He should have known better. A royal princess was among the sick, and no effort was being spared. When he arrived, the hall was swarming with green-coated Vidonese guards, some of whom bore the insignia of the Knights of Vidon. Faran’s neck hair prickled, but he kept his expression mild as he skirted the areas cordoned off with yellow tape. The guards had been joined by the local police, and crime-scene technicians were examining the high table, fingerprinting dishes and sealing samples of food into tiny jars. It was painstaking, precise work.
Faran passed through the banquet hall and into the servers’ passageway. The stainless steel doors to the kitchen were directly ahead. Yellow tape forbid entry, but Faran didn’t slow until he saw Captain Valois lurking in a shadowed corner just outside. Great fuzzy balls, not now!
“Mr. Kenyon,” said Valois, “what an interesting surprise.”
“You’re not questioning the staff and guests?”
“Oh, I will be,” Valois gave a ghastly smile. “But there are so many things to attend to.”
Faran held up his hands in a peacemaking gesture. “I’m here on behalf of Dr. Lemieux. He’s the—”
“Yes, I know who he is. What does he want?”
Faran didn’t have time for games. “A sample of the poison. He’s looking for an antidote.”
“And you happen to know where that is?” Valois folded his arms, his lined face somewhere between skeptical and suspicious. “I hear you were the one who—correct me if I’m wrong—smelled it.”
Two people in the past half hour had remembered that scrap of telltale information. Faran wasn’t pleased. “Yeah. That’s how I hope to find the source.”
“In the kitchen?”
“That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“It’s crossed our minds. We’ve done a search already, although the crew with their brushes and sample bags haven’t been through yet.” Valois’s gaze flicked to the kitchen doors. “It’s a mess in there. It’s going to take them all night.”
Faran opened his mouth to demand entry anyhow, but to his surprise Valois pulled down the yellow tape. Then the police captain drew his weapon with a whisper of metal on leather and fabric. “If it saves the princess, you’re welcome to try. I’m going to be at your elbow every step of the way.”
Triumph flared in Faran’s chest. “I can live with that.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Valois pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. “Put these on.”
Faran took the gloves. He wasn’t going to argue with the man as long as he got where he needed to go.
The kitchen bore the marks of an ordered chaos Faran knew well from his brief culinary career. Trays and mixing bowls sat on long steel tables, food half-plated, a dish towel dropped to the floor in Faran’s path. The grill was off, but a fortune in choice beef congealed where it had been searing. Cooking stations along the wall were similarly abandoned, knives set down with bits of vegetable still clinging to the blades. The place was beginning to stink as the unrefrigerated food turned rancid.
“We took the staff into custody, or most of them,” said Valois. “Two of the servers and three cooks are missing. They all left at different times—for a smoke break or to make a call—and never came back.”
“The cooks—where were their stations?” Faran asked.
Valois pointed. “The one on the end belonged to the saucier.”
Faran snapped on the gloves. “I’m going to look around at everything first. I’d guess at least one of the cooks was working with the missing servers. Poisoning a dish wouldn’t be as easy as it sounds. There are a lot of people in a kitchen. A lot of potential witnesses. For a job like this one, you need someone to add the poison to the food, maybe another person to plate it and someone to get the dishes to the right victims. Probably both servers, to be sure the distribution looked random.”
“You’re saying it would take a whole crew. What about one server with an eyedropper?”
Faran shook his head. “It would be hard to pull off in a barn of a kitchen like this. There’s no privacy. I would bet you all five of your missing staff were in on it.”
“We’ll see.” Valois made an “after you” gesture. “Your theory sounds complicated.”
Faran started with the tables closest to the doors. Plates had been arranged on the stainless steel surface for prep. Garnishes were already on about half. The scene revealed nothing.
Faran moved on to a sink heaped with a drift of arugula. Valois stayed a step behind, weapon in hand.
“Do I make you that nervous?” Faran asked. “You trust me enough to let me in here.”
