right.” Giving his jacket sleeves an impatient yank, he followed me in.
I closed the door. “Late for another date with Gattlin Barnes?”
“No. But we do have things to discuss. Once he’s finished with the press conference outside.”
“That’s now? What time is it?” I checked the clock on the wall. The conference was due to start twenty-five minutes ago. “Damnit. I was supposed to be there.”
“At a press conference? With cameras?”
“Relax. It’s just a little positive PR for the task force. The city’s been through a lot lately. Hailing our accomplishments and ensuring everyone the UCU is dedicated to investigating all the crazy crimes that go down in this city, might ease their minds. And don’t worry. I was planning to find a nice, cozy spot in the back.”
“I suppose,” he said, with a thoughtful tilt of his head, “if you’re going to continue your affiliation with the police, some visibility couldn’t hurt. Especially, in light of my meeting with Mayor Anderson this morning.”
“That sounds cryptic. What did he want?”
“My input on the fire at the steel factory,” Oren said pointedly. “Apparently, his lawyers are concerned about some ecological fallout—figuratively speaking. Environmental groups, activists, and the like. The majority of the time, we talked about you.”
“Me?” I perched on the edge of the conference table. The slam of a door and a shout in the corridor outside the room slowed my question. “Why?”
“He had concerns about your place here. Anderson knows we have a relationship. He wanted my assurance that you’re bringing something to the team besides your knowledge of fire. After all, your card does say ‘Arson Consultant’, and you’re only on the task force because Detective Creed was given carte blanche to fill the positions.”
“So that’s why the mayor wants me at his charity event this weekend. He wants to see for himself if Creed made the right choice.”
“Sounds like the perfect opportunity for you to cement what I told him.”
“Which was?”
“Exactly what he needed to hear. You have a degree in criminal justice with a minor in investigative forensics—a lifelong interest, brought on by the tragic death of your parents in a fire when you were young. Your stints as a police officer and firefighter exposed you to a variety of situations, as did the summer internship I arranged for you at the crime lab during your last two years in college. I fed him all the details and anecdotes he needs to believe you’re a credible asset to the UCU. Though, I believe you’re too involved with certain individuals, there is merit in having you in the thick of things. And if anyone is going to pull you out, it will be me. Not some silver-spoon, paper-pushing bureaucrat,” he muttered.
“I thought you liked the mayor.”
“The mayor likes me. Which is why he’s now wholly onboard and believes your assistance with the unusual crimes plaguing the SCPD to be invaluable. So much, he’d now like you to apply for a permanent position within the department. I dissuaded him against it for the time being, but he is recommending Gattlin amend your title to ‘Special Consultant’ to avoid any outside inquiries.”
“I knew there were doubts, but I didn’t realize they went that far up the chain. Thanks for handling it for me.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I take it we’re having this conversation because something has gone horribly wrong?”
“You know me so well.” I paused, as a commotion in the hall caught my attention for a second time. Unintelligible raised voices preceded multiple shadows rushing past the drawn blinds of the conference room window.
Oren cleared his throat. “You were saying?”
“Right. Sorry. There’s an insulated bag with a fluid sample in the back of my jeep. Can you make a tracker with it, like the one you made for me over the summer to locate Reech?”
“Possibly. Do you finally have a lead on our hungry creatures?”
“I have a lead, yes. But this isn’t a mindless feeding frenzy, Oren. It’s the Black Market. The Black Market.”
He took an unconscious step back. “No. You can’t mess with this. The Market provides Drimera with…well, everything. If you inhibit or interrupt delivery in any way, if you bring public attention to—”
“They made themselves public. They’re using the bodies of innocent creatures against their will. I can’t walk away from this.”
Quiet a moment, he replied, “I know.”
My pulse slowed. He wasn’t sanctioning my involvement, but I felt better knowing Oren, at least, understood my reasoning. Except…
His pupils were enlarged.
It was a miniscule change. But I was inches away, eyes locked with someone I’d known for nearly a hundred years, and I’d perceived what he hadn’t meant to show.
Oren wasn’t acknowledging my commitment, but his own awareness.
“How long?” I said. “How long have you known this was going on?” Oren’s lengthy pause pricked at my temper. “Did you know it was their leftovers on the riverbank?”
“I knew there were procedural changes,” he admitted. “But I would’ve never suspected the Market was at the heart of your current case. It’s an established business with a proven track record. It’s never been connected to a single crime scene.”
“That’s why I didn’t put it together sooner. Something happened to force them out in the open like this. And you know what it is, don’t you?”
“Naalish,” he nodded. “She’s taking a broader approach to combat misuse of the exits. Travel between worlds now requires a petition to be submitted to the Guild. Any who leave their homes without prior approval are at risk for detainment and execution, even those not passing through Drimera.”
“That’s ridiculous. Naalish doesn’t own the exits. Even if she did, the Guild couldn’t possibly control every crossing on every world.”
