Winterstruck: an urban fantasy supernatural crime thriller

by Sara C. Walker

What had Ruby meant when she said I didn't know what happened to Harry? Had she only wanted to manipulate me? Or was there some truth I was missing?

  Magnusson hadn't even batted an eyelash at Harry's name.

  When I returned to the main room, I noticed a fresh pot brewing at the coffee stand. The cart was a relic from someone's 1980s kitchen, loaded up with the coffee maker, cups, sugar, and stir sticks, and positioned between the water cooler and microwave on short stretch of wall between Oshaun's door and the boss's door.

  Everything about our organization was second-hand, used, hand-me-down—from the computers and photocopiers, to the desks and file cabinets, to the dingy carpet the colour of pea soup. Even our weapons were cast-offs. When the military took weapons out of commission, we got a small supply. I didn't know what they did with the rest.

  My office chair let out a half-groan, half-squeak as I sat down. The fabric had split on the back and, judging by the stuffing leaking out, needed another layer of duct tape. I made a mental note to request another roll.

  The door sprang open. Magnusson stormed out. "Don't just sit there; get your stuff," he barked.

  I jumped to my feet. "Where are we going?"

  "We're going to work, Ivory. Got a problem with that?"

  "No. No problem." I quickly gathered my things and hurried after him.

  8

  "We're taking the Batmobile, boss?" I asked, as I caught up to Magnusson in the parking lot. The boss drove a black Chevrolet Impala with dark tinted windows. He had heated seats and leather upholstery.

  He snorted. "I'm not riding in your tin can."

  At least he still had his sense of humour.

  Magnusson pulled out the folder he'd shoved between the seats and handed it to me. The contents included all the information he’d got on the three deaths that, for the moment, were being ruled spontaneous combustion—victims' identifications, lab reports with estimated times of death, and more. I studied while he drove, seamlessly moving us down side streets that were empty and through traffic lights that were always green by the time he got to them. I joked about his car being the Batmobile, but sometimes I wondered if it was modified with a little something extra.

  "I can’t believe PD just gave this case to us for consultation. Especially when they’re insisting we share everything we have with them," I said, flipping through the pages one more time.

  Magnusson stiffened. Just slightly. Enough for me to notice. I raised my eyebrows.

  "I may have pulled rank," he admitted.

  "You forced them to give us the case?"

  "For consultation purposes," he said. "And yes. I have that prerogative."

  In less than half an hour, we arrived at an apartment building in the west end of Toronto. The address on the victim's ID matched our location. I assumed we were checking the scene of the crime for any indication of faerie involvement.

  We went in and found the building superintendent. According to some prior arrangement with Magnusson or perhaps the attending police department, the superintendent had the building's video surveillance set up and ready for review.

  "Ivory, go over the tapes. Check the face of everyone who goes in or out of the building within twenty-four hours either side of the time of death. Call me if you get something."

  "Every face? What am I looking for? The fae don't show up on camera."

  "The human victim. See if she came home with anybody."

  "Right. Where are you going?"

  "To check over the scene."

  I looked over at a computer and some black boxes crammed onto a couple of shelves inside a storage closet that also housed mops and buckets and industrial cleaners. The smell was enough to burn the hairs inside my nostrils.

  "I don't suppose there's a secret coffee machine in here," I said. I really needed a boost of java.

  The superintendent snorted, but at least he showed me how to work the equipment. First, the boss was wrong. There were no tapes. It was all on a hard drive and the files names included dates and times. I used the computer to search for what I wanted. Second, the cameras covered the front door and the maintenance entrance. If the suspect entered by the fire escape or by the sliding doors of a ground floor apartment, we'd never know it.

  The building had over three hundred units. This translated to a hell of a lot of people coming and going throughout a 24-hour period.

  An hour into watching people go about their daily business, a huge yawn pulled my mouth open and I nearly missed the blip on my fae-dar. It was faint, but it was there. I moved the video back and watched for it again. Yes. There it was.

  I paused the video. It could be entirely coincidence—a fae could have entered our immediate vicinity. I needed to check it out. I left the closet and toured around the outside of the building. The crisp cold air helped to wake me up, but I didn't sense anything in the area.

  I returned to the broom closet and played the video again. Blip. I stopped, backed up and played again. Blip. Again. Blip.

  I was absolutely sure: I could sense this fae through recorded video.

  An hour before the time of death, a man and a woman entered the building. He was blurry, she was not. Coupled arm-in-arm, laughing. Returning from a date, no doubt. She gazed up adoringly into his eyes, so I didn't see her face to compare to the identification photo we had, but based on what I could make of her side profile, she could be a match. Then he looked up at the camera. His face was blurry, but something feral and hungry stirred in his eyes.

  I hit the pause button and called Magnusson. He wanted me to check for an exit time on the same guy, so I scanned through more video. I found him. Head down and slipping through the shadows as he scurried out the door, close to the time of death. I called Magnusson again.

  A few minutes later, I uploaded all the footage featuring the fae to Oshaun. It was all black and white and blurry, but we could make out a few features.

