by Shyla Colt
“Are you done boring her and sucking up, Lark? What Lou needs is a stiff drink and some relaxation,” Renee says as he comes down the hall. He flashes me a devilish grin, and I melt. The proverbial baby of the group, the mocha-skinned man with the irresistible smile and soft doe-brown eyes is a trouble magnet. “Isn’t that right?” He throws an arm around my shoulders.
“You’re incorrigible,” I mumble, unable to hold back my smile.
Renee preens like a peacock. “Notice she never denied the truth in my words.”
“I didn’t confirm them either,” I point out.
“She’s got your number, Renee. You let your head swell anymore, and it’ll be too heavy for your neck to support,” Larkin says dryly. “A drink does seem in order.”
“This court never needs an occasion to drink,” I retort.
I let them both sweep me into the study where one of the numerous liquor cabinets is located. As we slip inside, I’m stunned to see Percy and Fel seated at a table—side by side with their heads close together. They’re speaking softly to one another, wholly engrossed in a conversation. When did she slip away with him? What are they talking about?
Percival glances up. “I see we aren’t the only people looking to get away after all that.”
“They just left,” I say with a smile. The happiness visible in his dark gaze twists my guts into a knot. “How did you manage to escape early?”
“We were just browsing through some historical records we said might help with planning.” Fel shrugs.
Everything is connected to the past. The theme continues to reoccur in every facet of my life. It reminds me of the missions I’ve yet to progress on. Hearing the rest of Mémé’s story and comparing notes with Fel about what she’s learned from Percival have been thrown on the back burner. Time alone with Mémé has been impossible, and between work, training, and preparations, Fel and I haven’t had a spare moment to compare notes or reconnect.
“Find anything good?” I ask pointedly.
“There hasn’t been a Lady Coronation in centuries. It was interesting seeing how they laid out the one prior.” She shrugs sheepishly. That’s a no then.
“I figured it was as good an excuse as any to rescue her after we ran into each other in the hallway and she begged me for an out.” Percival beams. The man is a white knight in shining armor … who happens to have a taste for blood. No one’s perfect, right?
“I see how it is. Abandoning ship when I wasn’t looking, huh, Fel?” I shoot a mock glare.
“I had to. My brain was slowly starting to seep out of my ear.”
“It’s okay. The court has an incredible archive of the past. I don’t blame you for getting lost, in the past or borrowing Percival’s memory.”
“Being able to remember everything has its ups and downs,” Percival says.
“I can only imagine,” Fel whispers. He smiles down at her. “One day you’ll have to give me a Cypress history lesson from the first-person point of view.”
The sincerity in her voice is so compelling, I wonder how much of her enthusiasm is feigned. I stow the worry away to examine later. My brain is currently at max capacity.
Chapter Seven
Memories from the past rush to the surface as we pull in front of the retirement home. I see grand-père, all angles and bones as he struggles to breathe. I close my eyes against the pain. Prostate cancer ravaged the once strong and powerful man who stood beside Mémé through the years.
I ball my fists. This is about a case. I know it’s terrible when Carter calls us in. The redheaded wolf shifter and his pack mate, Marcus, work with the local PD.
As crime scene investigators, they help route the more suspicious cases appropriately. We have a few plants working in our version of a paranormal unit in town to keep the good folks of Cypress blissfully unaware.
“You doing okay?” Fel whispers.
“Yeah. I haven’t been back in one of these since grand-père.”
“I know. I was thinking about him on the way over here, too,” Fel says.
“You want me to wait a few before I call Carter?” Sacha asks gently.
“No. Let’s get in there so the coroner can come through and do their job. The boys are holding them off for us.”
She makes the call, and moments later the familiar face steps out of the entrance.
“Here we go.”
We exit the black sedan and meet him.
“What’s going on inside there?” I ask.
He shakes his head. The freckles stand out on his paler than usual skin. A true redhead, he looks more like a Boy Scout than a shapeshifter who could take out a human with a few swipes of his claws.
“Pure evil. I’ve never seen anything like this.” He reaches into the pocket of his white suit, removes some mesh booties, and hands them to us. “You’re going to need to double up.”
“Jesus, Carter,” Sacha whispers
He nods his head. “We’ve been trying to keep everything under wraps. The last thing we want to do is panic everyone. Death is a prevalent part of life here, but the residents sense this is different. We’ve had cops in and out all day, taking photos and cataloging the scene. The call to wait this late to try to move the body was strategic. They can’t see this.” He holds the door open for us while we make our way inside. Clad in expensive slacks, low-heeled pumps, and blouses, with a badge on our hips, we’re wearing what I refer to as detective wear. When the boys meet us, and we walk in with confidence, people don’t tend to ask questions.
The smell of mothballs and industrial cleaning solutions mix to mask the other odors I’d rather not think about. The woman at the front desk nods at Carter as he leads us back. It’s past midnight at Oak Hill’s Retirement Home, and the members are sleeping, or nestled away in their rooms. The photographs and wreaths decorating the doors keep the sterile environment from feeling like a hospital. I smile at the group of teenagers posed on a photo probably sent by their parents to one of their grandparents.
