by Erin Johnson
Quincy stumbled backward toward the wooden rope bridge path that led deeper into the enclosures.
“Don’t go anywhere yet.” I raised my brows. “That was your first murder. You and Malorie had been having an affair back then. You killed her husband, she inherited his entire estate, and when you and Malorie married, you became rich.” I shrugged. “Which meant, when you could see that she was going to leave you, you knew that she could leverage her proof against you and you’d either end up penniless, or worse, thrown in jail for murder.”
I clicked my tongue. “But you two still had to get through the Night of the Phoenix party. You probably fought in the office, which is where you palmed the poison dart—a habit of yours. Grabbing things and carrying them around with you.”
Quincy edged back, shaking his head, mouth agape.
“Rebecca pulled Malorie aside. They argued when Malorie wouldn’t give Rebecca money. She shoved Malorie, and she fell into the phoenix’s cage, hitting her head and knocking her unconscious. The phoenix, tired of her life in captivity, snatched up the talon Malorie wore as a necklace and slashed herself across the heart with it.”
It’d come to me, just then, as I was speaking. That poor woman, Maria Begin, feared that her rebirth would simply mean fifty more years of captivity. As a phoenix, she didn’t even have the respite of death to look forward to—the cycle would go on, endlessly. No wonder she’d made the choice she’d made.
“When Maria died, she shifted back to her human form. Which was when the curtains came up. You, Quincy, were the first person to rush in and drop to Malorie’s side. Which was when you saw your chance.”
He sobbed and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. “No.”
I nodded. “You told everyone Malorie was dead—you hoped she was. You thought all your problems were solved—if she didn’t leave you, you’d inherit her fortune. She couldn’t turn you in for murdering Richard.” I shrugged. “That was, until she blinked or breathed—somehow you realized she wasn’t dead.”
“That’s not it,” he gasped.
But Daisy barked. Lie!
I smirked—I knew it. I was on the right track. “You panicked… you only had a few moments before Mark came rushing in from the door on the other side. You remembered the poison dart in your pocket, the one you’d pocketed out of habit earlier, and with your back to everyone, pulled it out and stabbed Malorie with it. It’s how you got around Daisy—technically, you didn’t shoot your wife with the dart. You just stuck it in her neck. It did kill her then, and by the time Mark and the others rushed in, she was dead for real.”
Peter set his jaw. “Quincy Rutherford, you killed your wife, Malorie.”
“No!” He shook his head wildly. “I did not!”
Daisy growled and stalked out in front of Peter and me, her hackles raised. Lie!
I smirked. “You didn’t rush out of there to look for the phoenix. You snuck back to the office to grab the blowgun. You planted it to throw us off, didn’t you?”
“No.”
Daisy growled again. Lie. He does nothing but lie.
She stalked him, her ears flat, pointy teeth bared. Man, was I glad to be on her good side—usually.
The thin man lifted his wobbly chin and tried for some false bravado. “And besides the word of a dog and a lot of speculation, what proof do you have, hm?” His pinched eyes darted between us.
Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “We have photographic proof of you killing Richard Rutherford and feeding his body to a plant, plus enough circumstantial evidence in Malorie’s case to convict you.”
I held up a finger. “Especially when the judge factors in that you’ve been imprisoning trapped shifters.”
Quincy balled his hands into fists. “Malorie never told me that!”
I smirked. “Yeah, but Mark did. It’s why you hired him back, right? He knew that another vet would figure it out, which put you in a bind.”
Quincy snapped his mouth shut.
Peter pulled a pair of magically glowing gold handcuffs from his back pocket and started toward Quincy. “Quincy Rutherford, you’re under arrest for the murders of Richard and Malorie Rutherford.”
About that time, the backup Peter had called for on our way up the mountain showed up. Several other officers bustled in and took over booking Quincy and reading him his rights.
I pulled Peter aside, glancing around at the many enclosures. “How are we going to prove that these animals are trapped shifters?”
He squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll think of something.”
