Witches Can't Fly (Otherworld Crime Unit Book 3)

by Nova Archer

  “I think she was running through the trees. Being chased.”

  The trees melted away like a Polaroid set on fire. Tall concrete buildings replaced the picture. Garbled loud music thumped in his ears. He couldn’t make out any of the words in the rapidly spoken lyrics.

  “Do you see anything else, Theron?” Lyra asked. Her subtle floral scent came to him on a breath of cool air. It calmed him and he took in another mouthful.

  “Buildings. Skyscrapers. A billboard. I hear music.”

  Then everything went black.

  Moving his fingers, Theron tried to find any other remaining memory. But it was pointless, the energy had disappeared. It was gone and there was nothing left for him to see.

  Rocking back on his haunches, he took in a deep breath and flexed his fingers. They had cramped during the process. “I can’t see anything else.”

  Nodding, Caine flipped the plastic back over the girl and stood. “We’re looking for a dark-colored Mercedes. And we’ll start canvassing the club areas downtown. At least it’s something to go on.”

  His body trembling, Theron found it difficult to stand. He felt like he’d been worked over once or twice by a mean-spirited thug. Wiping his hand on his pants, he pushed up to stand. He wobbled once. But Lyra was there holding his arm to help him.

  He nodded his thanks but in reality he wanted to gather her in his arms and feel the warmth of her body against his. Cold had crept over him. A slow-moving dread that made his backbone quiver in fear.

  Something bad was coming. And he didn’t have to look down at Lyra’s face on a dead woman’s body to know it had something, possibly everything, to do with her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He stalked the large room from one end to the other, unable to rest, unable to stop his body from vibrating with excitement. He had wanted so much to see Caine and his team discover the body. See the body for what it was, and what it foretold.

  The little witch must be shaking in her sensible shoes.

  Grinning, he stopped at the bar in the corner of the room and poured himself a glass of blood from the open bottle. After swirling it in the crystal wine glass, he took a sip and sighed in satisfaction.

  Everything was coming together just as he orchestrated. There wasn’t a move made by anyone without his knowledge or helping hand. Every murder, every scrap of evidence left at the scene, every scapegoat questioned and incarcerated was at his whim, at his mercy.

  Even the dhampir’s presence in Necropolis was premeditated. He would be a valuable asset toward the end. His father had aided him a long time ago, and now the son would be just as accommodating. He knew the man was as greedy and self-serving as his father before him.

  Downing the rest of the blood in one gulp, he slammed the glass down on his large mahogany desk, shattering it into pieces. He nicked his thumb with a small shard. Dark blood pooled to the surface. Licking it clear, he swiveled around to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking downtown Necropolis and planned his next move. He would make sure it was one they never saw coming. One that struck fear into their hearts. Because when he finally gutted them, fear filled blood always tasted like ambrosia.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Standing out on her deck, Lyra inhaled one last breath of brisk night air before going back into her kitchen. She shut and locked the sliding glass door behind her.

  Although exhaustion was settling in, she found herself restless and unable to sit still. Theron’s magic still tingled on her skin making her jumpy. She had showered the second she returned home, scrubbing her hands and arms until they were red, but his scent and magic remained.

  Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the bag of pretzels she’d grabbed out of the vending machine before going over the book with Theron. Opening the refrigerator, Lyra searched the shelves for anything to fill the void. Every shelf was empty except for some condiments, a couple of half used jars of tomato sauce, and a few Tupperware containers of leftovers transformed into science experiments. She slid open the bottom crisper and grabbed the last vegetable she had in there. Celery. Not her favorite but it would do until she had energy enough to go out to her small hothouse and collect the vegetables she had growing there.

  Munching on one bitter end, Lyra wandered into her living room, plopping down on the sofa. She had seven hours to shower, eat, and catch a few winks of sleep before she had to be back at the lab. She showered, now was eating, but she didn’t think she could sleep.

  She didn’t want to admit it, but the dead body had freaked her out. However much she wanted to fight with Caine about the police protection, she was thankful for it. A police cruiser was sitting outside her house. His orders were to remain there until she went back to work. He was even supposed to follow her as she drove.

  Popping the last of the celery into her mouth, Lyra rested her head on the back of the sofa cushions. She needed to quiet her mind. Maybe if she had someone to talk to about everything she could turn her thoughts off and get some sleep.

  “Gran? Are you there?”

  Resounding silence. Eleanore obviously was still upset with her.

  “I need someone to talk to.”

  More silence.

  “Fine,” Lyra huffed. “But I still talked to you even after you turned my first boyfriend into a Chihuahua.”

  Her answer was a brisk wind blowing through the room, rustling the green curtains at her front bay window. Followed by the yip, yip, yip of a small dog.

  Shaking her head, Lyra laid down on the sofa. She nestled her head onto another fluffy pillow and shut her eyes. Fatigue was taking its toll on her body. With a final thought of Theron floating through her mind like a cloud through a summer sky, Lyra rolled easily into unconsciousness.

  And dreamed of shadows.

  She was there in Theron’s dream, his petite sociere; across the dark deserted street from where he hunkered down in the shadows hiding from what he knew would come.

