by Jasmine Walt
The door finally opened, but it wasn’t Jake or Bobby that came in. My blood ran cold at the sight of Baxter, looking deceptively calm as he closed the door behind him. What the hell was he doing in here? I knew the Chief wouldn’t have authorized this. Baxter wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with the case, since he was too close.
He let out a humorless laugh as my gaze instantly went to the gun holstered at his hip. “I’m not here to kill you in cold blood, Chandler,” he said, sitting down in the hard metal chair across from mine. “Unlike you, I’m a real cop. I want justice served.”
“I’m a real cop, too,” I said stiffly, crossing my arms over my chest as if I could fend off his hurtful words. “I think I’ve proven that.”
“You had me fooled,” Baxter agreed. “I thought you were one of the good ones. After all, how could you not be, rising up the ranks so fast? I even put in a good word for you with the Chief, so that she’d ask you to transfer here. But you must have found some way to pull the right strings. You’re a pretty girl, after all,” he said, sounding disgusted.
“Just what the hell are you insinuating?” I began, my face heating as I leaned across the table. Was Baxter actually suggesting I’d whored myself out for my detective’s shield?
But before I could say anything else, the door opened, and Jake and Bobby stepped inside.
“Baxter, you can’t be in here,” Jake said firmly. He jerked his thumb toward the door. “The Chief will have a fit if she finds out.”
“No worries,” Baxter said easily, rising from the chair. “I’m done here.” He sent me another cold look. “Good luck in interview, Chandler. You’re gonna need it.”
The door closed behind him with an ominous click. Jake sat down in front of me, Bobby standing at his side, and placed a file on the counter. He opened it up, and I forced myself to remain utterly still as he pulled out photos of Father James’s body. Maddock had left the body in a dumpster a few blocks from the church, and the photos were ghastly. Rats had gnawed at his face and limbs, and blood covered his clothes.
Of course, that wasn’t really Father James’s body. It was Tom Garrison, my fiancé, transformed to look like James. The real Father James had been reduced to ash after I’d absorbed his power in self-defense. But the police didn’t know that, and they’d never find out if I had my way.
“You know, it’s a funny thing,” Jake said, once he’d read me my rights. “We tested your clothes, and the book we found, and it looks like the blood isn’t a match for Captain Randall or Father James.”
Sweet relief sang through me, and I pressed my hands into my thighs to keep myself from sagging against the chair. “Of course it wasn’t,” I said calmly. “I didn’t kill them.”
“So you say.” Jake closed the file. “Any idea why Randall was at your apartment?”
I shook my head. “We’d had words the other day about him wanting me to go home since I wasn’t making any progress on Tom’s case. Maybe he came by to try and intimidate me.”
“Maybe.” Jake’s gaze turned speculative as his eyes drifted down to my neck. “Maybe you really were at home, and you guys had some kind of confrontation.”
“I wasn’t home.” My fingers grazed the bruises, and I winced a little. “Like I said, it was a mugger.”
“A mugger? Where’s your report? Why didn’t you arrest him, or call 911?”
“Because he ran off, and it was dark, and I just didn’t want to deal with anymore shit,” I snapped. That last part was definitely true. “He didn’t manage to take anything from me anyway.”
I knew it didn’t add up. As a cop, I would damn well have gotten that mugger one way or another. I would have done all in my power to make sure they didn’t get around to mugging the next person. But that was the lie that had slipped from my mouth earlier, when I’d been caught off guard, and now I needed to stick to it. The only thing worse than a bad lie would be changing my story.
They questioned me for another hour or so, trying to get me to give up something about James or Randall, but I didn’t budge. I kept calm and repeated the same story over and over. Eventually, they let me go.
The Chief was waiting for me when I stepped outside, a resigned expression on her face. “You’re suspended for now, Detective Chandler, until this matter is fully cleared up.”
She handed me an official letter. No apology. Nothing. She must have thought I was guilty, too. I knew this song and dance: they were just looking for more evidence so they could have enough to convict me.
“Fine.” I took it, and carefully tucked it into the inside pocket of my jacket even though what I really wanted to do was crumple it into a ball and throw it in her face.
“Go home, Chandler, and get some rest.” The Chief’s eyes briefly softened in sympathy. Maybe she did feel bad about it after all. “And I think it goes without saying, we expect you to stay in town.”
Ah, there it was. Any doubts I had that I was officially a suspect were swept away with that one sentence.
“Don’t worry,” I mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I made my way out of the station with my head held high, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed. Baxter’s accusing glare seemed to follow me all the way out, and dread made my steps slow despite the fact that I wanted to get away from the station, and my humiliation, as fast as possible.
As I stepped out into the evening air, the cold stung my cheeks, the wind particularly strong as the trees lining the streets up ahead swayed.
A storm was coming. I could feel it.
I walked around the side of the building to the parking lot, headed for my Jeep. As I rounded the corner, something dropped from the rooftop, landing behind me with a thud. My senses tingled, and I turned around slowly, already knowing who I would see.
“Hello, Brooke.” The Morrigan gave me a terrible smile, her feathered cloak snapping open into a pair of wings. “I’m here to collect on my debt.”
I reached for the gun, packed with iron bullets just for her. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“Oh, but you do.” The Morrigan laughed as I drew my weapon. “According to faerie law, if a debtee reneges on a favor, the debtor can extract payment in the form of a hundred years in servitude. I’m going to enjoy making you my slave for the next century.”
She sounded positively gleeful. I considered dropping my gun and just punching her in the throat, but I knew that wouldn’t have the same long term effect I was looking for. Instead, I lifted the gun, centering my sights on her chest.
“I’m no one’s slave,” I snapped, even as fear made my blood run cold.
But before I could fire my gun, the Morrigan threw a fistful of feathers in my face. They swirled around me, engulfing me completely and blocking my vision. A wave of drowsiness hit me, and as I began to lose sensation, my gun slipped from my fingers, clattering to the pavement.
You’re mine now, Daughter of the Winter King, her voice echoed in my mind, and that was the last thing I heard before I was claimed by darkness.
The End
Ready for the next installment in the Shadows of Salem series?
Subscribe today:
http://shadowsofsalem.com/insiders-club/
About the Authors
Jasmine Walt is obsessed with books, chocolate, and sharp, pointy objects. Somehow, those three things melded together in her head and transformed into a desire to write. Usually fantastical stuff, with a healthy dose of action and romance. Her characters are a little (okay, a lot) on the snarky side, and they swear, but they mean well. Even the villains sometimes.
www.jasminewalt.com
USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton lives in Georgia with her husband and four kids, all of whom inspire her writing. Somewhere in between using magic to disappear booboos and sorcery to heal emotional wounds, she takes to her fictional worlds to see what perilous situations her characters will find themselves in next. Represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA, Rebecca has been published int
ernationally, in three languages. You can follow her on twitter @InkMuse
www.rebeccahamiltonbooks.com