I bit my lip. “In the meantime, what’s going to happen to all of them?” Would the staff continue to make sure they were fed and cared for? Would Ludolf just make sure they were shipped to some new prison… or worse?
Peter gave me a tight smile. “Let’s talk later tonight, okay? We’ll make sure they’re cared for. For now, I’ve got to escort Quincy up to the station and turn in all the evidence. You want to come?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Normally, yes, but—I’ve got to run home for something. I’ll meet up with you at your place right after!”
Daisy gave a noncommittal growl. You’re up to something.
Peter looked unconvinced for a moment, then pulled me in for a tight hug and kissed my forehead. “You were amazing tonight.”
I grinned against his chest. “You can tell me more soon.” I winked and dashed off, leaving Peter and the other cops to book Quincy.
32
Records
I followed the twists and turns of the sewer, feeling slightly guilty that I hadn’t told Peter what I was up to. But if I’d told him I was going to sneak into Ludolf’s potion making lair and try to steal his files, he’d have insisted on going with me and then we’d both have probably ended up dead and there was no point in that.
I’d worn my old boots, and my footsteps splashed along the dirty water pooled at the bottom of the round stone tunnels. Torches set into brackets on the curved wall at uneven intervals lit my way in flickering orange light. The tunnels grew narrower and darker, the stones crumbling away. While the rest of the shifter underground had surprised me with how lively it was—there were bars, restaurants, and housing developments down here—Ludolf had hidden his potion makers in an ancient, unfrequented part of the sewers.
A red, flickering glow up ahead let me know I was close. I reached back and tightened my high ponytail, then squared my shoulders. I’d been summoned down here several times to have potions tested on me.
My plan was a loose one, at best, but I planned to bluff my way in. I hoped the three creepy old potion makers bought it and were so distracted by their work, as they had been every other time I’d been dragged down here, that they wouldn’t notice me snooping around.
My heart pounded in my chest with nerves, but I plastered on a bright smile and ducked through the half-collapsed doorway into a large, round room. I gave a half wave. “Hey, ladies.”
Three hunched old women, who could’ve been triplets, worked around the room at various stations. One stood beside the huge cauldron, stirring a wooden paddle through a bubbling green liquid, red flames licking the side of the black iron pot. Another sat on a tall stool using a black blade to chop something that looked a lot like frog legs. The third stood at the top of a tall rolling ladder, organizing glass vials on one of the top shelves that ringed the room.
The shelves were formed from stones and rocks that either jutted out or were set back into the wall to form alcoves. Every inch of wall was littered with glass vials, jars of glowing potions in all colors, and strange specimens. Super homey.
The women focused on their work, their stringy gray hair half covering their faces. None of them so much as glanced my way. Ludolf was thankfully absent.
I sucked in a breath, my chest tight and voice unnaturally high. “So, Ludolf asked me to come down here? He might want to test something on me or just… I don’t know… talk?”
My excuse for being down there seemed incredib
ly thin, but the women made no comment, didn’t even hesitate in their work.
I nodded and ran my tongue over my teeth. “Cool cool cool. Don’t mind me.”
I threaded through the grouping of stone tables in the center of the round room, past the woman on the stool. She picked up a mortar and pestle and began to grind up something that hissed and sizzled. A pungent, acidic smell like burning hair filled the room, and I fought to keep my ramen down.
I sidled past her and snuck to the large wooden cabinet at the far side of the room beside the second entrance. I’d never been past this point and assumed the other door led to a private area for Ludolf.
The wooden cabinet had several wide, deep drawers in the bottom with a lattice of small cubbies above it, all bursting with rolls of parchment. Ludolf had told me before that he knew which potion had been used to curse me and could work from that to create a cure. That told me that not only was he a stinking sea slug, but he must keep detailed records if he still knew which ingredients had been used to create the potion years ago.