  Dressed in a long gauzy green dress, Lyra looked pale and perfect silhouetted against the harsh light of the streetlamp overhead. He wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her in protection. Unable to move, he remained glued to the spot, utterly impotent.

  Lyra twirled around in the glow of the light, as if waiting for someone. She seemed to be searching the shadows. Theron feared what she would see there. Nothing good ever came out of the shadows. He knew first hand.

  He saw it before she did, slithering in the dark across the cracked concrete. Eyes of red glowed in the black, causing shivers to rack his body. Had he seen those eyes before? Something about the presence seemed familiar to him. Or it could have been he felt the same icy dread he’d felt all those years ago when he invoked that dark spell creep across him now. He’d also brought something through from the other side that day.

  Turning toward the blackened street, Lyra must’ve sensed something approaching. Her eyes widened, and even from his distance, Theron could hear her sudden intake of breath and the quickening of her heartbeat. Fear flashed across her features.

  Opening his mouth, he tried to call out to her. But his voice sounded dead, as if it had no substance to carry through the air. He tried to move, but found his limbs leaden and impossible to lift.

  The thing moved out of the shadows toward Lyra. One part vampire, one part lycan in beast form and something else entirely. Something black and wet and completely alien dragged on the cement behind it as it stepped into the pool of lamplight.

  She screamed and pawed at the air, trying to protect herself from the approaching creature.

  Her cries for help finally prompted him to action.

  Forcing his legs to move, Theron came out of his hiding spot and crossed the street toward Lyra. But it was like walking through water. Viscous and thick, the air pushed back at him as he moved—almost like swimming—to the other side.

  He yelled her name. She turned toward him, seeing him for the first time and smiled, as if there wasn’t a disfigured creature descending up
on her.

  Reaching out, he tried to grasp her arm to pull her to him, to safety. An inch away, his fingertips brushed against the sleeve of her dress. He almost had her. Stretching and reaching he swiped at her arm.

  He grasped nothing but air. Lyra had vanished. Only curling wisps of black smoke remained.

  “No!” he screamed.

  Panting, Theron bolted from sleep, sitting straight up like a board. Sweat dripped down his face and he wiped at it with a trembling hand. Reaching for the glass of water on the table beside the bed, he guzzled it down, bringing some relief to his parched throat.

  Hard and painful, his heart still thumped like a drum. He rubbed at his chest. It felt like his ribs were going to crack open. Taking in huge mouthfuls of air, Theron tried to regulate his breathing. Panic was very close to settling in and making a home for itself.

  It had been years since his nightmares seemed so real. Wriggling his fingers, he swore he could feel the remnants of the thick black smoke on his skin. Like tree sap, it seemed to stick to his hand in tiny black dots.

  Jumping off the bed, he wondered into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the taps. He stuck his hand under the scalding water and tried to scrub the lingering results of his dream away.

  At first the dark marks wouldn’t come off. It wasn’t until Theron rubbed so hard that his skin came off, and he was raw and red, that the dots began to fade. Blood droplets dripped into the sink from his chafed skin.

  He watched as one red rivulet swirled over the white porcelain toward the drain.

  It was an omen.

  Deep down inside he knew this was the face of things to come. Blood. Pain. Death. And Lyra at the center of it.

  As he wrapped his hand in a cloth towel, Theron vowed as long as he was in Necropolis he would watch over Lyra. Something was coming. Something malicious and malevolent that had its mind on the little witch.

  He would do what it took to keep her from harm. Because he knew in some way he had helped the shadows find their mark. Because of his tainted past, he had brought them to Lyra.

  He’d been such a fool to mess around with black magic all those years ago. His quest for power, especially of his own making and not in relation to his father, had blinded him to the dangers of playing with the dark and malevolent magic. At first it gave him just enough power to aid him in obtaining what he pursued—money, possessions and women. But after a time it started to demand more in payment. He’d nearly lost his soul, especially that night when sweet, trusting Jenna had been injured. He’d never forgiven himself for his negligence in performing the spell that had crippled her, and he’d been atoning for it every since.

  Lyra was his salvation in more ways than one.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, as Lyra walked into the crime lab staff room, she barreled right into two hundred pounds of lycan. Luckily, Jace had lightening-quick reflexes and managed to avoid dumping his scalding hot coffee all over her.

  “Whoa. Keep your eyes open when you’re walking.”

  Lyra grunted in return and made her way to the counter to grab her morning caffeine-laced drink. She poured the dark brown liquid into a big mug and took a healthy sip. The brew was strong, bitter, and delicious. It helped somewhat in chasing away the residual horror of last night’s bad dreams.

  She took another sip and sighed. “This is heavenly. Who made it?”

  “Your Frenchie.”

  Her hand jerk and sloshed coffee over the rim of her cup, sending it down to splatter on the toes of her shoes. “Excuse me?”

  “Your Frenchman made the coffee. It’s some blend he had imported from Columbia. I guess he had some stashed on his private jet, or something really obnoxious like that.”

  “He’s not my Frenchie.” She wiped the drips from the bottom of her cup.