“Which brings us to our current problem.” Oren’s concentration wavered this time, as more noise erupted in the hall. More shadows ran by. He blew it off with a shrug and continued. “Catching and disposing of the violators proved a larger undertaking than the queen expected. She was obliged to outsource the work.”
“To the Black Market?”
“Yes. In exchange for capturing and disposing of the offending creatures, the Market keeps what parts they deem valuable, plus the profits from any resulting sales. It’s been running smoothly for a while now. If that storm hadn’t exposed the dump at the river, this wouldn’t be an issue.”
“Oh, it woul
d still be an issue. We just wouldn’t know it was an issue, while they continued on, indiscriminately slaughtering and trafficking whatever the fuck they felt like.”
Oren digested my attitude with a deep breath. “Naalish assigned a liaison, an operative to oversee the joint venture and smooth out any problems that might arise. Obviously, he’s not doing his job. There’s no reason such a proven organization couldn’t handle an influx of product without exposing themselves.”
“Product? Please tell me that’s the queen’s word, Oren, and not how you see them.” Afraid of his reply, I didn’t wait for it. “What right do you have to label them that way? Because they lack dragon DNA? These creatures are still living beings.”
“I’m not any happier about this than you are. But the mere presence of those living beings threaten a city you seem bent on sacrificing all else to protect. Culling their numbers can only make the Sentinel safer. And speak a little louder,” he snapped. “They didn’t hear you downstairs in the lobby.”
I lowered my voice. My anger was harder to swallow. “Maybe, instead of sponsoring mutilation and murder, Naalish should focus on why these creatures are leaving home. The Guild has resources they don’t. The elders should be helping these worlds, not—” Music sprang from my back pocket, cutting me off.
“You should probably get that,” Oren said, his relief at the intrusion plain. “I’ll start putting something together to satisfy the police. There must be a suitable crime ring in the city we can pin this on.”
“Wait—the vial in my trunk.”
“I’m sorry, Dahl. I can’t. I won’t give Naalish another reason to look in your direction. The Market is obviously suffering from growing pains. For your own safety, let the situation resolve itself, and back off.”
He left. I stared at the closing door, missing the call as it ended, trying to decide if Oren had always been so callous—and I’d missed that, too—or if his attitude toward humans had gotten worse.
Abruptly, the door swung back open. “There you are,” Ronnie breathed. “Creed’s had me looking all over for you.”
“The press conference, I know. I’m coming.” Moving toward her, waves of unease drifted off Ronnie’s body, and I lost a step. The emotion was too strong to be associated with one of Creed’s bad moods. Walking beside her through the hall, I sensed more, rippling throughout the building. “What happened?”
“Someone leaked pictures to the press of our body dump at the river. Reporters started throwing questions at the captain about severed limbs and serial killers. The crowd demanded answers we don’t have. It didn’t take long to break down after that.”
I scooted clear as two officers hurried past. “It sounds bad.”
“On the angry mob scale, I’d say we were inching up to about the ‘villagers with torches and pitchforks’ line.”
“Were? Meaning, it’s contained?”
“More or less. Barnes suspected it might go south. He had a tactical team standing by. They took control pretty quick.”
“If he thought this might happen why go through with it at all?”
“I heard the whole thing was the mayor’s idea. Barnes argued against it, but Anderson insisted,” she said, as we spiraled down the stairs. “Connors thinks he has a hard-on for the task force.”
I grunted. “He would.” Though, as much as I hated to admit it, Connors was probably right. Taking risks to get the media behind a pet project, before the next election, sounded like a political move. As did ignoring the advice of a man who had a more legitimate read on the city.
The main floor was loud congested. Uniformed officers, more than usual, bustled back and forth. A few were escorting rioters in handcuffs. Others were talking with animated witnesses, eager to be heard. Underneath was the low murmur of noise seeping in from outside. It grew louder as we pushed open the front doors to a scene much less positive than the mayor had intended.
Street lights were popping on to combat the setting sun, but the lack of light wasn’t dissuading the bulk of the crowd. People were still gathered in groups, though they were in the process of being pushed back across the street and into the parking lot beyond. Most were cooperating. There were grumbles, but they weren’t pushing past the line of officers. A few rowdy ones pumped their fists in protest, as they shouted the typical threats and accusations of an angry mob:
“It ain’t safe to walk the streets!”
“My son disappeared! And you don’t even have a suspect!”
“If you can’t protect this city, then give the job to someone who will!”
“There are things here that don’t belong—things that aren’t human!”
Okay. Maybe their complaints weren’t all typical. Regardless, for the citizens to lash out like this, the city was clearly hurting far worse than any of us thought.
Barnes was on the far left of the wide, stone steps, speaking with a small group of reporters. Head held high, voice strong, he came across as strikingly composed for someone who was just ambushed. The anxiety he forced down deep was plain to me, though. It spiked as Barnes looked out over the crowd. He was worried for what might come next, worried we couldn’t protect them. Wrongly, the captain believed he let them down.
