City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set

by Clara Coulson

  Phone tucked away, I bend over the sink and splash my face with some warm water, trying to work out the strain pulling my lips into a tight line. After I dry off with a scratchy paper towel, I smooth out my spare uniform jacket, a bit wrinkled and musty from being stored in my locker, and finally head out of the restroom and down the hall. Regardless of the déjà vu, regardless of the spy in our midst, regardless of my building unease concerning the nasty politics already undermining this case—I have a job to do.

  My steps grow brisk as I trek toward the exit that lets out into the parking garage where DSI stores its fleet of black, menacing SUVs. When I badge through the security turnstile, I catch sight of a familiar person leaning against a support beam near the door. The person’s head snaps up when my boots transition from the last patch of carpet to the worn white tiles. Then Cooper Lee speaks to me at last.

  “Hey, Cal! Hear you guys caught a bad case today. The Jameson thing?” He runs a hand through his short, blond hair, smiling sheepishly. His other hand is clutching a brown paper bag.

  “You know it.” I try my best to crack a grin. “Everybody says they want to be on an elite detective team, but I don’t think most of them really get the kind of crap we wade through on a regular basis. This one’s particularly rough. I’ll spare you the gory details. Just know we’ve got three dead guys, one of whom is ex-Mayor Slate, of all people, and not a single solid lead on who killed them or why.”

  “Yikes.” Cooper frowns. “Poor Mayor Slate. At least, I hope so. It would suck if he was involved in a crime ring or something. I mean, he always seemed so nice. I even bought one of his watches at the Fall Fest last year.”

  “Watches?” I roll back on my heels. “Oh, yeah. He started that little business after he retired, right? Handmade watches.”

  Cooper nods. “Yeah, it was based in his home, I think. He sold online and at local events, mostly.” He pulls up his left sleeve to reveal a slim gold watch, which actually looks pretty nice for a handcrafted piece by a hobbyist who didn’t start until his mid-sixties. “I saw him last month, you know, at Whole Foods. He mentioned he was getting into clocks too.” Cooper bites his lip. “Are you going to his house, since he’s a victim? I saw Ella and a few others walk by a couple minutes ago.”

  “Yep. Delarosa’s checking out another victim. Ella and the rest of us are casing Slate’s townhouse. So I guess we’ll get to check out his watch and clock stock, huh?”

  “Guess so.” Cooper lifts up the paper bag. “Made some pasta for dinner last night. Thought you might want the leftovers. Since I know you didn’t bring any lunch for yourself.”

  I stare at the bag, then chuckle. The first time he made me food, that morning he called me over to discuss Etruscan mythology, I thought he was just being courteous. But it turns out that Cooper Lee enjoys cooking, and enjoys forcing those in his immediate vicinity to eat what he cooks whenever he thinks they’re not eating well enough by themselves. So ever since he returned to work, post-Tuchulcha kidnapping, he’s been slipping me food at every available opportunity.

  Apparently, I eat like somebody doomed to die of congestive heart failure.

  I accept the bag and dip my head. “Thanks, buddy. I’m sure this’ll be way better than whatever fast food Ella was planning on grabbing for lunch.”

  “Definitely.” Cooper pushes away from the pillar and glances at the exit. “You should probably hurry up. Ella will bug you if you’re too slow.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know. Going now.” I give him a friendly salute before continuing on to the exit.

  “Let me know if you need any research done, Cal,” Cooper calls out behind me.

  “Will do,” I reply without looking back, free hand on the door bar. “Not sure how much mythos we’ll stumble across in this case, but you’re my man, Coop!”

  “Oh, Cal…?”

  I stop, the door bar pressed halfway down, and peer over my shoulder. “Yeah?”

  One of Cooper’s sleeves is now rolled up halfway, revealing the wicked, handprint-shaped burn scar from where Tuchulcha dragged him into the Eververse. He scratches at it idly, a look on his face I can’t quite identify. After a drawn-out moment of silence, he finally replies, “Take care of yourself, okay? With the déjà vu problem and all…”

  “Oh, is that what you’re worried about?” I throw him a casual smile. “I got a handle on that.” At least I hope I do. “Scout’s honor.”