Anger builds in my gut. These people shouldn’t have to be afraid. They’re here to peacefully live out their final days with dignity and grace. Only the lowest of low would go after the elderly.
We come to the door blocked with the yellow tape I’ve become all too familiar with. The strong tinge of copper and bowels punch me in the gut.
“Ugh.”
“I know,” Carter agrees.
“You already smell it?” Sacha asks.
“Yeah, I do.”
“No,” Fel says.
I feel their gazes glued to my back. I ignore them as Carter peers around and opens the door, holding the tape up as we can duck under. It takes me a minute to realize what I’m seeing. The walls are speckled with blood. Clumps of flesh and what I suspect are organs dot the floor. There are numbered signs everywhere. The gruesome scene has me afraid to look at the victim. I push past my instincts and peer at the man. My heart leaps into my throat. His face is twisted into a mask of pain and terror. His lips are frozen in a silent scream. Despite the white film of death that covers his blue gaze, I can see the pain etched in his irises.
I glance down and balk at the caved in chest cavity. My stomach roils. Saliva coats my mouth. Turning away, I press the back of my hand against my lips. His chest looks like pulp. Clawed to the bone, and dugout, it has the consistency of pulled pork.
“Jesus Christ. He was alive when this happened?” Sacha inquires.
“Yeah, he was,” Marcus says softly.
“They took his heart,” Carter states.
“Are you sure this isn’t a Shifter problem?” I ask, thinking of the damage their claws can do.
Carter shakes his head. “No. We’d never leave this much meat. The only way we’d do anything this publicly would be starvation.”
“So, none of you ever goes off the deep end?” Fel says.
/> “Even then. They would not work this hard just to eat the heart. In addition, as far as we can tell, the heart is intact. They must’ve needed it whole,” Marcus explains.
“That’s why we figured the ball goes into your court,” Carter adds.
I peer around the room to keep my eyes off the man who’s far too emotive in death. My gaze lands on pictures of him in a uniform. A shadow box boasts a purple heart. The man is a national hero. He deserved so much more than this.
“I won’t say there are no rituals that use hearts, ’cause that would be a lie. I can’t imagine why his would be worth risking exposure for though,” Sacha says.
“Agreed. It doesn’t make any sense,” Fel seconds.
My brow furrows. “What do the police say?”
“They’re more concerned about how this happened in a building full of people, and no one saw or heard a thing,” Marcus drawls.
“Unless they did, and they’re afraid to talk. I mean, if I saw what it was capable of, I wouldn’t be lining up to narc,” I say.
“Fair point,” Carter whispers.
“I think we should let this settle down and come back and see if anyone will speak,” Fel suggests.
My gaze is drawn to the wall beside the door. I carefully move over to it and wave my hand slowly over the area. “There’s something here.” I whisper a reveal spell and find a faint and rapidly fading serpentine-like squiggle with a hooked ending and slash like lines.
“Did you see it?” I whisper to the girls.
“For a split second,” Sacha replies.
“I need paper and something to draw with.”
Carter hands over a notebook and a pen and I sketch the sigil. This is the first break we’ve gotten. There’s no doubt in my mind this is connected with the body snatchers. The odds of two bizarre incidences happening this close together are small.
“Does this mean anything to you?” I ask, holding up the crude drawing.
“I’ve never seen it before. It looks old, kind of like the Norse Runes our seer uses,” Marcus says.
“Girls?” I wave the piece of paper.
“No, but at least we have a starting point,” Fel says.
“It’s more than we had before we walked in here,” Sacha shrugs.
“What are you going to do?” Carter asks.
“Search for answers.”
***
“Reina, you’ve been locked up here all day. What is it you’re looking for?”
“Cristobal.” I set aside the worn brown leather volume, remove my white gloves, and rise. I rush across the wooden floor of the library into his waiting arms. With the impending coronation, he has had his own duties to perform. It’s been a long time since so many courts have gathered; egos need to be stroked, and treaties need to be revisited and confirmed.
“Miss me?” he asks against my temple.
“More than words can express. When did you get in?”
“A few hours ago. You were so focused on your research, I shielded to keep from interrupting you.”
I peer up. “Maybe you’ll know this sigil.” I leave his arms reluctantly, twine our fingers, and guide him over to the table. The re-sketched symbol stands out against the thick, beige drawing parchment. Cristobal frowns.
He traces the sigil with the tip of his elegant forefinger. “This is old.”
“You know it?”
“No, nor the language it derives from. Though, I feel confident in saying it comes from the Middle East.”
“I thought the same thing. I’ve been trying to look in the oldest tomes we have focused on that area.”
He picks up the book I’d been studying and thumbs through it gently. Unlike humans, vampires don’t sweat or release oils from their skin, so there’s no danger to protect the book from.
“I don’t think you’ll find the answers you seek in any books we have access to. Which means you will need someone who would remember this ancient dialect, provided it’s human.”
