Dog Eat Dog World: Limited Edition Bundle (Black Dog)

by Hailey Edwards

  The gallon jug of hand sanitizer I had been eyeballing sat on the ground near the exit flap. I walked over and pumped until clear goo dripped through my fingers then massaged out the worst of the echoes before resuming my visual examination.

  Milky-blue eyes gazed at the stump of her missing arm. Her thin lips mashed together as though even in death she held back a scream. The roundness of her childish features churned a memory that frothed with kinship for the dead. I stared at her hard, willing a resemblance to another lost girl to surface, but there was none. Whoever she had been, she was no Lori.

  The quality of light changed, and I assumed Comeaux had joined me. “Has her family been notified?”

  A rusty growl vibrated on the air. “Her family found her.”

  Startled, I lifted my head.

  A tall man filled every inch of the entryway. Wiry muscle packed his lean frame. Dark hair was slicked to his scalp. Grungy stubble covered his face. Feral intelligence sharpened his hazel eyes as they pierced mine. Bands of black ink circled his wrists, and towering cypress trees grew from them to trace up his forearms. A small figure flashed on the inside of one wrist when he shoved aside the tent flap, but he lowered his arm before I could identify the marking. Mud covered his naked torso. His jeans were soaked through and held low on his hips by determination alone. His feet were bare and caked with dirt. Haggard and exhausted, he looked like a man primed to walk off a cliff’s edge just to get life the hell over with so he could finally get some sleep.

  “Agent Ellis—” Comeaux shouldered into the tent, giving the man a wide berth, “—this is Cord Graeson. He’s the victim’s brother.”

  Gravel churned in Graeson’s voice. “Her name was Marie.”

  Marie Graeson. One more name etched onto my private wall of remembrance. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Comeaux allowed a moment of silence to lapse before prompting me. “Well?”

  My gaze skated from Comeaux back to Graeson. I had a hard time not looking at him while he was staring a hole through my left ear. “Should Mr. Graeson be present for this?”

  The grizzled man stalked toward me. Hostility wafted from his skin like pungent cologne. “Mr. Graeson will be part of this investigation until the sick bastard responsible for Marie’s death is brought to justice.”

  The primal region of my brain quaked in its boots, but I kept my voice steady. “She’s one of mine,” I confirmed. “Her injuries mirror those of the previous victims.”

  The marshal scratched his chin. “Can you tell what type of fae did this?”

  “No,” I lied as cold sweat popped down my spine. “I’m sorry.”

  Graeson’s nostrils flared—scenting my fib?—and my hands became of sudden interest to him. Damn it. He must smell the hand sanitizer. Our gazes locked, and his irises gleamed with a golden sheen. He knew I had touched her even if he hadn’t figured out why.

  “It was worth a shot.” Comeaux rocked back on his heels. “Do you want to visit the site?”

  About as much as I wanted Graeson to punch me in the face with those cinder blocks he called hands. The knuckles bending his weathered fingers were scarred and thick like a pro boxer’s would be.

  “Sure.” I sidestepped Graeson’s intensity, exited the tent and waited for Comeaux to join me. “Lead the way.”

  The banks surrounding Pilcher’s Pond sloped in a gentle downward curve past the edge of the trail Comeaux and I had taken to reach the tent. The ground was bare and cracked, the weeds dead and brittle underfoot. He veered to the left and began sidling down the incline toward the basin. I stepped where he did and focused on keeping my feet under me. After a few minutes, curiosity forced the question on my mind past my lips. “What’s the deal with Graeson?”

  “He’s beta to the Georgia alpha, a guy named Bessemer.” Comeaux kept his voice pitched low. “If Graeson wants to investigate his sister’s death, it’s within his rights under the Native Species of Magical Origins Act. We aren’t required to share our information with him, but we can’t refuse to answer his questions either.” At my incredulous look, he shrugged. “To them, this is pack business. The murder took place on Chandler pack lands. They take care of their own.”

  Beta. Pack. Alpha. One plus one plus one equaled a potentially serious four-legged problem.