  He was a very good-looking man. Dark hair curled around his face, longer in the back. But those eyes. Those feral and hungry eyes.

  I shivered.

  "So the time of death is off," I said as we headed back to the car. Magnusson hadn't found anything in the victim's apartment that wasn't already in the reports.

  He grunted.

  "Unless the victims burn faster than the medical examiner thought," I suggested.

  "Oshaun will confirm that."

  I climbed into the passenger seat. "Where to?"

  "Two more apartments to check out."

  Swell.

  Since we were stuck in the car for a while...

  "Say, boss. Have you heard from Harry?"

  "Harry..."

  "Harry Weston. My old partner. Your old employee." Remember him?

  "Yeah, no. I haven't heard from him. Should I have?"

  "He retired to Alaska and hasn't sent one postcard or letter?"

  Magnusson shrugged a shoulder. "He's busy."

  "Doing what? He's retired. He's got time to send an email."

  "You know how he feels about technology."

  I fell silent, trying to process what I was hearing. Or rather, what I wasn't hearing. The shift in Magnusson's body language. There was something he wasn't telling me.

  "I doubt he has the internet. But I can get a message to him," he said. "What do you want tell him?"

  "Nothing. Forget it."

  "You know Harry. If you don't ask him something directly, he's not likely to anticipate it himself."

  It was true. Harry would often leave the office to grab lunch or a coffee and not bring anything back for anyone else, unless he was directly asked. It wasn't that he had an issue with bringing me a coffee. It was that he didn't want to presume I wanted one. Even after I told him there was never a wrong time for coffee, he still didn't bring me one unless I asked. Old habits, I guessed.

  "I was just wondering how his move went," I said with a shrug. "How his wife and kids are adjusting to living in Alaska."

  Magnusson grumbled. "I'll see what I ca
n do."

  It wasn't the answer I was hoping for, but it was all I was going to get for now.

  The camera footage from all three apartment buildings showed blurry versions of the same guy entering roughly an hour before the victim's time of death, with the victim on his arm, laughing, and then leaving around or before the time of death.

  At least the third building had colour video. If Oshaun could combine all the footage to make a clear picture, we just might end up with a photo of the suspect.

  All in all, it had been a good day. Except for the feeling that my boss was hiding something from me.

  Back at the office, I went through the company's server to select a few screen captures to print. Blurry, but it would have to work for now. We had our fire bug. Now all we needed was a name.

  I had an idea how I could get it.

  As I was gathering up the photos and my keys and them stuffing the pockets of my coat, Magnusson came out of his office. He went to the coffee maker and filled his orange cup. And then he...hovered. There was no other word for it. He stood there stirring a spoon around in his black coffee, trying not to look like he was watching me load up.

  "Something on your mind, boss?" I asked.

  "Going somewhere?"

  "Before I finish for the day, I thought I would show the fire bug's photo to a couple of informants. See if I can get a name."

  He nodded sagely. I waited for him to say more, to ask me about these informants, but he didn't. His eyes were on the vomit-green carpet, unfocused.

  I pulled my gun and ID from my desk drawer and shoved them into my coat. I slid the drawer closed and turned to the door.

  "I sent a message to Harry," Magnusson blurted. "Now we just have to wait."

  I froze. His words blew out in a rush, catching me by surprise. The tone in his voice was upbeat, positive. He even smiled.

  It was weird.

  "Okay. Good," I said awkwardly, and then left.

  He was definitely hiding something.

  The bitter wind lashed my cheeks and stole away all the heat my body tried to generate. I jumped in my car with its broken heater and took a drive in the crazy-stupid cold. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and our office location, but I also needed the time to think about what I was going to say to Simon. I'd been very clear that I wasn't working with him, no matter what. Now here I was having to ask for his help. I didn't want him to get the impression that this was a collaborative investigation.

  I headed for the Kensington Market, an area of Toronto full of markets and grocers with a variety of ethnic foods, and parked near an organic specialty cafe. Seemed as good a place as any to meet Simon.

  I whispered his name into the wind. And then I went inside to order a coffee and Nanaimo bar to enjoy while I waited. Cold weather made me starving.

  As happened before, Simon showed up before my order did.

  Either these coffee shops were way too slow at filling orders or Simon really wanted information.

  I motioned for him to come inside, and to my surprise, he did. He strode over to my table.

  "Twice in one day?" he intoned.

  I gestured for him to sit down. The server brought over my order and placed it on the table.

  "This better be good," Simon said as he slid onto a chair.

  "One of your kind has been burning up women." I pulled the photos from my coat pocket, unfolded them and slid them across the table. I sipped my coffee while I waited.

  He kept his face unreadable as he examined the photos.

  "Where'd you get these?" he asked. His voice carefully neutral. No surprise, no curiosity. But I had a feeling he was feeling both.

  I didn't stop eating to answer him. "Surveillance cameras. Outside the victims' homes. You recognize him? Is he one of yours? Have you disciplined him before, Simon?"

  "No."

  "You sure? Take a moment and look again. He’s fae."

  His eyes cut sharply to me. Long black lashes framed irises the colour of robins' eggs. "He is not one of ours." Icicles dripped from his words. And in this weather, that was saying something.