“No human can pick out a trace amount of poison like that.”
So he knows what I am. Faran didn’t answer, but pointedly looked at the gun. Valois paled, a sheen of sweat glistening at his receding hairline, but he stood his ground. “I’ve been with the Marcari police for twenty years and know all about the vampires and werewolves. Not much surprises me anymore.”
“So?”
Valois licked his lips. “I don’t like your kind, but solve this and nothing else matters.”
“Fair enough.” For an instant, Faran thought about telling him everything he knew. But then again, Valois might have hired Gillon—if one actually hired such a creature. No, he had little reason to trust the captain, especially since the man was holding him at gunpoint.
Keeping his movements as calm as possible, Faran moved to the next cook’s station. “This is where they made the ceviche.”
The captain’s nose wrinkled. Scraps of raw seafood lingered on the counter. Faran felt his mouth sour with revulsion, but beneath the fishy stink he caught a faint, foul whiff. He stopped, sniffing again.
Valois watched, his brow furrowed. “Is it here?”
“It was here,” Faran replied. He made a quick survey of the work area. There wasn’t much to see—knives, dirty dishes, stray vegetables and a dish of salt.
“Let me play devil’s advocate,” said the police captain.
“Aren’t you on the side of the prosecution? I thought thumbscrews were more your style.”
“Wouldn’t the culprit want to take the evidence with him?” Valois asked, ignoring his gibe.
Faran scanned the surrounding area. “Or perhaps he wouldn’t want it anywhere near him if he was taken for questioning. My guess is our poison is hidden in plain sight.”
A rack of spices and flavorings stood at the far end of the room, next to an enormous pantry. Beyond that was a walk-in refrigerator large enough to park an SUV and leave room for a bike. Faran strode to the rack and began scanning jars and bottles labeled in a variety of languages.
Valois watched him, eyes narrowed. “You mean it’s in disguise as another ingredient.”
“Or mixed with one. Something strong enough to mask the flavor and close enough to the taste of the dish that it wouldn’t stand out. At least, that’s what I would do.”
“Oh, really? Remind me not to eat at your house.”
Faran’s hand skipped over the dried herbs and spices. A foreign substance would probably be too visible or else settle to the bottom. He reached instead for the bottles of flavored oils and thick, dark vinegars. And then, almost without thought, he moved on to the sauces and picked up a small, dark bottle. He unscrewed the top and smelled the concoction, and knew he was right. “This is it.”
Valois wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”
“Garum. It’s made from fermented fish.” But the salty, pungent smell was only clinging to the scum around the cap. The liquid in the bottle bore the bitter scent he recognized as the toxin. “I’d say our evil cook emptied out the sauce and put the poison in the bottle. Garum isn’t an everyday ingredient. He could have easily hidden this here for a few days.”
With a grim smile, Valois finally holstered his we
apon and produced a plastic bag, holding it open. “Drop it in there before you smudge the prints.”
Faran did. It hit the bag with a satisfying plop. “I need to get that to Dr. Lemieux.”
Before Valois could reply, Faran felt a waft of air. He spun to see the pantry door swing open on silent hinges. He ducked on instinct, dragging Valois with him. A knife went crashing into the rack. A bottle of balsamic vinegar crashed to the tiles, releasing a nose-puckering scent. Valois stuffed the evidence in the pocket of his coat and drew his weapon.
“I think we found one of your missing suspects,” Faran said grimly. “His knife skills need work.”
Chapter 14
The door to the pantry slammed shut.
“Idiot,” Faran muttered.
“Crooks usually are.” Valois rose from his crouch and approached the door, gun at the ready. Cautiously he reached out and tried the handle. The lock was a dead bolt, the kind with a safety latch on the inside that prevented anyone from getting trapped.
Unfortunately, that meant their adversary could lock himself in and it would take a key to get him out. Or a werewolf. Valois nodded at Faran. “I’ll cover you.”
