by Lyra Evans
Oliver swallowed, rooted to the ground by the sight of Brown’s desperate ferocity. He nodded. “I promise I will find the person responsible. Wherever that search takes me.”
He turned and left Daniel Brown to his tears and his drinking. Heart racing, Oliver slipped on his boots and took a rallying breath before exiting to face the horde of journalists. He had no time to deal with them, not when he had to figure out a way to get into Logan’s Court without drawing any attention.
The shock of the cold air against his face brought back the image of Connor Pierce, partially clothed and prone before a roaring fire. Oliver tried to push it from his mind as he weaved through journalists and ignored their questions. It looked as though he would have to meet Connor Pierce after all.
Maybe he would be less entrancing in person. The magic photographers used to doctor photographs was impressive, after all. Maybe Connor Pierce would be just as plain and charmless as Daniel Brown.
And maybe Eloise Carmichael ripped her own chest open. Yeah fucking right.
Chapter 4
“You have got to be kidding me.” Captain Marks was nursing a spiked coffee, fingers rubbing a faintly glowing salve into her temples. Oliver sat in front of her desk, his jaw and neck tense, knowing what it was he was asking of her full well. But there was little alternative. “Do you have any idea the clusterfuck this is going to become?”
Oliver nodded slowly. “Believe me, I wish I had any other leads, but I don’t,” he said, picking at the armrest of his chair. He really wanted to go home and shower. And possibly eat something consisting of real food. But asking for permission to breach the Treaty was something better done on an empty stomach.
Captain Marks looked up at him, her gaze sharp as razors. She took a long sip of her coffee and flicked at the screen on her desk. It shone and glimmered a moment, then the face of the Police Department’s Court Liaison appeared. A young woman with a bright, round face and sparkling grey eyes, the Liaison was normally a beautiful sight, but today she was frowning so heavily Oli thought she might have gotten stuck that way.
“Lisa,” Captain Marks began, every inch of her tone indicating she knew how bad her request was going to be. “We need to get into Logan’s Court. No choice, Lisa. It’s the only lead. Either get in there and question some Wolves, or else let a prominent Courtier’s death go unpunished. And the High Warlock is hardly going to let that happen, is he?”
Lisa glared. Oli had never seen her do that before. She was normally so positive and upbeat it physically hurt to be around her. But the glaring was definitely worse. Captain Marks, to her credit, did not shrivel beneath the intense fury of the gaze.
“And how am I supposed to sell that to the Court? I just want to get a platoon of NCPD’s best and most prejudiced over the border to detain and question members of Logan’s Pack at will? If Eloise Carmichael’s murder doesn’t start a war, that certainly will.”
Captain Marks shook her head. “No, no, not a platoon.” Oliver nodded in agreement, though he knew Lisa couldn’t see him. He was thinking more along the lines of an army of people. “Just one man. One detective.” Oliver’s heart stopped, and he nearly jumped out of his seat. Captain Marks held out a hand to silence him. “Detective Oliver Worth, lead on the case, will go in quietly. No fuss, no detaining suspects. Just questions. Friendly questions to ascertain the likelihood that someone of Logan’s Court actually committed—”
“Oliver Worth? The one who caught the Thistledown Thrasher?” Lisa asked, the fury on her face clearing. Some of the brightness returned to her, but Oliver sunk into his chair. Every day he wished he hadn’t been named in the papers. “I can get one man in there without attention. But is Worth discreet? Are you certain he can manage with a matter of this delicacy?” Clearly she was remembering the massive, public arrest of Carl Milleton, the Thistledown Thrasher. It happened in the middle of a trial, in the presence of several major members of Nimueh’s Court.
Captain Marks looked over at Oliver, pointedly asking the same with a look. Oliver, dumbfounded at how he’d managed to find himself in this situation, shrugged and nodded after a moment.
Aw hell, even if I can’t, I probably won’t survive to get fired.
“He’ll be a ghost,” Marks said. Oliver snorted.
