by Tina Gower
He shakes his head, about to deny it.
“No. It did. They recorded it as insignificant, but you have to think from their point of view. Moving the needle, even slightly, would be seen as a victory.” It’s not just Ali, but most witches don’t really care for data and statistical significance. They’re more concerned with emotional impact of a spell and qualitative outcomes. “So with that hint of success, they’re going for bigger.”
“You think this group has contacted the Turmoil pack to try to make a cub that meets their criteria? Sacrifice it? Granted my pack experience is limited, but no pack would ever sign on to harm a child. It goes against wolf nature. We’re way protective of our young, not just in our own pack, but also in others. Most wolves would smell the deceit and not agree to something that’s not fully spelled out.”
“Then they’re going through someone else. Someone the pack would trust and saying it’s for another reason.”
He crosses his arms. “That’s a stretch.” He stares off as if he’s considering it, but his mind is somewhere else.
We sit there, in the dark and quiet. The silence grows and the unaddressed pack issue, the one between him and me becomes more, demanding an answer.
“Becker, about Dalia—” I lower my eyes, but then remember: eye contact. Always. My fingers find his, the tips touching his rough knuckles. Our bodies lean into each other, slowly creeping, as though some force brings us together. He clears his throat. I notice droplets of sweat dotting around his hairline. He lets out a long breath, as though the touch broke a dam and something he’d been holding back rushes forward.
He turns his hand over and my palm is engulfed in the callouses on his. He pulls on my arm, hesitantly, but I don’t move from my place where I sit on the shelf; instead Becker’s body slides to mine. His other arm sweeps around my back. Our foreheads touch. His fingers run up the side of my arm, sending shivers through me.
This is just what wolves do, I repeat to myself. This is how they calm themselves.
But I know it’s more. Becker knows it’s more. I’d let my jealousy get to me twice over him. Lipski was right all those months ago. We were only kidding ourselves.
“Please,” he says. “I need you.”
It’s all very hypnotic. His pine scent mixed with his deep voice. The rhythmic strokes of his hand. What girl doesn’t want to hear that she’s desperately needed? Except, I’d entered the first agreement without really understanding my responsibilities and neither did Becker. This time I want it hashed out before signing on the metaphorical, if not literal, dotted line.
I pull back—reaching into my purse to pull out a pen. Might as well begin the lists and parameters of this possible new agreement.
Becker sniffs and shifts his feet. His hand grabs mine. He stands and tugs my arm. His weight hefts me up from a seated position and catapults me into a row of coats. The hangers clink like wind chimes. He covers my body with his. His hand over my mouth. He removes it just as quickly with an apology in his expression—it must have been an impulse to keep me from talking and giving away our presence.
The door opens and a small narrow light floods the large room. A man in uniform, holding several tickets moves through the items, grabbing a few. There is a murmur from a large group of people on the other side of the door, which would lead to the entry.
“Herman,” a sharp accented female voice calls. “Be sure to bring rack A56 to the front. The guests will be moving to the gravesite service. It is cold and they will surely want their jackets.”
I peek at the rack Becker and I are currently using for cover. It’s marked “A56.” My eyes widen. I nod for us to move and Becker pushes me through the rack to the other side.
We crouch low until we reach a bookshelf that’s not fully flush with the wall. There’s a three-foot space where we’re able to tuck both our bodies and hide from Herman. The space is tight. I scoot closer to Becker, elbows in. He steps forward and my hands rest on his chest. My gaze fixes on the diamond-shaped space made by my thumbs and forefingers coming together. I ignore the tingles of nerves that zing anytime I touch Becker.
Herman takes his time moving the rack, easing it from its spot along the wall we just fled from. He checks, double-checks the coats, rolling them with a lint roller and brushing away any other debris.
I hold my breath and hope he doesn’t look up and over. Please do not pay any attention to the very large werewolf statue behind the bookcase. I’m afraid to move as if that might bring attention to our position, but Becker’s arms gently wrap around me, pulling me closer. I look up, concerned that the slight movement has given us away.
The irises of Becker’s eyes glow. The gold color creeps toward his dilated pupils. It lights up the area around us, so I slowly reach behind his neck and ease his head to lower it. He does, brushing against my cheek and staying there, keeping his gaze cast downward. His breath is warm against my neck. A blush rises up to his cheeks.
Herman is on the move again. The rack squeaks and squeals, thump-thumping as it goes over each tile. The door clicks shut. The room would be dark again except for Becker’s eyes illuminating our private alcove.
“He’s gone,” I whisper to Becker.
Becker nods, swallowing. He doesn’t move. I’m pressed against the back corner. He’s blocking my way out. His gaze lingers on my lips like he’s considering a kiss.
“Becker?” I ask, more to be sure it’s really him and not the feral werewolf part of him that sneaks out and leaves him regretting the impulse.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
I search his eyes for recognition. Nobody but Becker is peeking back. The gold glimmers though his vibrant teal. He’s only half gone. “Should we get out of here?”
“No.” He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pressed in a line, as though he’s debating something internally and can’t quite come to an agreement. Then he opens them: the gold is gone.