  “He’s been here for the past two hours. He’s in the analysis room with Caine going over the big old book of his.”

  “Oh.” A sudden pang of jealousy washed over her. It was foolish to feel that way, but she couldn’t help it. The translation of the book was her job, wasn’t it? Why was Caine muscling in on her territory?

  “You look a little miffed. Something wrong?”

  She frowned. “I’m fine.”

  “When you said you’d bring souvenirs back from your trip, you weren’t kidding.” Jace smirked.

  “Shut up, Jericho. Don’t make me spell you again.”

  Jace’s face fell, probably remembering the last time she used a binding spell on him. Shuffling his feet, he changed his tactics.

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.” He stepped into the hallway and gave her a little wave. “Go find your Frenchie and get to work.”

  Sloshing coffee over her cup again, Lyra stuck her head out of the room and yelled at Jace down the hall. “He’s not my Frenchie.”

  A couple of people who were walking down the hallway stopped and stared at her, making no attempt to hide the small secret grins blossoming on their faces.

  Huffing, Lyra swiped at the coffee splatter on her pants and made her way down the corridor to the analysis room. She heard collective snickers as she passed. Just perfect. The last thing she needed was rumors flying around the lab about her and Theron.

  Both Caine and Theron regarded her as she marched in, chin lifted.

  Setting her coffee down on the table, she looked from Caine to Theron. “Morning.”

  Theron kept her gaze and she could see the dark shadows under his eyes. It looked like she wasn’t the only one who didn’t sleep well. She wanted to ask him what kind of dreams he had. Had she been in them? Because he had been in hers.

  The sound of his voice, screaming her name, still echoed in her ears.

  Lyra!

  The image of him running toward her, hand outstretched, his face twisted in anguish, made her shiver all over again. She picked up her coffee and took a drink. The hot liquid did nothing to stem her shakes.

  “How—,”

  “Let’s dispense with the niceties and get back to the case. Okay?”

  Fear clamped a hand around her heart, squeezing tight. She was afraid on so many levels she couldn’t separate them into coherent thoughts. At the center of her fear stood Theron. She was scared for him, about him, and it pounded at her walls, making her feel vulnerable and out of control. She hated those feelings. It reminded her of the time she’d lost her gran, had actually watched her being gunned down in her own home by a burglar high on meth. Lyra had been incapable of doing anything about it. She hated that feeling of impotency and she never wanted to feel that way again.

  Not now, not around this man who already made her weak in other ways.

  Clearing his throat, Caine nodded.

  She touched the book on the table. “Were you able to get any further in the translation?”

  “Theron was able to decipher part of the final ceremony.”

  She glanced at Theron. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her from the moment she walked into the room. His gaze was penetrating, probing even, as if searching for an answer to a question he had yet to ask.

  Lifting her hand, Lyra rubbed at her mouth. Maybe she had something stuck to her lips. Maybe that was why they felt heated from his gaze. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

  Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze and seemed to shift nervously in his seat. “Some of the symbols refer to a creature of power. The one that will open the gates.”

  “Our killer,” Lyra stated.

  Theron continued. “There is mention of the final one who will be sacrificed to the dark lord and the gates will open, giving birth to a new age onto the earth.” He drew a hand through his hair. “There is more about the one to be sacrificed but I can’t translate it.”

  “Well, I think we can safely say the one is going to be female.”

  Caine nodded. “That’s a fair assumption.”

  After draining the rest of her coffee, Lyra set it on the table and sat down. Something just occurred to her. S
omething making her stomach roil. “Does it clearly say the word birth in the text?”

  Theron turned the book around and drew his fingers over the open page of text and symbols. “Yes. And the gate will open, giving birth to a new era.”

  “What are you thinking, Lyra?” Caine asked, his eyebrow arched in that questioning way of his.

  “Were any of our victims pregnant?”

  Both Theron and Caine’s eyes widened as the thought of what Lyra was suggesting registered.

  “Interesting.” Caine rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose in thought. Lyra could literally see the wheels turning in the chief’s mind.

  “Mon Dieu,” Theron gasped. “You are thinking birthing a new era is a literal translation. That the sacrificed female will give birth to le diable? The devil?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a theory.”

  “I’ll call Givon.” Caine flipped open his cellphone. “I would think if he had found anything like a pregnancy he would’ve told us, but I’ll make sure some kind of test was done.”

  In silence Lyra waited as Caine talked to the coroner, and watched as Theron read over the last page he had translated. His finger traced the lines back and forth and his lips moved as he spoke the translation to himself.

  She liked his mouth, she realized. It was full and sensuous. When he spoke French it just added to the allure of it. She had to admit—even if she didn’t want to—his accent sent tingles up and down her body. Where they ended in a pool of liquid heat, she definitely didn’t want to consider.

  Theron glanced up from reading and caught her staring at him. Blushing she looked at Caine who had flipped shut his phone and slid it back into his pocket.

  “Givon’s on it. He’ll phone me back with the results as soon as he gets them.” Caine’s phone shrilled as if punctuating his last statement. “Hmm, that was quick.” He dug out his phone again and flipped it open. “Valorian.”