“You don’t think it’s human?”
“I do not know enough about Arabic to say definitively one way or another, but in those days, it was much easier for magical things to walk the earth. In those times, there were more others than humans. You believed in the magic and in turn … in us. This was all before my time. Yet, people still talk.”
“What do they say?” I ask, intrigued.
“That left unchecked, we would have run the world, devoured humanity, and eventually each other. It was before the laws and the reconnection with rationality and what was left of our humanity. They were brutal times. Think of it as your caveman period. We had much evolving to do. There is a reason why we focus on control and hold ourselves to a much higher standard than humans. We stick to the old ways because there was refinement, restraint, and a code of honor and order. You play it fast and loose in the twentieth century. It’s a freedom we can never know. At the very core lies an insatiable hunger we must always remain in total command of.”
His words freeze the blood in my veins. I’ve never felt our differences as keenly as I do at this moment. “But we all adapt and grow, no?”
I nod my head, still mulling over his history lesson.
“Do you know someone I could ask about this symbol?” I ask.
“Not personally, but I can ask around.”
“Thank you.” I rest my head on his shoulder.
“How long have you been at this?” He closes the book and replaces it on the shelf.
“What time is it now?”
“Four o’clock.”
I grimace.“Ugh. Seven hours. Jesus.”
“How about you come up for air?”
My shoulders sag. We’ve gotten no closer to discovering what killed Mr. James Marsh, why, or if it’ll strike again. “I wish I could. People are dying in this city, and I need to get to the bottom of it.”
“Your nobility is one of your traits I have a love/hate relationship with. I admire your dedication to what you believe in, but I hate how often it takes you away from my side.”
I run my hand over his jaw. “Soon we’ll carve out time for us.” I pull his face to me and share a bittersweet kiss full of greetings and good-bye.
“Where are you headed next?” he asks with a resigned sigh.
“I have a hunch I need to play.”
He studies me carefully. “That’s not an answer.”
“I’m going to contact Halcyon and see if she’ll meet me.”
He tenses. I hold up a finger and swish it back and forth. “Ah. Don’t say it. It’s witch to witch, no vampire politics necessary or wanted.”
He shakes his head. “Would it matter if I told you not to?”
“Right now?” I suck air between my teeth.
“Go. But be safe, and keep your GPS tracking on.” His words are pinched and his jaw clenches and releases rhythmically. He’s probably choking down all the things he wants to say. It takes a lot for him not to plow and smoother me with his good intentions. Slowly, we’re finding our way together.
“Of course.”
“Be safe,” he implores me.
“Always.” I grip the lapels of his suit was I go up on tiptoes to meet his lips. We pull apart breathing hard.
“Soon I’m going to whisk you away.”
“I look forward to it.
***
Two hours later, I pull up in front of an adorable, pale blue, cottage-style home with a Victorian wooden porch. Stained glass windows and handcrafted railings add a classic elegance to the historic property located just outside of New Orleans. Shifting the car into park, I release a low-whistle. Fire engine red crisscrossing lines start from the edge of the curb and follow what must be her property lines. The pulsing crimson slashes emit menace and light up the darkness.
Any witch worth her salt would be
able to see the do not enter sign forged with dark magic. Spells this visible come at a cost or with immense power. Even a human would find what appears to be a quaint home by all other accounts foreboding. My body is tense as I leave my car. A witch who tried to cross into this territory without permission would likely be killed. I am literally placing my life in her hands by trusting her word that she’s allowing me admittance to her home.
Fear hits me as I step from the car. Clutching the handle of my black messenger back tight, I step forward with a confidence I don’t feel. I keep my chin up, back straight, and cross. My skin tingles as the wards accept me. A bark of relieved laughter escapes as I continue toward the porch.
The front door swings open before I can knock. Hal greets me with a bright smile entirely at odds with the dark magic inside of her, slowly working toward gaining a foothold in the battle for control. The off-the-shoulder, ruffled top, pale pink dress goes well with her peaches-and-cream skin and golden blonde hair. Her cerulean gaze is lit with mirth.
“I’m so glad you came out to visit me, Lou.”
“Thank you for having me over. Your home is gorgeous.”
“Come on in, and I’ll show you around before we talk business.” The door closes behind me, and the wards buzz to life. Like an invisible fence, they separate us from the rest of the world.
The abundance of white walls and high-vaulted ceilings broken by splashes of pastel-hued furniture keeps me from feeling cloistered by the invisible partition.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, stunned by the open space despite the small amount of footage. The design is all crisp, clean, and soft. It encompasses a sense of peace.
“This is my sanctuary. Not many are allowed in. You’re like family. So, when you came to me witch to witch, there was no other option but to invite you down.” She clarifies the lines between us. As lead witch for the mighty Lord of New Orleans Court, Blazh, she has to be careful about our interactions. At the moment, he and Cristobal are on friendly terms, and allies, but things can change swiftly. As lord of a large portion of land in addition to Cypress, we’re neighbors.