by Mia Marshall
“What would happen if Sera had kids with an earth, say, or a water?”
“I’d call the devil to see if he needed earmuffs, because hell will have clearly frozen over the day Sera has kids. But assuming we are speaking generally, there aren’t really any mixed-elemental kids. Most of the strong ones never wander far enough from home to meet others, so they just mate with each other, or maybe a nearby human. No inbreeding comments, please. When different elementals do have a child, the kid only seems to have the mother’s element. Maybe the nine months of gestation expose the kid to so much of her magic that it crushes the father’s. I have no idea. It’s just not something that comes up.”
“So any kid you have would be a quarter water?”
I nodded. Of course, if I mated with another water, the child could be stronger, but I found myself strangely reluctant to mention that possibility. “And any rug rats of yours would be human or… what, exactly?” I couldn’t help pushing.
He smiled at me, and the simple movement of his eyes sliding toward me in a sidelong glance nearly stole my breath. Oh, but I was an idiot. Flirting would have been a thousand times less dangerous than honest conversation. Honest conversation about having children, for fuck’s sake. If this kept up, I was going to start liking him in addition to feeling a distracting amount of lust. That was more than I’d signed up for.
“Haven’t you guessed?” he asked. “Where do you think my name comes from?”
I hadn’t considered it much, but until I’d heard Josiah use his last name, I’d assumed it came from his resemblance to a Mack truck. I told him so, and he laughed.
“No, it’s not a nickname like that. As you gathered, it’s short for MacMahon, my family name. Son of bear.” He mock growled at me, and I couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through me. It wasn’t a shudder of fear, either. I forced myself to picture him catapulting furniture through the trees, reminding myself that his temper made him a wholly unsuitable lust object. That only led to me picturing how easily he could throw me about, too. Ten years of celibacy was definitely biting me in the ass.
I wanted to ask him about his first name, about his history and his family and the reason he was so angry earlier, but the warm glow building in my chest warned me that curiosity might be a very dangerous thing. I decided it might be best if we drove the rest of the way home in silence.
Chapter 8
Our plans to get straight to work were derailed when we pulled into the driveway to find a black sedan waiting for us. It was the sort of car that could only belong to one type of person.
“I dislike coming home to find federal agents waiting at my house,” Mac said. “Call me paranoid.”
“They’re probably just here to ask more questions about Christopher.” At least, I hoped that’s why they were here. While I couldn’t imagine any topic they had neglected in the earlier interrogation, it seemed unlikely they’d figured out that a cat had broken into their offices while they were interviewing us and swiped a copy of the case file. “They’re the good guys,” I added, reminding myself as much as him.
We got out of the Bronco and walked toward the house. Carmichael and Johnson met us by the front porch. They looked every bit as polished as they had at our last meeting. I was fairly certain every individual hair on their heads was in the same position. If they hadn’t changed their ties, I’d have wondered if they’d spent the last few days in a state of suspended animation. In a place like Tahoe, where people’s idea of dressing up meant putting on a clean pair of jeans and wearing a shirt with buttons, they stood out.
The two agents studied Mac, who returned the favor. While he might not appreciate being relegated to the role of goon by Josiah, he also had no problem using his size when it suited him. He stared at them with a blank face that belied how much I suspected he was enjoying this.
“Gentlemen,” I greeted them, “what brings you by?” I knew I should politely introduce Mac, but I had to admit to an inappropriate enjoyment of witnessing his effect on the otherwise unflappable agents. Sometimes taking the high road is overrated.
“We’d like to ask you a few more questions, Ms. Brook,” replied Carmichael. It was impossible to determine his mood through the dark sunglasses covering his eyes, but his tone sounded worryingly officious. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like these questions.
“Really, I told you everything I know about Christopher. If I could help you more, I would.” I wasn’t lying, not really. Keeping them away from the supernatural aspects of this investigation was the most helpful thing I could do.