Lisa paused a moment, considering this, then nodded. “All right. Arrange for your Detective to be at the East Court Crossing just before sunrise. We’ll get him into Logan’s Court.” Lisa hesitated again, then added, “but I should warn you. He’ll be in there alone, without official protections or sanctions. If something goes wrong, we will not be able to mount an extraction. He’ll be at the mercy of the Wolves. So ensure he doesn’t get caught.”
“Noted,” Marks said as Lisa signed off. She turned to Oliver. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go get yourself ready. You’re dismissed.”
He wanted to argue, but without a better alternative or excuse to mount a military assault on the border, Oliver was left with little recourse. He got to his feet and made his way to his desk to pick up his things. He paused there, glancing at his screen. With a click he opened the page to Pierce Entertainment and met with the intense gaze of its Chairman.
At the mercy of the Wolves… that’s one way to put it.
Chapter 5
The border before sunrise was a vast empty space. On one side, the side of Nimueh’s Court, was a paved lot with customs booth and tourist information. It stood sentry on the side of the single road that rolled out over the border, connecting both Courts. Beyond the customs booth, further into Nimueh’s Court, the road was dotted with lamps and signs. It wasn’t far beyond that the first few structures were visible, even through the thick flakes of snow falling all around them.
But in front of Oliver, on the other side of the border, there were no structures visible. To either side of the road rose a thick and howling forest. Spires of ancient evergreens and the curling, bent limbs of skeletal trees snipped at the slowly lightening sky. Oliver couldn’t see much else. No signs, no customs booth, nothing. If he strained, however, he could just barely hear the sound of padded feet on the snow, and the deep panting of a group of animals.
“No need for standing guards when you’ve got Wolves as your defense.”
Oliver turned to face a young border guard. Closely shaven, his skin smooth as the freshly fallen snow, the guard looked as though he could be anywhere between eighteen and thirty. His broad shoulders bore the weight of his military-style uniform well. He was armed with a standard, silver-bullet assault rifle, as well as gloves embedded with two magic-focusing crystals in each palm. Oliver had a pair of those as well, but wasn’t wearing them. They were for tactical purposes, not “friendly questioning.”
“Won’t they notice when I cross?” he asked, shouldering his bag awkwardly. He packed minimally, with few clothes and mostly items that might be useful as weapons to subdue a riled Wolf, but the backpack was still full.
“Of course,” the guard said. Oliver’s eyes flew to his nametag. Brook, it said. He wondered if Brook knew the circumstances of Oliver’s early morning crossing. “That’s why we’re waiting for them to come up and get you.”
Oliver nearly choked. “I thought I was meant to be getting in quietly?”
Brook gave him a look that indicated that Oliver was precious and quite stupid. “If you think there’s a way to get into Logan’s Court without one of the Wolves knowing you’re there, you obviously don’t know much about Werewolves. Or the Treaty for that matter. We need permission for any Officer of Nimueh’s Court to cross the border on official business.”
Oliver considered just making a break for the border now. It would be a faster death to be mauled by Wolves right then and there than to wait for it to happen later. Because it was going to happen, at this rate. He blandly wondered why it was he never considered making a will.
“I should have just brought a sign,” he said. His badge was concealed inside his jacket, but he may as well have worn it.
“Listen, they think you’re just there to gather some information,” Brook said. “Not to question suspects. Just routine questions. Remember that. Logan’s Court is just as eager to avoid a war as we are. So they’ll cooperate as long as they think you’re in it to clear them, not to frame them.”
Oliver, one eyebrow raised, took stock of Brook. His handsomeness was ingrained deep in him, in the long line of his nose, the square of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones. He should have noticed it before.
“You’re Noble,” Oliver said, putting it down to the shivering cold that he hadn’t seen it earlier. He pulled his scarf tighter around his face, whispering a warming charm into the fabric.
Brook shifted awkwardly. He glanced over his shoulder at the customs booth where his Supervisor and fellow guards were waiting. “No one else here knows that,” he said in an undertone. “So I’d take it as a kindness if you could keep that information to yourself.”
Oliver nodded. “Why come out here if you’ve got a nice cozy seat at Court waiting for you?”