  Cooper looks less than convinced. He returns my smile with a sad one that says he knows a lot more than I’ve given him credit for. “I get why you don’t want to admit you’re having a hard time, Cal. I really do. You don’t want to get stuck on indefinite leave while there are people out there dying, being blown apart by magic or ripped to shreds by vampires.”

  He pauses, knowing I’ll take the second to think of Mac. I do.

  “You want to be a hero, Cal Kinsey, because you know the world needs heroes. Because without heroes, like the brave detectives of DSI, more innocent people will suffer at the hands of so many terrible monsters. Some with human faces, and others like…” His lips twist into a tight frown as he remembers something. Perhaps the werewolf who killed his parents. Perhaps the haunting, shadowed face of Aida in the Etruscan Underworld.

  He clears his throat and continues. “And you can’t stand that thought, can you? People dying while you sit in timeout. It burns you.” His tone grows softer. “Just like it burns everybody else. Everybody, Cal. Everybody inside these halls. You’re not an exception. You’re the rule. Ella and Riker and Desmond and Amy. Ramirez and Delarosa and Nakamura and all their teammates too. They’re all heroes, Cal. Like you. And being out of the game eats away at them too.”

  I sigh. “I know that, Cooper. But the thought of being on desk duty while everybody else goes out and risks their lives…”

  Cooper makes another incomprehensible expression, and then lets out the driest laugh I’ve ever heard. “Cal, you do realize you just described my job, right?”

  Aw, crap.

  I did.

  Cooper’s an archivist.

  “That came out wrong.”

  “No, it didn’t. You admitted the real problem.” He shakes his head. “No matter what you might say about support roles at DSI, you can’t possibly feel you’re a hero if you’re not a detective on the front lines, protecting the vulnerable from the big bad monsters.” He waves his hand to stop me from interrupting. “And I don’t blame you for thinking that way either. My job might be important, same as the analysts, same as the techs, same as all the admin and IT guys, but the fact stands that we don’t save lives like you detectives do. We contribute to saving lives, but our hands don’t hold the guns, or shoot the beggar magic, or drag injured victims from the flames. That’s what your hands do. And that’s what they’re good at it.

  “And that’s fine. Really. I don’t envy you. And most of us support staff don’t. We’re amazed, quite honestly, every time you come back from another battle with all your limbs still attached. It’s incredible. You’re awesome. You are heroes in the truest sense of the word.” He drops his hand to his side. “Which is why you’re pissing me off with the way you keep pretending that this déjà vu thing isn’t seriously affecting you. You’re being too hard on yourself, Cal.”

  I grip the door bar so hard my knuckles ache. “I’ll go easy on myself when…”

  “When you’re in a body bag?”

  “Jesus, Cooper!”

  He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he gives me a pitying look, eyebrows drawn down. “I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going to be frank.” He takes a breath. “Before you, there was somebody else on Riker’s team, remember? His name was Norman Bishop, and he tried too hard to protect others and cared too little for himself—just like you. And that habit eventually caught up with him. But, to be honest, I didn’t mourn him all that much because I didn’t know him all that well.” His voice suddenly grows bolder. “But you…You are my hero, you asshole, the man that saved me from an impossible
situation, long after I thought I was dead. So watching you self-destruct over your goddamn pride is…I’ve never been so fucking angry in my life!”

  His words echo down the hall and smack me in the face.

  I don’t say anything.

  What can I say?

  Cooper turns away, clenching his fists. And I get the sense he’s trying to resist punching me as hard as he can in the gut. (Which I wouldn’t blame him for at this point, honestly.)

  But he doesn’t resort to violence.

  He does much worse.

  He says, “You’re going to die if you keep acting like this. Plain and simple. You’re going to die, for a stupid reason, and then other people will die because you won’t be there to save them.”

  A final, resolute pause. And then:

  “Dead heroes can’t save anyone, Cal. Least of all themselves.”

