Silver Bullet (Exiles of Ambercross 1

by Chelsea Gaither

  ~~~~~~

  Arthur Ramirez handed Casey a blanket. It was beige and a little rough; when she draped it over her shoulders some of the shakes went away. Blue and red lights splayed themselves across the white brick of her building. Radios squeeled like disembodied ghosts. Marco sat near her, so close she could feel his body heat on the prickling hairs of her arm. His head hung low and he rubbed the hole in his shirt pensively. Amber blood was on her clothes, on his. It was splattered on the concrete. Forensics worked over her car, trying to get the valuable silver bullet out of her trunk before they towed it away to the evidence lot. Yet they kept stepping over—or on—the stain of Faerie blood as if it were an oil spill, or soda syrup.

  Marco Creed, Casey thought, disgustedly. She should have pegged it as an assumed name immediately. He was an Elf. An elf. She jammed shaking hands between her knees. He even looked right. Blond. Ethereal. A little on the rugged side of pretty. She’d written about things like him for years. But that was just it. She’d made it all up. Her expectations shouldn’t be met by the real thing so very exactly.

  He even heals like he should, she thought, gazing at the blood puddle. Then at the black, angry hole in her car.

  Am I in shock because I’ve discovered a real Faerie, or because I’ve been shot at?

  She’d been more-or-less painlessly interviewed by a black, female detective. Now a brick wall sidled over to Marco. A chill seemed to spread over the parking lot. If Casey were casting good cop, bad cop, she’d keep this guy in the corner as an unspoken threat. Marco looked up, exhaustion hanging on every movement, and the detective said, “What’s your name, Kid?”

  Marco bristled. For an instant he wasn’t a willowy pretty boy, and the cop wasn’t the biggest, baddest thing on the parking lot. Detective Danger put a hand on his gun. Marco dropped his head, and when it came back up he was the twenty-something who worked on cars. The detective, however, didn’t relax.

  Faeries didn’t play nice with mortals, not even when they liked them. On some instinctive level, all humans knew it.

  “I’m Marco Creed.” He looked frazzled and completely harmless.

  "What are you doing here, Marco?"

  “I’m one of Arthur Ramirez’s buddies. I work at Anderson-Creed Auto that way.” He pointed. “We weren’t comfortable leaving the girls alone during night shift. I haven’t had anything to work on for a while, so I figured I could keep an eye out.”

  “Good Samaritan, huh?” the detective didn’t seem to buy it. “What happened to your shoulder?”

  Marco stopped rubbing it. “I hit it getting Ms. Winter out of the way. Concrete burn.”

  “Right.” The cop looked like a bloodhound on a scent. “You got a way I can verify your employment?”

  Marco paused for a moment. “You’re Richard Baker, right?” The detective nodded, and Marco pulled out his wallet. It was nondescript and gray, as was the card he fished out of a slot. When Baker read it, he flinched as if he’d been punched. His hand came off the gun as if the bullets were radioactive.

  “You should have told me that from the start.” He had backed up two steps, and looked as if he’d like to be much, much further away.

  “I don’t know Rachel’s contacts by face, sir. And I don’t like bringing the issue up when things aren’t related. As far as I know, this isn’t. Arthur expressed concern about the girls here, and I decided to keep an eye on them. I didn’t expect the shooters to actually arrive. When they did—” he shrugged.

  Who the hell is Rachel? Casey wondered. Baker also looked sharply at Marco.

  “They. Is that a PC observation, or did you actually see two people?”

  Marco paused, thinking. “I didn’t see gender, but the gun was in the rear driver’s side seat, and the car was rolling fast. Someone was driving. Someone else was pulling the trigger.”

  Whatever it was that scared Banks, it was immaterial now. He pulled out a cell phone and dialed, then waved Ramirez over. Arthur jogged it. “How’s she doing?” He asked, pointing at Casey.

  “Fine. Bruises, a couple scrapes. Yeah,” he said into the phone, and gave a long order to whoever was on the other end. He dropped the mouthpiece away from his mouth. “Lady, it’s none of my business, but if I were you I’d go work somewhere else.” The phone barked, and he gave a series of terse instructions, then turned to Marco. “Stay away from my officers, Creed. And don’t get involved in this case. It has nothing to do with you.” The detective turned on heel and walked away.

  Silence. Casey’s hands were shaking. Arthur looked as if he’d been strangled. Marco muttered, “I could piss in his cheerios too, if it’d make him feel better.” Just loud enough for the other two to hear.

  “I think somebody else beat you to it. Switch his talcum powder out with Gold Bond. He’d appreciate it better.” Casey said.

  Arthur coughed, a big grin on his face. “It’s, ah, already been done.” Their smiles faded quickly. "I’m sorry, Case. I should have sent someone over here on patrol at least. We were just so caught up with the other victim--"

  "Other victim?" Casey said, sharply. Marco’s head also snapped up.

  "Yeah. Little bitty girl, looked about nineteen. Street walker, not that it makes a difference when she looks so much like your little sister. One shot. Dead right there.” He stopped. Arthur was a big guy. Tough oozed out of his pores every time he worked up a sweat. His eyes watered, and he wiped at them. “I’d told her ten minutes before to get the hell off the street.”

  Casey embraced him, and the moment she touched skin his whole body began to shake. Marco’s soft hands touched both their shoulders. He also quivered as if his bones might come unglued. The warmth of his hands was no different than Arthur’s. At their touch, an earthquake began in her own spine. The same hole had been blown in all their lives. When they let go, her world made sense again.

  “What the hell did Banks mean, Marc?” Arthur asked, wiping his eyes. “How does he know you?”

  “A friend of mine worked with him on a previous case.”

  “That’s not enough to make him jump like you shot him.” Arthur said.

  “Oh, yes it is. Rachel Hunt isn’t good news, Arthur. If she ever needs something from you, call me or Banks and get the hell out of the way.” Marco reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of gum.

  A tow truck had come for Casey’s car. “Damn.” She sighed. It wasn’t much of a car—a well used Nissan with a tricky transmission—but it was hers, damn it.

  “I can give you a ride, or you can get a taxi home. Which one will it be?” Marco asked, casually.

  She winced. They weren’t being overly careful fastening the tow hook to the bumper. “Might as well take the devil I know. And I think I’d like the conversation on the ride home. I’ve got lots of questions.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Marco put the gum back in his pocket. “Thanks for the evening, Arthur.”

  Arthur waved in response. He tried hard, but it’d be a long time before the police officer would remember how to smile.