Brook glanced over his shoulder again, then turned his attention back to the horizon, searching out any sign of Wolves. “I wanted to contribute something more significant. Protect our Kingdom. My family’s not important enough to do that from inside, so I figured I’d come out to the border to do it.”
Mildly impressed, Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on his tongue. At the base of the trees in the distance, shadows moved. They flickered, back and forth like the flame of a candle, and began to emerge. Three Wolves, two black as ink against the backdrop of the snow, and the third a roan red uncommon for Logan’s Court, came padding toward them. As they closed in, they began to grow.
The air around them began to shimmer and glint, and Oliver found it difficult to look directly at them. With every moment, every closing step, the shimmering grew brighter and the shape of the Wolves changed, growing larger, longer. Finally, Oliver had to shut his eyes against the transformation, and when he looked back, he found himself standing opposite three people who might pass as Human any other day.
There were two women and one man. The women were black, identical, with smooth, sloping features fit for a goddess. They wore uniforms of tightly woven leather and fur, and Oliver sensed the strength of the magic embedded in the clothing. It wasn’t Wizard-made clothing; it was Fae. These women were highly trained and probably extremely deadly. Oliver fought the urge to reach for any weapon in his backpack. He was thankful he remembered to place a sense-glamouring spell on his bag. To them it would look as though he carried an almost empty bag, and more importantly, they wouldn’t be able to smell anything in it.
The man stepped forward, his dark red hair swept sideways in thick spiking tufts. He was tall, lean, and beautiful. His clothing, much like his partners, was Fae-made, but the furs he wore were white and softer, like the fuzz on a rabbit. His clothing wasn’t armour; it was meant for agility.
“Brook,” he greeted, his blue eyes sparking. Oliver glanced at Brook, who, cheeks slightly pinker than a moment prior, nodded stoically. “Didn’t know you’d be making the hand-over. Didn’t you work a double shift yesterday?”
Brook straightened, trying to shake off the blush. But Oliver saw the way his eyes lingered on the red-haired Wolf’s waist, drawing a line up his stomach. “Took an early shift today as a favour,” he explained. “Wanted to make sure you wouldn’t give Worth here any trouble.” He gestured to Oliver, who suddenly felt as though he was intruding. “This is Jackson Racer,” Brook said to Oliver.
Racer turned to Oliver with a smirk. “Here to escort you into Logan’s Court. And I wouldn’t dream of giving one of NCPD’s finest any kind of trouble. Not when you’re here to help clear up a grave misunderstanding.”
His eyes bored into Oliver, his nose twitching ever so slightly. Oliver stood his ground, counting out his breaths slowly. He knew Racer was trying to smell for any indication of deceit, but Oliver was trying to sense things too. He fought hard to sense beneath the thick snowflakes freezing his skin and wetting his hair, beneath the crisp scent of woods in the winter, beneath the untapped tension between Brook and Racer, to get at the magical signatures of every person present.
But he didn’t find what he was looking for. Cinnamon and snapping twigs, fresh, crisp lettuce, the warmth of a hearth after a long walk in a storm, and the tinkling of rain on a window. None of those things matched the signature left by Eloise’s killer. It was a long shot but worth a try.
“I’m just looking to find the truth,” Oliver said. It was always easier to lie when telling the truth. “No prejudices, no ulterior motives. I want to thank you, in advance, for your help in this matter.”
Racer smiled a moment. “A word of advice, Detective Worth,” he said. “Only ever thank a Wolf for what he has done, not what he has yet to do. If you give up the prize so easily, it’s hardly worth the hunt, is it?” He made a gesture of welcome and stepped aside, opening the border to Oliver.
Forcing himself not to glance at Brook, Oliver stepped over the line into Logan’s Court, leaving behind safety and protection. As he did, he breathed in, but so did the three Wolves next to him. With a questioning glance at them, Oliver hesitated.
Racer smiled again, this time with a distinctly more wolfish air. “Committing your scent to memory,” he said simply. “In the event we need to—track you down.” Oliver froze, his every muscle telling him to flee back to Nimueh’s Court, but Brook was already walking back to his post. Racer laughed. “No need to fret, Detective Worth. You’ve been nothing but truthful with us, after all, right?” He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “So, where shall I escort you?”