I glanced to my left at the working women, but they paid me no attention. I considered some fib about Ludolf wanting me to check on some record or other, but they seemed so disinterested, I didn’t bother. The one nearest me, on the ladder, began to hum to herself. After a moment, the other two picked up the tune. Creepy—but I turned back to the wooden cabinet and yanked a heavy drawer open.
Manila file folders, hundreds of them, lined the drawer, each labeled with a name. My breath caught and I fished a random one out—Martin Scant. I opened the file and found several scraps of parchment with a list of ingredients—recipes.
Little notes had been added, suggesting four thumb whorls instead of three for the next try, two cups of spider juice instead of crushed insect wing. I flipped through a couple similar pages, then frowned and looked up. The three witches were humming louder, so that their raspy, almost childish, taunting song echoed around the chamber. My chest tightened with unease, but I’d come this far—no turning back now.
I looked back down and examined the inside of the folder itself. Dates, from the ’80s, had been scribbled down in a shaky black hand, followed by potion 1, potion 2, and potion 3. Further to the right of each entry were notes about the effects—no noted effect, beside the first one. Respiratory distress, beside the second. Finally—instant death beside the third.
My stomach clenched, and I blinked at the drawer, then the cubbies, stuffed to overflowing with records of potions tested on hundreds—no, thousands—of shifters like me. Icy dread washed over me. I’d hoped to locate records for the shifters trapped at the sanctuary, but Ludolf had been testing on so many of us—it would take days to pore through all of this.
“Find what you were looking for?” A quiet, tense, raspy voice startled me.
I lurched back, dropping the folder, and spun to face Ludolf.
33
Hexmakers' Lair
Ludolf loomed in the doorway, his skeletal frame unnaturally still.
“I, uh—I got your summons and just wanted to look around but—”
With a flick of his wrist, the folder flew out of my hands and back into the drawer, which slammed shut. The three potion makers began to cackle and laugh, their voices echoing off the round stone walls. I suddenly realized their humming must’ve alerted him about me. Traitors.
He stepped slowly, deliberately toward me. “Why are you lying?” His voice was quiet but laced with danger. His pale, yellow-ringed, unblinking eyes fixed on mine. He’d caught me. There was no point in keeping up my flimsy act.
I lifted my chin and glared at him. “I know you sold all those shifters to the sanctuary—why? They’re your own people. How could you do this?”
He sighed and lowered his head, as though stalking me, his bony shoulders up in his ears. He continued to advance as I backed up. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”
The witches cackled louder, and I cringed.
Ludolf’s lip curled into an angry grin, his pupils contracted to tiny points of black. “Everything laid out in front of you, and you can’t even see it?” He cocked his head, a sharp, bird-like motion. “I want a cure, of course.”
I scoffed. “For what? All the curses you’ve created?”
The red light of the fire reflected off his face, casting his hooked nose and hollow eyes in sharp shadow. “For the ultimate curse—shifterism. It’s disgusting. A stain. A disease. It needs a cure.”
I nearly stumbled back into one of the stone tables but slid to the right toward the cauldron and the walk-in fireplace. “But… you’re the head of shifters. Are you even a shifter?” I glared at him. “Is that why no one’s ever seen you shift?”
The three old hags howled, unhinged. I really wished I’d just gone with Peter to the station—this had been a very bad idea.
In a whirl of blue-black smoke, Ludolf shifted into an enormous heron. His long neck rose out of his body, his yellow beak razor sharp, and one eye fixed on me. I was too surprised to speak. He was a shifter—yet found it disgusting? The enormous bird, taller than I was, advanced slowly, strangely graceful and menacing at the same time. I froze, too terrified to move.
He changed back just as suddenly and adjusted the cuffs of his dark blue suit. “Do you know how herons kill their prey, Jolene?”
I couldn’t speak. It was as though my feet were rooted to the dirt floor.
He inched closer, his thin lips curled back. “We peck the eyes out first, blinding them, disabling them, and we then swallow them whole. I’ve disabled you, Jolene—you cannot shift, you cannot do magic. I have you, and when I’m finished with you, I will swallow you up, bones and all.”