  Cord Graeson was a warg, a dominant one to hold the position of second-in-command to a man like Bessemer. And he knew I had lied to him. That decision would bite me on the ass sooner or later, maybe even in the literal sense.

  Mindful of the debris one would expect to find in sediment—Christmas trees, license plates, beer cans, fishing line—we picked our way toward the mile-wide stretch of gray-green water cupped in the remaining depression.

  As I studied what remained of the pond, faint ripples arrowed from its center outward. Something was down there, and it was headed our way. Fast. A sharp twist in my gut had me tasting strawberries for the second time that morning, but Comeaux swatted a fly, and I forced my jaw to unclench.

  The cloudy depths parted over a young woman’s cotton-candy-pink head, and my lips opened with surprise. Shocking indigo eyes framed by black lashes beaded with moisture studied me. A purple neoprene suit hugged her body and accentuated her slight curves. The outfit belonged on a diver, but I didn’t spot a scrap of equipment on her. No mask, no regulator, no tank. Nothing to indicate what the hell she was doing bobbing like a cork in the middle of a crime scene when she looked like she ought to be planning a homecoming dance or rallying votes for class president.

  “Find anything?” Comeaux called to her.

  “A barrette.” She held a blue plastic bar molded with bows aloft for our inspection. “Hardly worth getting my hair wet.”

  Forget her hair. The girl had been swimming bare-faced in the same stagnant water as the corpse. I wanted to shower and scrub my skin pink just thinking about it. “How can you tell it belonged to the victim?”

  “She was wearing the matching clip when her body was fished out of the pond this morning.” She snapped the closure shut. “I assisted.”

  Well okay then.

  The girl sliced her willowy arms through the water. As she swam closer, I noticed robin’s-egg-blue nail polish flashed on her fingertips. When only a swath of muck separated us, she spun around, winked at me over her shoulder and began hauling herself out of the water backward by walking on her palms.

  “Do you need…?” I strangled on the word help.

  Gradient scales in sunset hues covered her from the pronounced dimples bracketing her spine down as far as I could see. Sunlight glinted off each scalloped disc, and I squinched my eyes but couldn’t look away. “You’re a mermaid.”

  “Are you a detective? If not, then you should be.” She settled three feet in front of me and twisted so her tail bent where knees would be on a human. Pink fins the same shade as her hair curled around her. “Your powers of observation astound.”

  Unlike the men in the tent, my patented glare didn’t faze her. Otherwise her tail would have seared like a pan-fried salmon fillet.

  “Harlow is a commercial diver. She’s our inland waterways consultant,” Comeaux offered. “She’s on loan from St. Augustine.”

  A mermaid living on a peninsula. Color me surprised.

  Comeaux coughed into his fist. He might have been laughing. I wasn’t sure which one of us was the butt of his joke. Then I realized I had spoken out loud. Fudge. So much for interdepartmental cooperation.

  The girl scraped dirt from under her nails. “Where are you from?”

  “Three Way—”

  Laughter burst from her tiny bird’s chest. “Is that on a map or a life choice?”

  “—Tennessee,” I ended flatly.

  She sat there, gazing up at me, eyes sparkling. Maybe she expected me to bristle. But the Three Way jokes had gotten old thirty seconds after I signed the lease on my slot in the Three Ways from Sunday RV park. So, yes. Three Way, Tennessee. Home of people cursed to insta-judgment and pervy stares
for sharing their home address with strangers.

  “Can you email me scans of what you have so far?” I asked Comeaux, electing to ignore Flipper. “When you get the autopsy report, I’ll need a copy of that for my records too.”

  “Already working on it.” The elf pulled a phone from his pocket. “All I need is the address where you want it sent.”

  I passed Comeaux one of my business cards and tapped the fine print. “Use that one.”

  The elf punched the address into his contacts with his thumbs faster than I could have with all ten fingers. “Done.” He pocketed the card. “The results will take a few days.”

  “Not a problem.” Buzzing at my hip made my heart skip. I excused myself and turned my back to reinforce the illusion of privacy. “Ellis.”

  “Check your email,” Magistrate Vause ordered in lieu of a greeting. “A marshal outpost in Wink, Texas has reported the discovery of an apparent drowning victim matching our killer’s M.O.”