“This isn’t about Christopher, Ms. Brook,” stated Johnson. He held up a photo of a man I had dated for several months while a college student. “This is about Mark Foster. I understand you knew him, too.”
The two agents wanted to interview me inside the cabin. I considered them seeing a house decorated with bins full of the murder weapon to be a poor idea. I babbled some explanation about being very hungry and having no food in the house, and minutes later we were sitting in an old diner down the road. I hadn’t missed the speculative gaze Johnson cast at the house as we drove away. He knew I was hiding something, though his thoughts were probably more in line with decomposing bodies than the ingredients for mud.
Both agents ordered coffee. I was amused to see that Carmichael used both cream and sugar. He definitely lost some badass points with that move. Johnson, at least, drank it black and bitter. I was glad to see some stereotypes still lived. I ordered pancakes but decided to skip the tea this time. They were here because I was connected to two of the murder victims, which made me, at the very least, a person of interest. I was jittery enough without any added caffeine.
Once the coffees were delivered, Johnson began. “Ms. Brook, why did you inform us that you did not know Mark Foster?”
“I didn’t know it was that Mark. It didn’t even occur to me. We only dated briefly freshman year, mainly because we lived in the same dorm and were bored. We weren’t star-crossed lovers or anything.”
Carmichael studied me, doing math in his head. If I was around the same age as Mark, I would be at least thirty-two right now, and I knew I didn’t look it. There was a reason most of us avoided close, extended contact with humanity. We could only blend for a few years before our longevity became obvious. A good moisturizing regimen can only explain so much.
Johnson continued the interrogation. “And how did you even know his name in the first place? I don’t recall telling you.”
This one I could answer honestly. “Sera told me.” This should have been obvious to them. They’d met Sera at the morgue, after all. I suspected they were only asking these questions to lure me into a false sense of complacency before they sprung their trap.
“We are still unclear why Ms. Blais was at the morgue.”
And there it was. Sera and I relied a lot on her father’s connections to get us into places and cover up our involvement, but any investigator worth his badge wouldn’t need more than five minutes to discover that we really didn’t belong there. This one would require some careful handling. Fortunately, my pancakes arrived just then, so I was able to take several long moments loading them up with butter and syrup. I didn’t come up with a good answer in that time, so I took a large bite and chewed for a minute. I still didn’t have a good answer, so I settled for any answer. “Well, she and Christopher were close. I guess she wanted to see him one last time before he was buried.”
“His body wasn’t there. The funeral had already been held. Wouldn’t Ms. Blais know this?”
I said it wasn’t a good answer. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”
“You are aware that the morgue is not open to the public, yes?”
“Sera can be very persuasive. Sorry, you really have to ask her. All she told me is that she met you guys there, and she told you she knew Christopher. When you requested an interview with her, she brought me along, because I knew him, too. I don’t know any more than that.” I figured it couldn’t
hurt to remind them of how very helpful we’d been up to this point.
Carmichael suddenly took over the conversation. “Just how close were Ms. Blais and Christopher?”
“She told you. They starting dating just a few weeks before his death, but otherwise they were friends. Had been for years.”
“Just the few weeks?”
“So far as I know. They didn’t invite me to witness any of the dirty details, so if it was more I couldn’t say.” There went my perfect little witness performance. And it had been going so well up to that point.
“Did Ms. Blais want the relationship to continue?”
I didn’t like the direction this was going. When this interview had started, I’d assumed I’d only need to defend myself. Instead, I needed to speak for Sera—and I had no idea what story she wanted told. Playing dumb really seemed like the best possible choice at the moment. “I have no idea. Sera and I had been out of touch. I wasn’t even in the state. I don’t know anything about their relationship.” It’s nice when “playing dumb” meshes so well with reality. Even so, I couldn’t resist defending her a little. “But I’m certain she didn’t want things to end the way they did.”