I open my mouth to suggest that maybe we should have an exit plan, so we don’t get caught. Maybe we should implement it now before he does something he’ll—
He lips are on mine before I finish that thought.
It’s not like before. The quick testing peck I gave him in my room yesterday. This is different. This is like a forest fire in my veins.
One of his hands presses me closer, the other holds my head as if I’ll pull away.
He angles himself, pressing me against the wall while his teeth graze down my neck. “That was stupid. I won’t do that again.” His breath saws in and out like he’s just run a marathon. “Shit.” He squeezes me into a full body hug. “I’m a liar.”
And we’re kissing again.
Slower this time. His fingers graze through my hair. He eases back, his expression a comical mix of worry, wonderment, and fright. He flips between each emotion reading across his face at random.
I dig my finger into his chest. “I am not signing that paperwork in HR.”
He laughs and the tension in his shoulders releases. “I didn’t think you would,” he whispers into my ear. “Your cousin’s here?”
“Yes.”
He bites off a curse and glances out our alcove. “She’s coming down the hallway. She could be a little more discrete.”
And as soon as he says it, the door swings open. Ali is holding a ball of green light swirling in her hand like an old-fashioned oil lamp. She twists around the room as if it’s a compass guiding her. Finding spell. She’s used it on me at parties when we were in college. I had a habit of getting tipsy and wandering off with men who had ill intentions. Thanks to Ali and developing my own asshole-meter, nothing bad happened.
Looking up, she sees us crammed behind the bookcase. She frowns. “Gods, you both. Of all the places to sneak off to for some nookie, you have to pick the biggest cliché. A coat closet?”
Becker shuffles out, head low like a puppy caught chewing on a shoe, freeing me.
I run my hands over my hair and suit, hoping nothing is out of place. “We
were in here discussing the case and then the valet came in and…” I check all my buttons. Nothing out of order. Becker only got to first base. “We had to hide.”
She nods, scrutinizing us both. “Right.”
Becker steps forward, flushed and guilty. “We should head out.”
Ali squints at both of us and brushes off the sparkles and wisps of magic onto her apron. They dissolve like honey in hot tea. “Whatever, lover boy.”
We leave the room in a single file line. Ali gives me wiggle eyes and chin juts toward Becker. I shake my head, hoping that I’ve conveyed the not-now-maybe-later face.
Ali’s lips flatten into a hyphen. “The guests have all gone out to the graveside service, so us on the kitchen staff need to use this time to clean up, so I’ll catch you both later at Kate’s.”
“But you’re my ride.” I squeeze her hand to keep her from doing this noble thing. I’m not sure I want to discuss next steps with Becker. Because next steps involve Dalia, and even if she is possibility Becker’s biological sister, that isn’t for certain. And Becker is still a flight risk as far as I’m concerned. I’m two for two on intimate moments that Becker has run off from. I’m not exactly excited to make it a third and get abandoned at a graveyard.
Her eyes go wide. “But I have forty minutes left on my shift—”
“You don’t work here. You sneaked into the kitchens to see if you could overhear any conversations.”
“And I don’t want to blow my cover!”
Becker stops and we both nearly run into him. “It’s fine. I’ll take Kate back. We have to update the case file anyway. Might as well pull an all-nighter.” He turns back around and continues walking.
Ali elbows me, mouthing “all-nighter.” She adds in a few lewd hand gestures. My cousin has the cognitive mental state of a twelve-year-old boy.
I glare at her. “Except I need Ali’s advice on the binders of witches.”
She slaps my arm. “I’ll only be a few minutes behind you.”
I try to convey my yeah-right-you-will in a look. There’s no way Ali will come by tonight. I’m betting she won’t show until the morning.
Ali waves off my stink-eye. “It will be fine.” She takes one step from us. Two. When neither of us tackles her, she darts off. “You’ll thank me!”
“Binder of witches?” Becker asks.
I grasp onto the work topic. Anything that will postpone the relationship topic. “To narrow down possible suspects. It’s witches who could tease apart fate threads to individual strands. Who’d figure out that a trash can in a new spot could lead to a several-car pile-up.”
“Yeah.” He reaches for his phone in his coat pocket. “I got some more photos in on that. Miles found this on the scene. Went through every piece of trash on the block and tagged it after I suggested it. Felt terrible that I couldn’t divulge why I wanted the information.”
He shows me a photo of a crumpled list of trash pickups and can locations. It’s the same font, line placing, and organization of the letter I’d seen from the bus driver. “They do look similar, but both the trash and bus are run by the same government department.” Something tugs at my memory. “Did it have a watermark?”
“A watermark. I didn’t have him check. I’ll text him and ask. I took it by the sanitation department. Nobody can place the letters. Whoever sent it—it didn’t come from them. I watched the video, couldn’t make out faces, but saw one of the guys toss something in right after he moved it. Trash pickup was at noon today. Miles barely made it before they destroyed the evidence.”
“Gods. Poor Miles. He had the accidental death prediction and he sent it to Low Probability. Who was on Traffic?”
Becker’s expression goes dark and his features tighten.
It can only mean one person. “Shit. It was Howard Parsons. That little weasel—now we’ve got something to send to HR. Could he have taken a bribe? Why didn’t we look at that before?”