  “That’s not possible.” The scents of water and decomposition swamped me, and the back of my throat began to tickle. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since his last victim was identified.” His victim, because the magic signature vibrated with distinctly male undertones. “Charybdis is precise. He’s not going to deviate now. There are also geographical considerations.”

  The pattern of his attacks was moving in a clockwise motion through southern states. Texas was a stretch.

  “That is your opinion, and it will remain speculation until you verify or invalidate this latest incident.”

  I smoothed the curve of an eyebrow with my pointer finger, mentally bracing to see another waterlogged corpse so soon. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be expecting your report on the Villanow incident.” She ended the call with a decisive click.

  Another state. Another body. Eight victims. Were we still talking about one killer? Some fae hunted in packs. That might explain the range. No. The magical signatures were identical. No two creatures gave me the same buzz. Not even relatives. Not even twins. I could always tell when Lori…

  Cool winds.

  Damp sand.

  Delicate footprints erased by the slap of angry waves.

  “Catch me if you can, Cam.”

  Grief ricocheted through my chest, the razor edge of loss so sharp my heartstrings felt severed anew. The crushing weight of the memory bowed my shoulders and bent my knees. I began power walking toward my rental car before realizing I hadn’t said my goodbyes. I had left the sorry excuse for a pond behind without a second thought.

  Shoving a hand in the pocket of my wilted slacks, I groped around and came up empty. Comeaux. I had given him the keys so that when—if—a panic attack struck, I couldn’t run from the scene before my job was done. Not without asking for the fob back and humiliating myself.

  Pounding footsteps sent relief fluttering through me. I wouldn’t have to endure a walk of shame today after all. Comeaux reached me at the same time as I arrived at my ride.

  “That’s it?” He mopped the sweat beading on his forehead with a fast food napkin from his pocket. “You’re leaving?”

  “Another body has been found.” Another drowning victim, another small punishment to chip away at what remained of my sanity. Accepting Vause’s commission to work these cases had been a mistake, but sign up I had and soldier on I would. “You have my contact information if you think of anything else.”

  “Was it worth it?” He crumpled the damp paper. “Did you get what you needed?”

  Latent power buzzed in my fingertips at the thought of the corpse. “I got what I came for.”

  Confirmation Charybdis had claimed another victim.

  I held out my hand. “Key, please.”

  He slapped the fob across my palm. A sweaty business card curled around it. His.

  “I’ll be in touch.” He leaned against a nearby tree and took relief in its dense shade. “Safe travels.”

  “Tell Flipper I said bye.” I slid behind the wheel of the sedan while Comeaux hooted. I dropped the chunky fob into a cup holder then pushed the start button and pulled onto the road.

  Wink, Texas, here I come.

  Chapter 2

  The Wink Sinks of Winkler County were two sinkholes barely visible from the highway. I knew, because twenty-four hours after leaving Villanow, I sat in the teensy Chevy Spark I picked up at the Midland International Air and Space Port while squinting in what the GPS assured me was their general direction. Even though from this distance there appeared to be more fence posts spearing the cracked earth than water filling the basins.

  Motion on the horizon snagged my attention, and what I thought at first was a heat mirage solidified into a feminine outline. She strode across the scrubland toward me with a bounce in her step, and I couldn’t peg her affiliation based on her attire. Short shorts. Cropped T-shirt. Cowgirl boots. Civilian or off-duty marshal?

  I slid my palms over the leather-bound wheel and gave serious thought to turning around and driving right back to Midland. From there I could hop a plane to Memphis. Drive the couple hours’ home. Sleep in my own bed while the old guilt nibbled at my conscience one bite at the time.

  Knuckles rapped on glass, and I jumped as a grinning face haloed by wavy pink hair peered in at me. Recognition sparked, and I jabbed the button until my window lowered. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re not the only consultant working overtime on Charybdis.” Flipper braided the ends of her hair, the gesture so automatic as to be a habit. “Nice toy car, by the way.”