“Yes, you were in—” Johnson checked his notes. “Oregon. A ways outside a small town called Three Rivers.”
I nodded. They waited. “I mean, yes. That’s where I was.” Damn. It was the truth, and I still sounded guilty.
“How did your affair with Mark Foster end, Ms. Brook?” asked Carmichael, abruptly changing the subject. I had a feeling these two were using FBI Interrogation Techniques for Dummies. It pissed me off that it was working.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair. We dated.”
“Tell me about the night of this party.” He slid a photo across the table, of a New Year’s Eve party from freshman year. I spared a brief mental curse for the ways the Internet had grown over the past decade. So far as I could tell, the rise of social media ensured no embarrassing party photos could ever really disappear. In this photo, Mark and I hugged each other tightly, faces turned toward the camera. We were cheek to cheek and grinning. We looked like we were in love. Really, we were just drunk, and I said so.
“So, you weren’t upset when you caught him kissing another woman at midnight?” he asked.
Of course they knew that story. “It wasn’t like that. I mean, yeah, I was upset. He was my date, and I didn’t expect him to be slutting around the party before going home with me. And yeah, I told him so in no uncertain terms.” I vaguely recalled my exact words being “you asshole, you’ll regret this,” but I figured the feds didn’t need to know that detail. “I’d had a lot to drink, my pride was hurt, and I was young and stupid enough to enjoy the drama. But I also forgot about the whole thing two days later and was probably dating someone else.” Better to be a floozy in their eyes than a spurned woman, I decided. Carmichael and Johnson both looked dubious. “Come on, are you serious? It wasn’t a big deal. This was over a decade ago. That’s why I didn’t remember him until you showed me his photo.”
“What about Calvin Diaz?” Carmichael pushed another photo across the table. I felt my world shrink until nothing existed but a single 4x6” photo on a formica table. The other diners’ conversations slowed to a droning noise, and my mind froze. Something was going very wrong.
“Ms. Brook?” urged Johnson, watching me carefully.
“I... I dated him, too,” I said. “The following year, I think. Yeah, it was sophomore year, for a couple of weeks.”
“Would you describe the manner of your breakup, please?” They already knew, the bastards. They were just looking to catch me in a lie. I refused to give them one.
“Cal was dating other women. I found out when he cancelled our Valentine’s plans to see someone else that night.”
Brian had been the one to spot him at the restaurant. He’d been out with his own girlfriend, eating a meal containing an unnecessary amount of heart-shaped food, and noticed that my supposed boyfriend was sitting at a table with someone who was decidedly not me. The news had devastated me. I’d spent many nights under my blanket, watching truly terrible television and wondering why this horrible man didn’t want me. Sera had been out of town the entire time, refusing to return for another Tahoe winter when Hawaii was so nice that time of year, and wasn’t available to help me see reason. It hadn’t been my finest hour.
“How did you take the news?”
“Obviously, I added his name to my ever-growing kill list.” I couldn’t help myself. I smiled at them and took a large bite of pancake. “And I cried and ate too much and wrote longing journal entries like an idiot. Then I realized he was an asshole, and I got over it.”
“Are you familiar with Arthur Elbin, Ms. Brook?” Another photo slid across the table. Again I tensed, dreading what I might see, but this time my body sagged in relief as I looked at the unfamiliar face.
“No. I’ve never seen him before, unless you want to tell me he had plastic surgery and changed his name. I have no memory of killing him, either. I thought there were only three bodies? Calvin, Mark, and Christopher.” All of whom I knew. The relief of only a moment ago abandoned me.
“Arthur Elbin makes four. He was found several hours ago at a campsite about twenty miles from here.” Carmichael gathered up the photos, watching my reaction. I didn’t need to feign my shock. “We are not suggesting you did it, Ms. Brook. We are merely gathering information.”