  Chapter Eight

  The ride to Slate’s townhouse is quiet. Ella is driving, so her focus is on the roads, the asphalt now covered in ever-deepening snowdrifts. Amy, in the front passenger seat, stares out the window, contemplative, a finger twisting a lock of her chin-length black hair. Liam Calvary, who’s across from me, separated from his team, has a gaze aimed at his lap, posture stiff, shoulders hunched, as if he’s not sure how to navigate the DSI world outside of Delarosa’s circle. And me? I’m reeling the whole way there, Cooper’s words haunting my shadow.

  That shy little guy knows how to pack a punch when he needs to. Damn.

  And he was right on the money too. I made promises regarding this déjà vu business, and I’ve broken them because my pride won’t let me quit this case. I should come clean to Riker about my close call this morning and let him dole out what punishments he sees fit. If he takes me off the case, then…I sigh inwardly. I’ll tell him first thing when I get back to the office. Come what may.

  I glance out the window, watching the flakes whip by in the air as we turn onto Cranston Street. Slate’s house sits midway down the block, with an apartment complex on one side and a second townhouse on the other. The façade makes it look like a period piece, old, worn brick and carefully sculpted wooden detailing. Ornate curtains are drawn in front of the windows, blocking out the bleakness of the day. A short chimney is perched on the roof, probably fake, as most of the original fireplaces were replaced with electric duplicates when the government restored the crumbling architecture in old Aurora several years ago. And finally—there’s an aging Lexus parked on the street-side space out front.

  Now there’s a clue: Slate didn’t drive himself to Jameson’s. And it’s too far to walk from here. So either someone picked him up—one of the other victims, maybe—or he took the bus. Maybe he didn’t want his car spotted near the bar and grill. Or maybe he knew the other two victims well enough to hitch a friendly ride from one of them. Although, as far as I know, the teams we have scouting the area around Jameson’s haven’t found any vehicles belonging to the other two victims yet either.

  Maybe they all took the bus?

  Or maybe they got a ride from someone else.

  Hm.

  Ella pulls our SUV up behind Slate’s Lexus and cuts the engine. She unclips her seatbelt and twists her body so she can address everyone at once. “Amy, you take a thorough look at Slate’s car before you head inside, okay? The prelim guys we sent earlier peeked in real quick and didn’t spot anything, but it was locked, and the keys were missing, and they didn’t want to bust it open without us here. If you need help smashing windows or anything, our guys are stationed on the corners of the block and in the yard behind the house.”

  Amy lifts her chin. “You got it, sister.” She bends over and opens the glove compartment, pulling out an evidence kit. “I’ll put anything I find in the storage bins in the back here and meet you inside when I’m done.”

  “Will do.” Ella glances and Liam and me. “You two come with me. Prelim teams only did a general safety sweep, so we’ll have to rip the place apart top to bottom. It’s a pretty big house, three floors, but I don’t want us to split up. There may have not been any dangerous magic at Jameson’s, but if Slate was involved in some kind of underground supernatural business, there could be wards and other magic traps in here. We’ll sweep together. Starting with the attic and working our way down. Clear?”

  Liam and I nod.

  “Good.” Ella opens her door. “Let’s get going.”

  “Wait,” Amy blurts out, “what the fuck is that?” She points to the end of the street, where something is blowing snow into the air. But it’s not a plow.

  I lean forward. “Holy crap. Aren’t those…?”

  News vans. A massive horde of news vans churning snow six feet high as they charge toward Slate’s townhouse in a race to get the best position.

  Ella slams her hand on the steering wheel. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Somebody spilled the beans about Slate to the media?”

  “Ella,” Amy stammers out, “I think we better hurry inside.”

  “Yeah,” I say, sliding toward my own door, “that sounds like a good plan to me.”

  We make a run for it.

  And fail. Miserably.

  When we’re halfway to the front steps of the townhouse, the first two vans screech to a halt beside each other, one of them dangerously close to ramming the bumper of Slate’s Lexus. The sliding doors fly open, and two competing news teams leap out of their vehicles. They swarm around us like mosquitos, with microphones raised and cameras bobbing along behind them. A dozen questions smack us in the face in five seconds flat, and before we have a chance to rebuff a single one, the rest of the news crews arrive—all ten of them—and we’re surrounded. Cut off from Slate’s steps by several hulking cameramen.