  I took a swig from my coffee. "Sorry, I don't believe you. You recognize him. He's one of yours and you've been lying to me all along."

  I let venom seep into my tone. He noticed.

  "You are angry with me," he said.

  "Aw, you noticed."

  "I have no reason to lie to you."

  "Am I just supposed to believe that?"

  "What do you want from me?"

  I nodded at the photo dangling in his hand. "Give me his name and I might be willing to start over. Wipe the slate clean. Provided you aren't hiding anything else." My heart pounded while I waited for his answer.

  "His name is Hammond," he said finally.

  "Is that a first name or last name?"

  He shrugged. "No one knows. He is just Hammond."

  "Is everyone a rock star these days? What else?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know him. What else can you tell me about him?"

  "He belongs to Summer."

  "And Flint? Is he a summer fae?"

  "Flint?"

  "A salt-peter fae. I don't know is actual name." I looked into those bright blue eyes, hoping to find something there I could trust, but I didn't know if I would recognize it even if I found it.

  "What else can you tell me about Hammond?" I asked. "His location? His element?"

  "His element is fire, which you already know. If I had his location, I would give it to you."

  "Does he know anything about the missing ones?"

  "I don't know. This is what you will have to find out."

  "Why me? I have enough to do trying to capture these two and keep the human population safe. Why can't you figure this out without me?"

  "There are rules."

  "Rules?"

  "Laws that govern my kind. One wrong step and my actions could be seen as an act of war," he said. "You, on the other hand, have more freedom."

  "Great. Faerie games." I slumped back against my chair. "If I'm going to trust you, you have to tell me everything. Is there anything else I don't know?"

  He frowned. "I expect there is quite a lot you don't know."

  "Simon, you have to give me something. The treaty negotiations. Something." I drew a breath, steeling my patience before it completely evaporated.

  "Rumour has it, your government is redirecting funding," he said. "But it's just a rumour."

  He knew what was happening to our agency. If I could get more information about that, maybe I could save us from being shut down.

  "Tell me what you know."

  Simon shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "It is all I am permitted to say."

  "Then why should I trust you? Why should I trust anything you say at all? Give me something. A show of good faith. Otherwise, I'll have to accept that you want us to fail; you want us shut down."

  He clamped his mouth shut tight. "The federal government is restructuring your particular line of work. Someone has decided that since the majority of action involving my kind happens here, and in one or two other cities across the country, the problem should be handled locally."

  "They're downloading the funding for faerie hunting to the municipalities?"

  "Correct. So now this city is deciding if your cause is worth funding at all."

  No wonder Magnusson was pissed. How were we supposed to do our job if we weren't funded? We couldn't exactly fundraise from the public. What part of black ops did these bureaucrats not understand? Worse, what would happen to the humans of Toronto if we were axed and not around to do our job?

  I shivered. And it had nothing to do with the weather.

  Simon slid out of his chair and, catching me preoccupied, leaned in close enough that his breath warmed my ear. Heat radiated off him like warm spills of sunshine. "Your negotiation skills almost rival my own. Not bad for your first time."

  A warm feeling blossomed inside me.
r />   "Contact me again when you know something," he said. He turned and left.

  I watched as he headed down the street, and the electric pulse of him faded from my consciousness. In the blink of an eye he went from being a man in a long black coat to a bird. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it.

  As he took to the air, climbing up over the shops and grocers, I caught a flash of orange on his belly. My father used to say seeing a robin was a sure of the arrival of spring.

  So why did I have a feeling this sign of spring was nothing but trouble?

  9

  After a long day, I picked up my coat from the dry cleaners and arrived home looking forward to a simple night in, a hot bath followed by cuddling on the chesterfield, maybe watching an old movie or listening to some music. Simple, boring, normal. No faeries.

  As I rode the elevator up to the penthouse, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and jeans, shifting the dry cleaning from arm to arm, my fingers scrambling. My gun was tucked under my seat before I left the car. But did I remember to lock the doors...? I had a sudden urge to run back to check, but my middle finger hit something hard.

  My ring.

  I took the diamond ring from my pocket and slipped it onto my finger. My heart speeding, my throat dry.

  I'd almost blown my first day as an engaged woman.

  Not good. Between the mystery of Harry, the firebug, Flint, and Ruby, there wasn't much room left in my brain. I took a moment to take a few deep breaths, so that by the time I stepped out of the elevator, I was the picture of calm, and my mind was transitioning over to being a good future wife of a doctor.

  I unlocked the door and went inside, calling out to Luke as I hung the dry cleaning in the closet. As I peeled off my boots and coat, he stuck his head out from the kitchen.

  "Hi, gorgeous," he said. "Dinner's almost ready."

  Something warm and spicy rode the air currents from his direction. He threw a towel over one shoulder as he approached me with a smile in his eyes.

  "Perfect." I grinned. "You're home early."

  "Took most of the day off. I had a few errands to run." He slipped his arms around me, drawing me close. He leaned down and brushed his lips with mine. "Do you want the good news or bad news first?"