by Erin Hayes
They moved along the forest paths that he’d walked many times throughout his young life, the trees growing thicker, passing seamlessly into a world he’d never seen before. Stone walls appeared between the rough trunks, gradually growing taller, stone by stone. Then, with some alarm, Euros realized that they were walking between scattered buildings, the path turning into a narrow alley and the trees changing from silent brooding giants into slender, flowering shrubs.
All the while, Mixt had remained silent, though his presence was never forgotten, as he guided Euros along. Together, they walked under a grand arch of greenery and into a beautiful courtyard. A fountain splashed somewhere in the distance, the sound soothing like a gentle lullaby of the soul.
Mixt crossed the open space, and then abruptly stopped before a doorway, urging Euros to go through. He obeyed as his heart thudded in his chest, and the door softly closed behind him, leaving him in total darkness. He looked around anxiously, desperate to make sense of this unknown place, but the air was thick with the pungent smoke of incense that stung his eyes and nose. Instantly, he recognized the scent as Dragon’s Blood, mixed with other herbs, arnica, and bergamot. His mother had used Dragon’s Blood, in secret on windless nights. It gave him a sense of comfort and familiarity. His heart rate slowed.
“Ah, Euros. Welcome.”
He spun toward the voice. A woman…or a man…or both, he couldn’t be sure. The being shimmered, the edges of the form dissolving, reforming, over and over, refusing to make a solid shape. The face was at once feminine and masculine, eyes changing color from bright to dark. The only consistent part of the being was the smile. It drew Euros forward, slowly, but irresistibly.
“Sit. Please. You have made a long journey to be with us.” The voice seemed to come from everywhere, yet nowhere. Startled, Euros realized the voice was within his mind, and perhaps his soul. Without question, Euros did as he was commanded, and was rewarded with food, drink, and clean clothes. Despite fighting against the forces that be, he found himself growing tired, unable to fight the weight of the world, as it crushed down upon him. He wanted to ask questions, to find out where he was, why he had been brought there, and what his future held for him, but his eyes closed against his will. The voice was back in his head, ageless, genderless…soothing.
“Sleep, little one. Sleep now.”
And so, he did.
The buzz of the police scanner jolted Euros from his memories, bringing him back to the present. He sat up abruptly, hands coming down hard on the desk. The scanner crackled with static.
“Damn…”
As he glanced down at his computer, the clock in the corner ticked over to 2:40 a.m.
“Shit…”
The static on the scanner resolved into chatter, and he leaned forward. There was another murder. Another high-profile member of the community. Before the broadcast even finished, he shrugged on his coat, grabbed his cell phone, and headed for the stairs.
The last words he heard were dispatch asking for someone to call Detective Sharpe. He stopped, hand on the door. He needed to move, and he needed to move fast.
“Fuck it…”
This was no time to hide his magic now; he needed to get across town, and he needed to do that as quickly as possible. He slipped through the door into the stairwell, listening. Somewhere below, he heard footsteps, and then the door to the street opening. With the click of the door shutting, he let out a breath. Eyes closed, he pictured the Marchland Building in his mind, and said the words for a transportation spell.
The Gaelic Scottish was familiar to his tongue, and comforting to his ears—the language of his birthright. The Latin less so, but it was the language of his training. The two melded together into a seamless cadence, the intent simple, the words basic.
“Á sealladh a hic; Siubhal; Nochdaidh ut ibi.”
Disappear from here, travel, appear there.
He knew where here was, and where he wanted to go. So, he let the magic take control, and his body went through that amazing transformation that he loved so much. Each cell split painlessly from its neighbor, rose spiraling into the air, his body becoming a swirling column of incandescent energy. And then, in a split-second flash of brilliant white light, he vanished from the stairwell.
Chapter Six
Jessica rolled over and opened her eyes. The light around the edge of the windows was the same as it always was; ambient light from outside created an amber rectangle where the window was. It looked like fire, or something evil leaking in from the outside.
She turned over again, back to her window, and fought with her pillow. It felt like she’d just crawled into bed. She was exhausted; she should have been asleep in minutes. The numbers on the clock caught her eye. 2:45 a.m. She’d only been in bed for a couple of hours, no wonder she was still tired.
She took a breath, held it, as the clock rolled over to the next minute. 2:46 a.m. Her phone rang, and she let the breath out in a soft curse.
“Damn.”
She flipped open the phone. “Sharpe.
“There’s a homicide.”
“I’m not on duty tonight.” She reached over, and flipped on the light to make whatever the dispatcher was going to say, seem less ominous. There was a hesitation on the other end, and she thought she heard the hushed conversation of someone else.
“I was instructed to call you. There are…it’s like…”
She closed her eyes, willing something to keep him from saying anymore. Earthquake, fire…a real fire outside her window, coming in, giving her a reason to run away. But none of that was going to happen.
“It’s like the last murder. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes.” The voice sounded relieved to not have to say the words.
“What’s the address?”
“Marchland Towers.”
Her blood went cold, and she gripped the phone hard, the edge of the case biting into her fingers. She waited, holding her breath. Waited for him to say the name she willed dispatch not to say.