  We can’t move.

  At least not without hurting anyone…

  “Sir, are there any leads in the murder investigation?” a woman probes.

  “Ma’am, how did Mayor Slate die?” a man all but screams.

  “What was the motive for the murders? Was it related to Satanic practices?” another man bellows.

  “Why aren’t the police here? Why has Mayor Burbank allowed DSI first access?” a tall lady whines.

  “Why—?”

  “What—?”

  “Who—?”

  “Where—?”

  “When—?”

  Ella slowly opens her mouth, trying to formulate a response to this circus. And then it happens:

  One reporter makes the mistake of sideswiping Amy with a mic. The fuse lights. Amy’s face turns tomato red. She gives the reporter two seconds to back off, but the man doesn’t react to her venomous glare. So she tactfully rips the microphone out of his hand and heaves it all the way across the street. It dings off the side of a public trashcan and disappears into the snow bank beneath.

  The male reporter gawks at Amy, and a hush falls over the crowd.

  “Hey,” a nearby woman says, “there’s no need to get violent!”

  “Excuse me?” Amy barks. “What do you call this shit you people are husking? Tranquility?”

  The woman’s eyes widen, and she backs away. I don’t blame her. I’d back away too if I wasn’t pressed up against the exterior of Slate’s house, with several pointy brick bits biting into my skin.

  Ella, flustered by Amy’s outburst—we’re on TV, and it’s probably live, and this is not the kind of publicity DSI wants—raises her hands in a calming gesture and opens her mouth once again to try and get a handle on the situation. But then the man who lost his mic crosses his arms and steps even closer to Amy, challenging her. Which is a huge mistake. Because despite her short stature, Amy can definitely break every bone in his body and is more than willing to render the man a floppy skin bag full of mush on the sidewalk.

  Amy Sugawara fought terrorists for several years. (And a pissed-off djinni, at least once.)

  This reporter guy is literally thirty seconds from permanent disability.

  Ella finally speaks. “Sir, please step away from my teammate. We
are on an official—”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” says the same woman who backed away from Amy’s ire. “Why are you on this investigation? What gives you Kooks the right to—?”

  A siren screeches across the street, silencing everyone. The reporters all whip around to find the source of the noise, but I’m pretty sure I spot it first: an old Crown Vic with incognito police lights installed in the cab. They’re flashing now, red and blue, reflecting off the fluttering snowflakes in the air. The kaleidoscope effect is almost blinding, but I peel my eyes and keep watching as the driver’s side door creaks open and a man in a trench coat emerges from the car. The siren cuts out as the man closes the car door behind him and makes his way across the snow-covered asphalt.

  When he nears the reporters, he pulls a wallet from his coat pocket and flips it open, revealing a badge. He’s an Aurora PD detective.

  “I don’t know what you all think you’re doing,” the detective says in a loud, harsh voice, “but you have no right whatsoever to harass the detectives assigned to a murder case, or to deny them entry to a crime scene.” He shoots a glare at the cameramen blocking the front steps of the townhouse. “I don’t care how much you want a juicy story out of this—clear the way and let these nice DSI agents inside. If you continue to harass them, for a second longer, so help me god, I will arrest every single one of you, live, on television, for all your families to see. Understood?”

  The reporters look from the detective to us and back again. And slowly but surely, they clear the sidewalk in front of Slate’s townhouse. Not the sort of people to look a gift horse in the mouth, Amy, Ella, Liam, and I quickly regroup and hurry up the steps to the front door. Ella produces a key, which must have been on Slate’s body, and unlocks the house. One by one, we slip inside the foyer. Except for Amy, who lingers on the top step.

  She glances at Ella. “I still need to check the car.”

  Slate’s Lexus sits surrounded by news vans, dirty snow now sprayed against its sides.

  Ella, holding the door, bites her lip. “You could do it later.”