Faran took a firm grip on the handle and twisted. The mechanism was good quality steel, so Faran had to lean into it. He braced his feet, muscles straining. He took another breath and tried again before he heard metal tear. The door flew open once more, the sudden release sending him reeling back.
Valois was there, scanning the opening and ready to shoot. Faran half expected to be pelted with food, but nothing came. They cautiously stepped inside. The place was ringed with shelves with deep bins beneath, but there was no one there.
Valois swore, lowering his gun. “Where is he?”
Faran finished his visual sweep of the room and began a second, looking higher. Still nothing. Was someone hiding in the bins? Unlikely. Still, they were on heavy casters so he pulled one out to look.
“What are you doing?” Valois asked.
“Looking for villains.”
“In the potatoes?”
Faran moved a second bin. “There. Look at that.”
There was a small door in the wall about three feet square. Valois crouched for a better view. “I heard stories of secret passages in the palace when I was a boy.”
“More likely a ventilation shaft.” Faran got down on all fours and tried the door. It wasn’t even latched. An intriguing passageway beckoned. His first thought was to investigate, but he paused. Catching the poisoner was vital, but so was saving his victims. “I need to get back to the infirmary with the poison bottle.”
“Understood,” said Valois. “Just poke your head in and tell me what you see.”
Faran hesitated. It was hard to trust a man who’d been holding him at gunpoint.
Valois seemed to read his thoughts. “If you believe nothing else about me, believe I’m a cop. I want to see justice done. If you’re not back in one minute, I will take the sample to Lemieux myself. You have my word.”
Still reluctant, Faran stuck his head through the opening. Then his curiosity caught. While the door was small and hidden, the passage behind it was man-size. Faran squeezed through and got to his feet. The space was only about four feet wide and a little higher than his head. The walls were made from the same stone as the rest of the palace, but roughly finished. He let his fingertips graze the cool surface, feeling a film of ancient grit. He had great night vision, but it was truly dark here, with only the light from the pantry creeping along the floor. Nevertheless, Faran suspected someone might have used this as an escape route. He pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight app.
“I’m going in,” he said. “Start counting your one minute.”
“Go.”
Faran moved silently, his feet barely scraping on the sandy floor. The air here was musty. Whoever had passed before had left a trail of perspiration and food smells. About twenty seconds along, the passage branched, but he turned right with confidence, using his nose as a guide.
He could see the tunnel ended abruptly a stone’s throw ahead. He stopped, scanning the walls with his flashlight for another door. Nothing. It was narrower here, with barely enough room to walk without hunching.
A noise made him flick off the light to hide his presence. He remained frozen for a long moment, the sudden close darkness making him twitch. Such thick walls muffled and distorted sound and he searched his memory, unsure if the scrape he’d heard was a footfall or the scurry of a mouse. He could smell rodents, too. Eventually, skin prickling with apprehension, he turned the light back on.
It fell on an object at the end of the passage. Faran approached, unsure what he was looking at until he got close enough to see it was a bundle of pale cloth. He shone the light straight at it. A cook’s white jacket lay crumpled into a corner. It was the source of the scent he’d been following. Faran kicked it in disgust and immediately doubled back, cursing himself for wasting time.
The door to the pantry was still open, but Valois was nowhere in sight. Had he left for the infirmary to deliver the bottle of poison? Undoubtedly. The police captain wasn’t the type to lose interest and wander off. Faran left the pantry for the kitchen and stopped. There was nothing more to keep him here but he didn’t want to leave. His instincts were waving a red flag. There’s something I should be paying attention to.
The cook’s jacket in the dead-end tunnel bothered him. It was as if someone had wanted to confuse Faran’s sense of smell. To lead Faran down one tunnel while he went somewhere else? Had the knife-throwing perp been listening the whole time he’d been talking to Valois? In that case, the noise I heard was a person, not a mouse. Someone had used the opportunity to give him the slip.