“It’s Vincent Parnell.”
“Right. On my way.”
She flicked the phone shut, and tossed it on the bed. The sense of déjà vu was so strong, it made her dizzy. For a minute, she just sat, head in her hands. But this was her job, and she needed to do it.
Standing and stretching, she headed to the bathroom. Vincent Parnell was already dead, that situation wouldn’t change if she took a shower. Besides, she’d feel better. Maybe that would translate to thinking clearly, when it mattered most.
The shower was short, and very hot. Within a few minutes, she stepped out, her hair a thick mass of wet hanging down her back. A quick braid, and she’d be good to go.
And there was no way she was wearing yesterday’s clothes. Ross would be there; he was probably already on his way. Besides, she’d feel better wearing clean clothes.
The problem was, most of her clothes all looked the same, dark turtlenecks, jeans, boots. Leather jacket. Well, hell, she spent her time either parked at a desk, or crawling around crime scenes. Everything was easy to care for, and the boots were comfortable.
So, dressed in a duplicate, but fresh, set of clothes, and her wet hair restrained in a thick braid, she pulled on her jacket. Halfway to the door, she remembered her cell. It had disappeared in the sheets, and it took her longer to find it than was strictly necessary.
With it in her pocket, she headed out to her car. There was no frost this morning, but it was just as cold. Her car started, and she let the heater run for a minute, trying to recall everything she knew about Vincent Parnell.
The first thing that came to mind was lawsuits. Frequent, bitter, protracted. Parnell was a real estate mogul, one of the premier developers in the city. That was all well and good, but he had a penchant for buying low-rent properties, evicting the residents, and then building luxury apartments. Petitions had been sent to the mayor—the previous mayor, not Jason Lansing. Jason Lansing, and Vincent Parnell, had been in each other’
s back pockets.
Jessica pulled into the street, turning toward the Marchland Towers. It was on the Magnificent Mile, rising above other glittering high-rises, allowing its upper floors to command a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. And Parnell’s condo took up the top floor. God, this was going to be another forensic nightmare, she thought.
The latest lawsuit, in a long string against Parnell, had been the headline on every paper of note in northern Chicago. Parnell had bought a block of high-end retail shops, including an art gallery, and several boutiques. Together, the owners had filed suit in a desperate attempt to halt the purchase, and save their businesses. But the behind-the-scenes workings of Lansing, using the power of his office, and the very public workings of Parnell’s lawyers, had gotten the lawsuit dismissed on some obscure technicality. Pockets were lined, and the owners were displaced. And Parnell built another glittering building, full of luxury apartments.
Jessica turned the car down the almost deserted Michigan Avenue. It was hardly dark with the light from the streetlights reflecting off the fronts of the buildings, creating an artificial daylight. She shivered, even though the car had warmed up. This was going to be worse than Lansing’s murder, she thought.
The lights from the squad cars added their colors to those of the overhead lights, giving the whole affair the look of some bizarre circus. She pulled her car to the curb, turned off the engine, and listened to it ticking as it cooled. Her heart was already in her throat, and she kicked herself. This was her job; the job she’d wanted from the day she’d entered the academy.
Then why was this so damn hard, she asked herself. The work was demanding, yes. The crimes she’d been investigating the worse the city could throw at her. The promotion had made her giddy with excitement, for a short time at least. She’d celebrated…
Don’t go there, she scolded herself. The last thing she needed to think about now was that day, that little bubble of time between patrol and starting in homicide. The last time she’d been happy. The last time she’d been with…
“Stop it.” She banged the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. It hurt, but it jarred her out of that little trip down memory lane, and back to where she needed to be. There was a dead man, and it was her job to figure out what had happened. To find who had done it.
The air was colder here with the wind funneling between the buildings and moaning through the housings of the streetlights. She locked the car and walked toward the yellow tape. There was no way they could cordon off the whole street without causing chaos and bedlam. Even in the early morning, there was enough traffic that someone would complain if they blocked the street. And there was nothing they could glean from a street with traffic and pedestrians. If anyone ran that way, any trace would be long gone.
There were no reporters…yet. Jessica kept her head up, refusing to look over, refusing the overwhelming urge to look for Euros. But she knew by the tingle on her skin, the flush of goosebumps that rose on her skin, that he was close. Damn him. Damn him for still having that effect on her. How the hell did he get here so fast?
Ahead of her, yellow tape extended across the whole width of the Marchland Building, out to the curb. She took out her badge, and showed it to the patrol on duty. It was a different uniform than last night. This one wasn’t green around the gills. He nodded at her, lifted the tape, and pointed her toward a small door beside the large double doors that opened into the main lobby.
“You can go through there, then take the elevator. It’s a direct shot up to the penthouse.”
The solid metal door was propped open, a faint dusting of graphite powder marred the surface of the handle, the frame. The door had no lock, but she saw tucked away in a discrete little alcove to the side, a keypad. Looking closer, she saw that it too, had been dusted with fingerprint powder. She didn’t hold onto much hope that the killer had stopped on the street, punched in the code, and left her a pristine print. The buttons’ surface was smeared and greasy looking. Glancing back at the street, she wondered how many people stopped and punched buttons at random, hoping to penetrate the inner sanctuary of Parnell’s lair. She turned back to the patrol officer.