“I did.”
“And you already sent his name in for investigation. Hells, Ian, why don’t you include me on these things so I can savor the retribution?”
His jaw tightens. “Lipski took care of it.” Okay, he didn’t want me to know for some werewolf protection reason.
“We should pull the bus driver in one last time. I want to be present for the questioning.”
“Can’t.”
“But we have probable cause—”
“Can’t because he’s taken a long vacation.” Becker tucks his phone away. “His boss says he came to work, cleared his locker, and quit. He’s long gone by now.”
“Convenient. What about the sanitation workers? Can we get a schedule of who was on site that day?”
“I checked. Whoever’s in that video, they don’t work for sanitation. They had the reflective jackets, but not the uniform underneath. Sloppy, but so far untraceable.” He jerks his head toward a shortcut to the foyer.
I follow. “The group could impersonate sanitation workers but couldn’t get a bus driver? Doesn’t make sense. The driver was either a member of the group or bought by someone.” We reach the foyer, empty of people. I’m glad I won’t be running into any more family members. I’m sure Jared’s sister has informed them of my presence.
Then I remember my business card stuck in the planter amongst the snake grass. Becker watches me with concern. He must pick up my guilt. He peeks into the main room where the service was held. He narrows his eyes.
I press my fingers into my temples. “I might have royally screwed us as far as getting any information from the Walkers.”
Becker holds up his finger to his lips, shushing me, then waves me over. I follow his gaze into the room to see a woman standing in front of Jared Walker’s photo, holding a small bundle of lavender and foxglove. Her hair and face are covered with a mauve gauze scarf. From behind I can’t tell who she is. Walker’s mother had been tall and thin—this woman is thick-boned and short. His stepmother had on a teal silk dress that would have clashed with that scarf. Yet there is a familiarity about her.
Becker tilts his head in the lady’s direction, quietly asking if I know her.
I squish my lips to one side of my face, the best “maybe” I can give with an expression.
Becker sniffs. He whispers into my ear. “Guilty and grateful. That’s a very suspicious combination.” He motions for me to follow him.
The floor creaks, announcing our arrival. The woman turns. Her scarf falls from her face. And I do recognize her.
Alana Morrison’s mother.
Interesting.
Chapter 15
Mrs. Morrison looks from me to Becker then to me again. “Oh, hello, Ms. Hale. I had no idea you were invited here as well. We could have settled our matter in a more pleasant setting.”
Somehow I don’t believe the woman whose daughter should have been killed in place of the victim was invited to this funeral. Unless she also fell under the spell of the overly pushy grandmother who wanted me to bring a “handsome man.” In which case, where’s this woman’s date?
No. I’m not convinced. “It’s a pity that you arrived too late for the service, but if you hurry you might be able to catch the graveside ceremony.”
Her eyes are blank, and then she smiles—a half second too late to be genuine. “Of course. Well, it was a pleasure seeing you again, but as you say, I don’t want to miss the rest of the service.”
Becker holds up his palms to stop her. “How do you know the Walkers, Mrs. Morrison?”
“We’ve only just met.” She attempts to escape again, but Becker blocks her path.
He turns a chair around and swings a leg over it, sitting backwards. “Have a seat, Mrs. Morrison.” He pulls out his badge. “Officer Ian Becker. I met with your daughter concerning her good luck with the fates.”
Mrs. Morrison crosses her arms, toes pointed to the door and a calculation in her expression as though she’s wondering how quickly she can get to the exit.
Becker clears his throat. “Might a
s well pull up a chair. We’ll be here a while. And according to section C157 I’m obligated to inform you that I’m a near full-blooded werewolf and can smell a lie, just like the ones you just told my associate a moment ago.”
“I’m here to pay my respects. If there is some misunderstanding, maybe we should discuss it somewhere else at another time.” Her voice lowers, even as an only-human I can detect she’s laced her words with faux concern.
“What is the significance of the lavender and foxglove?” Becker asks.
Mrs. Morrison looks down to her hands where she’d held the arrangement, then to the frame where she set it in front of Jared’s picture. “I…I only wanted to leave him something. It’s so tragic the way he died.”
I shake my head. “But foxglove and lavender? A strange combination. Especially since it’s what the fairies would use to disguise their changeling babies to fool humans.” I turn to Becker. “It dates pretty far back, but the Fae would exchange their young with a human child, leaving their children for a time. Humans didn’t care much for it, as you can imagine, and started bathing the changelings in a solution of foxglove to reveal the changeling’s glimmer to their skin tone. If the child wasn’t theirs they’d leave the baby in a field of lavender where the Fae were said to pop back and take them to another home.”
Mrs. Morrison runs her scarf between her fingers, over and over, worrying her lip between her teeth.
I make sure to address the next part directly to her, keeping my gaze on hers. “The Fae got smart to this plan and would leave foxglove and lavender in the child’s basket when they’d leave them. This would trick the humans into thinking that if they were lying among these herbs already, then the child couldn’t have been exchanged.”
Mrs. Morrison looks away. “I hadn’t thought much about the significance.”