My legs buckled, and I lurched out, grabbing the nearest table to steady myself.
His nostrils flared as though he might be sick. “I hardly shift, because it’s disgusting. Wouldn’t it be better if shifters just didn’t exist at all?” He let out a frustrated growl. “I want the cure for all of us, so we don’t have to live in the sewers, so we can be accepted by the rest of society.”
I straightened my spine. So that’s what this was about. He was still trying to be accepted by the upper tier of King Roch’s cronies. He’d not only helped spread the old king’s discriminatory propaganda, but he’d bought into it himself. I found myself oddly pitying him—what self-loathing he must live with.
I shook my head. “Being a shifter isn’t something that can be cured—it’s who we are.”
Anger flared in his eyes. He raised his hand, and the old women cackled. A glass vial full of bubbling purple liquid flew off a nearby table and crashed into my arm. The glass shattered and tinkled to the ground by my feet, the liquid inside burning my arm.
I yelped, and the women laughed harder. A few blisters rose on my skin, but I didn’t have time to react before he magically threw another vial of potion on me, followed by another and another. I backed up, arms raised overhead in an attempt to shield myself, potions freezing my skin, then burning, then making me light-headed and woozy. I staggered back, nearly falling over.
“Not that one!”
I lowered my arms and glimpsed the pot of boiling liquid flying toward me.
The old woman spoke up again. “She’ll die! Bones will shrivel, skin dissolve.”
I thought I might be sick. Then again, I was probably going to be dead soon, so what was a little vomit? The pot stopped midair, sizzling red goop spilling over the side and hissing where it landed on the ground. The pot hovered in front of me, a murderous glint in Ludolf’s eyes as he seemed to debate whether he should finish me off.
I gulped, my throat tight. “Don’t kill me.”
His voice croaked. “Why?”
I thought of all those files in the cabinet. Why had he kept me alive this long? My chest heaved, but I forced myself to stand tall. “If you do, you’ll never discover why I got stuck in human form. I’m unique, right?”
He watched me, very still, for several long moments, then smirked.
“Well, at least you’re not completely daft. Yes. In all my testing, you’re the first to get trapped in human form without the ability to shift—the rest got stuck in animal form.”
That answered one of my questions. “Instead of killing those people, you decided to make a few bucks by selling them to the Magical Animal Sanctuary.”
Ludolf splayed his long, bony hands. “I am a businessman. Why pass up an opportunity?”
I shrugged. “So—with me you found a ‘cure’ to shifterism, right?”
He shook his head slightly. “I want to be normal, like those who walk above us. It’s true you can no longer shift, but you can’t do magic either.”
So that’s why he was still testing on me, why he was fascinated by my condition. He was hoping to figure out a way to lose the ability to shift without losing his magic. Anger burned inside me. I had a strong feeling that the two were inextricably linked—that he was on a fool’s errand that had caused him to kill hundreds, maybe thousands of shifters over the years in this macabre pursuit.
He waved a hand. “Go.”
I held very still, not believing. “Just—go?”
He smirked. “Why not? What are you going to do? My associates and I own the judges, the police, the government officials at every tier on this island. I have goons on every corner. Everyone can be bought. Move against me, and you and your boyfriend and even his charming little dog will disappear like everyone else who’s crossed me. And by the way—I’ll be keeping a much closer eye on you, so be careful, Jolene….”
I waited only long enough for my legs to start working again, then I spun and ran. The haunting cackles of the three old women followed me out through the tunnels.
34
Decision
A couple nights later, my friends, new and old, gathered in the living room of my apartment. Heidi sat criss-cross on my threadbare couch, hugging the sloth to her and cooing over it. She turned briefly away from it to take a bite of the slice of pepperoni pizza she’d magicked to hover just beside her head. The brilliantly colored macaw behind her side-stepped closer and opened his beak, his dark tongue reaching as he stretched his neck to get a bite of the pizza.