Gathering up his wits and steeling his resolve, Oliver stepped forward into Logan’s Court, walking ahead of Racer and his partners. They stared for a beat, then fell into step next to him.
“The Black Moon Club,” he said, knowing the path ahead was just as fraught with danger as the path behind. “I need to have a word with the owner.”
Chapter 6
The club was a black box against the white backdrop of a snowstorm. There was virtually no indication that it was a club, in fact, other than the iridescent outline of the word ‘moon,’ all lower-case, above the doorway. Oliver stood, shivering despite himself and his thick coat and scarf, in front of said doorway. The warming charms he’d used on his clothing were failing under the power of the wind and snow in Logan’s Court. He’d heard the weather there was brutal, but this was unexpected. No wonder the Wolves wore furs.
They’d knocked twice already, but Racer refused to try the door. Something about respect for his betters, but Oli hadn’t been listening. Or at least, he couldn’t hear over the chattering of his own teeth. Swearing under his breath, Oli cast another set of warming charms on his clothing, relying on the emerald stone sewn into the edge of his scarf to magnify the magic to keep the cold at bay. But the emerald was cheap, more a token than a proper magnifier, and the seventeen spells he’d already cast were pushing it to its limit.
Much to Oliver’s dismay, neither Racer nor either of his partners seemed at all affected by the cold. They hadn’t even shifted back to Wolf form, yet the bitter wind seemed to barely ruffle the edges of the furs they wore.
Oliver began to dance on the spot, trying to force some heat back into his feet. His reluctance to meet Connor Pierce face to face had been completely overwhelmed by the frustration at having to stand outside in the cold. At this point, Oliver was more interested in thawing his frozen extremities than he was in avoiding an interaction with the most gorgeous man he’d seen in years.
“This hardly seems cooperative,” Oliver said, offhand, as he reached out to knock again. But as he spoke, the door in front of them, the one Oliver had become sure was in fact a wall, slid open to reveal—not Connor Pierce.
A thin, sharp woman in a finely tailored suit stood questioningly in the doorway. Her black hair was swept back to one side and flowed in unrestrained curls on the othe
r. The expression on her face told Oliver she wasn’t used to answering the door and was certain it was a waste of time.
Oliver pulled out his badge, on reflex, and introduced himself. “Detective Worth, Nimueh’s Court Police Department,” he said, glancing over her shoulder. There was nothing but darkness there. “May I come in?”
The woman’s expression went from bored and annoyed to icy. Oli felt Racer and his companions tense next to him, but he was too cold to care. “A bit outside of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Detective?” she asked, swaying to one side as she crossed her arms over her chest. The pose effectively blocked the entrance. Oliver could practically feel his lips turning blue.
“He’s here as a friend of the Court,” Racer supplied, his tone indicating he expected that answer to be upheld by Oliver’s behaviour. “A Witch has been murdered. High Warlock’s daughter.”
“Niece,” Oliver corrected immediately. The woman in the doorway sized him up.
“And you think we had something to do with it?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I’m just trying to find the truth,” he answered, standing straighter, his expression now rivaling hers for hardness. “Justice for an innocent woman.”
The woman in the doorway barked a laugh. “I wonder what that word means in Nimueh’s Court.” Oliver searched her face, but she stared back, unyielding. She stood motionless for a few moments, apparently trying to decide whether or not to start an inter-kingdom incident, and Oliver squared his shoulders. He was so terrible at this. Quietly and delicately—how Captain Marks thought sending him to accomplish this task was a good idea was anyone’s question.
“Let him in,” a smooth voice said from the shadows behind the woman. “No need to play bodyguard, Donna.”
The woman—Donna, apparently—shut her eyes a moment and exhaled, but she stepped aside and gestured for Oliver to step inside. In an effort to maintain composure, Oliver did his best not to sigh in relief when the warmth of the club washed over him, burning his wind-chafed cheeks and frozen fingers. He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his pockets as though it was any other place, but he was silently heaving, his body screaming from the sudden temperature change.