But it wasn’t his fault. The man had no idea what he was up against.
My mood darkened at his distress. The excess emotions of the crowd weren’t helping. I threw up my internal barricades and turned to Ronnie. “Any idea who leaked the information on our case?”
“No, but when I find out who it was—and I’m done punching them—I’ll let you have a turn.”
“And that’s why they call you Geronimo,” I said. “Always ready to dive right off the next cliff.”
With a quick fist bump and a grin, Ronnie ran down to the street where Evans and several members of the UCU were clearing a path for an approaching ambulance.
Spotting Creed, on his way up the stairs to the station, I met him in the middle. “Looks like this went to hell fast. Are the injuries serious?”
He shook his head. “A twisted ankle, a concussion, some bumps and bruises. The bad press is going to hurt a hell of a lot more.” He studied Barnes, still conversing with the reporters. “I don’t know how he can stand there letting them question his ability to lead. His temper is worse than mine.”
“Hmm…I’d say it’s about even. Captain Barnes just has more experience playing the game. Though, you might want to brush up on your schmoozing skills before the mayor’s party.”
Creed’s sidelong glance gave way to a short laugh. “Me?”
“Yes, you. I’m merely the supporting cast. All I need to do is smile and nod. You have to make nice even knowing this disaster was all Anderson’s idea.”
“Thanks,” he said with a tight smile. “Guess I should practice now. Barnes is sending me inside to get Anderson on the phone.”
“Good luck. I’ll see what I can do to help out here.”
Starting up the stairs, Creed threw me a hurried, “Come find me before you leave,” over his shoulder. “I want to go over the witness statements from the strip club one more time.”
I offered him a lukewarm, “Sure,” and headed down to where Evans was standing, front and center on the sidewalk. As I moved up beside him, he pulled me back from the crowd.
“I was just about to text you,” he said. “We have company. Nine o’clock. Across the street. Five cars back. Black sedan.”
Following his directions, I located the shiny four-door pulled up at the curb alongside the parking lot. Without my lyrriken sight, and the window down on the car, I might not have discerned the profile of the older man in the backseat with a fedora atop his graying hair. We’d only met once. But the human form of Aidric, King of Drimera, was not easily forgotten. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“But wait—there’s more…” Evans threw a dose of drama into his voice. “For tonight only, you get two uninvited guests for the price of one.” Ignoring my frown, he guided me again. “Parking lot c
rowd. Six o’clock. First row. Beside the woman in the pink coat.”
“I see him,” I sighed, warring with irritation and my relief at knowing he was all right. It had been a while since I last heard from Coen. Even longer since I caught him following me. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there. One of his three human forms was likely lurking more often than I cared to know. By conscripting him to protect me, Aidric had turned the powerful, three-headed balaur into a common stalker.
As if sensing me watching him, Coen’s gaze homed in on mine. Standing in the glow of the street light at the perfect angle, his stare sparkled. Gray? Normally, it was the golden-eyed center head of the trio who ventured out alone, not the illusionist.
He waved me over, and worry consumed my surprise. Watching me was one thing. Making contact in a crowd, with reporters nearby, in front of a precinct full of cops on high alert was a risk I wouldn’t expect any of Coen’s forms to take.
I motioned the illusionist to make his way to the far edge of the crowd. “Do you mind sitting this one out,” I said to Evans. “It’ll look more suspicious if we both go talk to him.”
“He’s all yours. I was off ten minutes ago, anyway. Now, I just need to sneak off before Barnes or Creed finds something else for me to do.” Evans turned to leave—like we had nothing whatsoever to discuss. He didn’t ask about any off-the-books, after dark investigating or if my talk with Oren had resulted in a new lead on Marnie.
He was itching to leave, and it wasn’t like him.
“Casey?” I wavered as he turned around. Maybe I was reading into things? “Why don’t we go a few rounds before work? It’s been a while since we hit the ring.”
“Tomorrow?” he winced. “I’m meeting Harper early in the morning.”
“A second sweep of Normal Key’s apartments,” I nodded. “Right. I forgot. Don’t go alone. Take Ronnie or someone with you. The Market will do anything to conceal evidence. There could be traps. And if Key isn’t human—”
“He might be a werewolf?” His smile was slow and mischievous. “You know, tomorrow is a full moon.”
My doubts waning at his animated stare, I couldn’t tell Evans it didn’t work like that with the ulfar. Instead, I let him go and crossed the street to where the illusionist was waiting for me at the less-populated edge of the dwindling crowd. His muscles were contained in pressed tan slacks and a lightweight, black sweater with brown buttons at the neck. Continuing with his respectable appearance, his shoulder-length hair was tied at the nape of his neck and his goatee was neatly trimmed. The balaur’s business-casual attire caught me off guard. It was a nice change from the jeans and leather jacket look the three usually had going on.
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