“Is Carter here?”
The uniform shook his head. “CSI has been here about twenty minutes, and they processed as much as they could down here, so we could use this to access the penthouse. There’s a CSI guy at the elevator who’ll take you up.”
She walked through the door, thinking, this scene was a far different scene than the one at Lansing’s. For one, no one had thrown up and no one was smoking a cigarette at her crime scene. Her heart sank a little. With a cursory glance, she saw a myriad of prints in the powder.
The small lobby beyond was decorated…but she couldn’t exactly say it was done in a tasteful way. The carpet was probably expensive, but the pattern was garish. The wallpaper was flocked, which made her think of her Aunt Lydia’s living room, last decorated in 1974. There was a half-round table against the wall, holding a statue of a nymph. At least she thought it was a nymph. She bent closer. The woman held a basket of fruit above her head, posed in such a way as to show off all her assets to their best advantage. Something sheer fell from her shoulder in an attempt at modesty, but all it served to do was make the perky little breast look all that more alluring.
“No accounting for the tastes of the rich, is there?”
Jessica turned toward the voice. The guy from CSI in a white suit, Something Riley—she was going to have to learn names soon—stood in the open elevator, a fluffy brush in one hand, a jar of powder in the other.
“You’ll be wanting to go up then.”
“Yes. You’d make a good detective.”
He smiled, then bowed as she entered the car. “Just don’t touch the buttons. Allow me.”
With a flourish and gloved hand, he turned a key in the panel where the usually floor buttons were. The doors closed, and the car began its smooth ascent to the penthouse.
“You’ve processed this?”
“Yes, we have. The victim is in the master bedroom, which is closer to the service entrance. This lift wasn’t used, as far as security could tell by the tapes, so we processed this first, leaving the other one taped off. A whole team is going over that area. I’ve processed the floor, the doors, and the panel. The key was provided by security, unfortunately. So, no prints on that, but my own and the guard who gave it to me.”
She nodded. “Please note that in your report, and bag the key.” The man arched an eyebrow, but she was already examining her surroundings.
The car was plush, almost bigger than her living room, and decorated in the same style as the lobby. “So, it’s assumed whoever came and went, used the back entrance, and that…” She arched an eyebrow at the man. “Lift? You’re not from here, are you?”
“I see why you’re a detective, ma’am. I’m originally from London. Worked as a Scene of Crime Officer, before I met my wife…well, she wasn’t my wife then. But, you know what I mean. We married and came here. After I became a citizen, I switched initials. SOCO for CSI.”
The elevator glided to a stop, so gently that Jessica wasn’t sure it had reached the penthouse. The doors slid open, and she stepped out. With a final tip of his head, Mr. Riley turned the key, and disappeared as the doors slid closed.
She found herself in a foyer. Another table held another statue, this one of a couple entwined in a passionate embrace. The position was gravity-defying, but their faces were a study of blissful rapture. Beyond that, she heard voices. She moved down the center of the room, wondering, where the hell was the rest of the team. And where was her victim?
Then it hit her—the same tingle she’d felt at Lansing’s home. It wasn’t as strong, just a brush of something against her skin, like smoke, there and then gone. She turned, looking for…something…anything that would explain it. A draft from the elevator, an open window. Craning her neck, she looked up, looking for an air-conditioning vent in the ceiling.
Maybe lack of
sleep or not enough coffee. “I’m losing it.”
“Oh, Detective.” A white-clad woman appeared in the archway at the end of the foyer. “They said you were here. I was getting you some booties.” The woman held out a pair of blue paper booties in one hand, and the ever-present latex gloves in her other. Jessica took the booties, slipped them over her boots, and then pulled on the gloves. She hated how they made her hands look, like fat little sausages, or bloated zombie fingers.
“I’m Monica Vance, lead CSI.”
“Detective Jessica Sharpe. Who was first on the scene?”
Vance pulled out a black leather-bound notebook, flipped it open, and began reading. “Henderson, and his partner, Schroeder. The call came in shortly after 2:00 a.m. Patrol was almost on top of the building when the call was received. Henderson entered the building through the front lobby. Schroeder went down the alley to the rear. There’s a private entrance at the back of the building, near Parnell’s private parking garage. Schroeder reported that he saw no one near the entrance, which was closed. He then secured the entrance and remained there. Henderson got the elevator key from the guard on duty, and accessed the penthouse via the public elevator.”
“How did he get from the lobby to the elevator? I thought there was only one entrance from the street.”
“There’s access to the elevator from the security guard’s CCTV room. Fire code requires it, from what I understand. The elevator has two sets of doors, the regular set and one camouflaged in the paneling. Henderson entered the penthouse here…” Vance pointed to the foyer. “He made his way down the hall to the bedrooms…”
“How did he know where to go?”
Vance frowned, scanning her notes again. “The call came from the guard downstairs. He said an alarm had sounded, and that it had come from Parnell’s bedroom. He gave Henderson directions to the master suite, which he followed. Henderson made his way to Parnell’s bedroom, where he found the victim.”