  Ignoring the jab at my subcompact ride, I leaned out the window and stared down at her legs bared by the teeny scrap of lavender denim masquerading as shorts. Legs. On a mermaid. Sure, there were ways for merfolk to walk among humans, but none of them were legal because each of them required ritual sacrifice.

  I pointed at her scuffed teal cowboy boots. “Where did those come from?”

  “An outlet mall off I-20.” She pivoted her heel, admiring her foot. “I can give you directions if you like.”

  “Cute,” I said dryly.

  She buffed her chipping nails on her shirt. “That’s what they tell me.” When I reached through the window to nudge her away from the door, she danced out of reach and pointed at my hand. “Hey. No touching.”

  Interesting. Flipper had herself a secret. Two of them I bet. Both crammed into her outlet mall cowboy boots.

  I tucked my hand back inside the vehicle. “Were you sent to fetch me?”

  “Nope. I was walking to my car to grab a bottle of water. It’s hotter than a firecracker lit on both ends out here.” She scuffed her heels on the pavement, and her impish face screwed up into a mask of innocence. “I saw you sitting here and decided to come ask if you were waiting on an engraved invitation or what.”

  I snorted. Hard. It was as close to a laugh as I had gotten in too long. The alien noise rang out in the confines of the car. Flipper peered through her lashes, sporting a pleased grin, like I was a nut she had finally cracked. Or like maybe she thought I was cracked period.

  She had no idea.

  “Here.” I passed her one of the two chilled bottles of water I had purchased at the gas station ten miles back. “It’s yours if you want it.” I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to drink them without a few squirts of a liquid flavor enhancer, and the store hadn’t carried any of the familiar tiny squeeze bottles.

  She hesitated with her arm half-extended, and I remembered. No touching. Careful of the sloped metal, I balanced the bottle on the roof of the car. Flipper waited until my window whirred up and glass stood between us before she cranked up her swagger, sashayed over and accepted the offer.

  “Much appreciated.” The interior muffled her voice.

  It was as close to a thanks as I expected.

  Never thank the fae. We see it as an admission of a debt owed, and most of us collect favors like teens collect selfie apps.

  The seal cracked, and Flipper drank the water dow
n until she sucked air. I tucked the remaining bottle into my jacket with the hope the same spell that kept me from sweating through the fabric would keep it cool too. Heat rippled over my skin, the sun promising to burn, when I joined her on the cracked blacktop. The car locked with a chirp, and I angled my chin toward the site. “Should we…?”

  “Yes, you should.” She walked backward in the opposite direction. “I still have to grab a few things.”

  “Hey. Do me a favor?” I didn’t wait for a nod before tossing my key fob to her. “Keep that safe for me.”

  “Uh, sure.” The oblong chunk of plastic vanished into one of her micro pockets. “I can do that. I guess.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  The first responders, probably local marshals, had opened the gate surrounding Wink Sink No. 1 through magical means. I still smelled the burning metal. Faded signs posted in the surrounding area warned of “Unstable Ground”. Most were sun-bleached, and graffiti artists were treating them as blank canvases. One particularly artistic soul had used a permanent marker and drawn fanged mermaids copulating.

  I wondered how Harlow felt about that, and then wondered if she had been the one who drew them.

  I could have ducked through one of the holes snipped through the chain link—probably by local teens using the sinks as a make-out spot—and saved myself a dozen footsteps. But the severe woman guarding the entrance was watching me through the nictitating membranes covering her vivid jade eyes, so I stuck to the beaten path.

  “Can I help you?” A purr rumbled through her words.

  “I’m Agent Ellis. Magistrate Vause sent me to examine the body.”

  Her chest continued to pump with throaty noises. “Got any ID on you?”

  “Sure.” A six-pointed star pinned to an ID wallet bearing the Earthen Conclave’s seal weighted down the breast pocket of my jacket. I flashed it for her. “I won’t take up much of your time.”

  One touch, and I would have all the confirmation I needed to file my report and go home, see my family and refill the well before plunging back into the depraved underbelly of faekind. Leaving Aunt Dot to her own devices for long stretches of time was almost as bad of an idea as being here was in the first place.