A muffled crash made him spin around. He couldn’t see anything, but another thump drew him to the walk-in fridge. Faran picked up one of the chef’s knives from the counter and pulled open the fridge door. A gust of cold air turned to fog.
A figure in black had the captain trapped against the shelves. Valois’s face resembled the raw meat on those shelves. In the brief time he’d been out of Faran’s sight, he’d taken a beating, maybe broken his nose.
Faran lunged forward, nearly tripping on a frozen chicken that skittered aside like a bowling ball. He grabbed the back of the man’s hooded jacket, hauling him off Valois. But as the man wheeled, he grabbed Valois’s gun and shoved it into Faran’s face. Faran sliced upward with the knife, slashing the gun hand. Recoiling, the man dropped the weapon but ducked under Faran’s upraised arm, darting away from both him and Valois. In a flash, he was out the refrigerator door.
The police captain scooped up the gun, eyes flashing with rage. “He came out of the tunnel before you got back. You have to catch him. He took the evidence.”
Faran bolted for the kitchen. The man was heading for the back door but spun at the sound of Faran’s running feet. For the first time, Faran saw his face. He was wearing the same type of flesh-colored balaclava as the man who had tried to scale the wall to Lexie’s window. In a flash, the man had turned and was running again. Anger shot through Faran. This time he wasn’t going to worry about witnesses. Using his inhuman agility, he sprang to the top of the table, scattering plates and bowls, and then leaped for the culprit, a snarl ripping from his throat.
The man slammed against the door in his panic. Faran grabbed him, letting the tiniest bit of claw rake the man’s shoulders as he dragged him to the tiles. The man fell with a scream of protest and kicked out, slamming one foot into a mop bucket that toppled over, spewing dirty water over them both. Faran grabbed him more tightly and they rolled, crashing into the work table and raining more plates on the floor. Broken china stabbed into Faran’s back, and then his knees, but he finally trapped the man facedown on the floor.
He heard the clink of Valois’s handcuffs. Faran held the man do
wn as the police captain cuffed him. Then Faran ripped off the balaclava. The face looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Apparently, neither could Valois. “And who are you?”
The young, dark-haired man snarled and spit but would not speak. Even so, Valois sat back on his heels with a look of satisfaction despite the blood streaming from his nose. He reached into the young man’s jacket pocket and pulled out the evidence bag. The bottle was mercifully intact. Valois held it out to Faran. “Take this and go. I’ve got this, werewolf.”
Faran didn’t need to be asked twice. He sprinted for the infirmary at wolf speed.
* * *
The next morning, Lexie perched on the examination table, her arms folded across her chest. It was the only place in the infirmary where she’d been able to stretch out for a bit of sleep, and that had only been a few hours ago. Her silk jacket and slacks were too thin for the air conditioning and the cold made her light-headed.
At least, she hoped that was all that was making her dizzy. Her mind grappled with the fact that she had nearly been fatally poisoned, but it was hard to grasp. Nevertheless, the place smelled of the tongue-shriveling medication—antidote, she supposed—that left her saliva the flavor of bleach and rotten orange peel. Nothing was going to taste right for days. She desperately wanted something ice-cold to drink and could almost see a frosty glass of iced tea.
Lexie closed her eyes, fighting a headache. Her nerves were jangled until she could barely sit still. She was alone for the moment and grateful for the chance to pull herself together. She’d been dreaming of her birth father. She could barely remember his face, but she did remember the time she’d been sick in bed and he’d sat by her side all day, telling her stories. But in the dream, her father’s face had kept changing from the doctor to Faran to King Renault.
She jumped when she heard a footfall outside the flimsy door. The knob rattled and she opened her eyes, ashamed of being so jittery. Her visitor was probably the nurse, and she could ask for something to ease her headache. She had a feeling she was going to need her wits sharp for the next while.
Harlequin Nocturne May 2015 Box Set: Wolf HunterPossessed by a Wolf Page 39