Johnson ignored Carmichael’s words. His gaze was fixed on me, and I was pretty sure he’d be happy to accuse me of a few murders. “Where were you on the nights of these men’s deaths?” he asked, citing four recent dates.
“For the first three, I was in my house in Oregon.” I felt a pang at the thought of my beautiful rundown farmhouse, where no one ever died and no FBI agents ever requested an alibi. “I arrived in town the night Mark’s body was found. And last night I was home. Sera and our roommates can confirm that.”
“What neat alibis you have,” stated Agent Johnson. “Who can confirm your presence in Oregon on those dates?”
Hell. I thought back, wondering if I’d spoken to anyone in the weeks preceding Sera’s appearance. I’d gone to the local market for some basic groceries, surely, and the postal worker must have seen me a few times. Maybe. I was discovering a downside to my efforts to disappear: I’d been a little too successful. “A few locals, I think. Can you get the security tapes from the gas station in Ashland? They’d show me and Sera in the car, after she picked me up.”
Carmichael continued to sip his coffee, watching me closely. Johnson wrote the information down in his notebook. “We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Brook. We will confirm your alibis and be in touch. Would you like a ride back to your house?”
I shook my head mutely, and the two men stood, throwing enough money on the table to cover their coffee and my meal. Just before walking away, Johnson turned back, as if he’d only just remembered something. “I understand that Christopher was considering ending things with Sera. I find that... interesting.” Without waiting for my reaction, he followed Johnson out the door.
I sat alone with a plate of cold pancakes and a knot of dread in my stomach. Of the four murders, Sera and I had dated three of them, and the agents clearly thought the relationships had not ended well. I could see the picture forming in their minds. Two scorned single women, angry at their treatment by callow men, decided to enact their own form of revenge. Maybe they worked as a team to secure each others’ alibis. It was sexist, it was ridiculous, and it was still more believable than the truth.
Something was wrong here. The pattern from ten years ago had shifted too dramatically. It wasn’t just that the method of death and the targets had evolved. The victims weren’t being chosen for their connections to elementals. They were being chosen for their connections to me and Sera.
Someone was setting us up.
Chapter 9
“They’re all men. All of them!” I shouted, bursting through the door. I’d ju
st walked forty minutes back to the cabin. The walk had provided lots of time for thinking and dispersing the nervous energy I’d built up from the session with the federal agents. The thinking part had worked, but the energy wasn’t going anywhere.
I crashed into the living room, where Sera and Vivian sat poring over a list of names. Unsurprisingly, my ranting disrupted their work. I immediately had their full attention.
“Last time, he killed both men and women, right? No women have died this time. Why did we not notice this?”
Sera leaned back into one of the cushions, looking disgusted with herself. “Because we’re idiots,” she stated plainly.
“You don’t even know,” I told them, filling both women in on my session with the agents. I only left out Johnson’s final line about Chris considering breaking things off. I didn’t know if it was true, but it didn’t matter. Sera didn’t need to hear it. When she heard the name “Mark Foster,” she lightly banged her head against the wall and continued to do so throughout the rest of the story.
“Fuck me. Just... fuck me. I didn’t even recognize him in the morgue. He gained some weight and thirteen years. But I should have known the name, damn it.”
“And Arthur Elbin?”
“No idea.” Sera made a few quick strokes on her laptop and began searching.
Vivian sifted through the file, landing on the photos of Mark and Calvin. “You dated them and never knew they were shifters?” I shook my head, feeling a little simple-minded. “They are really good at hiding themselves, aren’t they? Why do you suppose that is?” She sounded fascinated.
“Focus, Vivian,” I said. “Bad guys trying to railroad me and Sera, remember?”
Sera sat back with a stunned expression. “Hell on wheels. Yeah, I knew him. He used to go by his middle name, Scott. He took the summer drama program with me, the year you went to Venice for break.” Her face was grim and her voice, more so. “You know what’s next. I dated him for a while. I guess it’s official, Ade. We really are femmes fatales.”