by Lyra Evans
Oliver frowned. There was no way he’d be comfortable in these clothes. Not comfortable enough to do his job, anyway. He was used to wearing jeans and t-shirts. Even his own club clothing wasn’t nearly as fine as these things were. But he had no choice. He had to get into the club to find the Wolf Eloise may have been meeting.
With a half-hearted grumble, Oliver began to dress. The clothing—fit, he supposed. By the technical definition. The boxer briefs were much more fitted than he might have chosen for himself, and the pants only just fastened closed. They looked as though they were made to his measurements exactly, but Oliver had never worn anything so tight.
The button-up shirt fit more loosely, but only just. And there was the problem of the buttons. They only went up half-way, leaving his chest mostly exposed. The sleeves were too short, as well, which left Oliver no choice but to roll them up to his elbows. He walked over to the full-length mirror and took stock of himself, carefully turning.
The pants did fit well, he had to admit, and the open ‘v’ of the shirt drew the eye downward, which is what he figured Connor wanted. But Oliver hated to be the centre of attention, and these clothes were obviously meant to accomplish just that. Already he could feel eyes on him.
“You look…” Connor said, appearing in the mirror behind him. His eyes were dark, fixated on Oliver’s chest and moving lower. “Edible.”
Oliver turned to face him and found Connor standing much too close. He had to tilt his head back to look Connor in the eye, and as a result, Oli felt curiously vulnerable beneath him. Connor himself was wearing a much more reserved outfit. His black pants were fitted like Oliver’s, but not quite as eye-grabbing, and his shirt was a muted silver, buttoned up almost to the top. His clothing made him look effortlessly powerful; Oliver’s clothing downplayed his power.
“I thought the point was to avoid getting eaten,” Oliver said, and Connor licked his lips. Oliver’s throat went dry.
“Avoid one danger by courting another,” Connor said and leaned in. The feel of his breath on Oliver’s neck made him wild. He could feel the difference in the air when Connor was close, as though there was an uncontrollable electricity there that dissipated when he moved away. “You smell like mine,” he said after a moment, and a shower of sparks passed through Oliver. “Now you look like mine, too. They’ll have high standards to meet.”
Oliver stepped back, needing to clear his head of Connor. He smoothed the shirt over his stomach. “And making me look like a fuck toy was the best way to do that?”
Connor’s smirk was sharp at the edges. Oliver turned away from him, back to his own reflection. He tried not to think about how much he liked Connor standing behind him, closing in, his eyes never leaving Oliver’s body.
“You are walking into a den of Wolves,” Connor said. “The last thing you want is to seem like a threat.”
Oliver didn’t answer immediately, trying to get used to the feel of the soft cotton against his skin without getting excited. But Connor’s proximity, his intoxicating smell, and the heightened senses from the bath made it almost impossible. The pants he was wearing were too tight; even a partial erection would be plainly visible. Maybe that was part of Connor’s plan.
Humiliate me in front of all the most powerful Alphas of Logan’s Court? Just the kind of press I need now.
“I was under the impression they were more of a threat to me,” Oliver muttered, not meaning for Connor to hear him. But he did.
“I have an answer for that too,” he said, and in a swift movement and a rush of wind that made Oliver’s eyes flutter, Connor had his hands around Oliver’s neck. Oli tensed for a moment, bracing for the assault, but instead of choking, he felt a weight settle around his neck, on his collar. Connor drew his hands away, fastening something at the back of Oliver’s neck. It was a choker made of polished obsidian.
Oliver’s hand flew to the stones. In the centre, just at the dip in his clavicle, a single triangular pendant hung apart from the others. The gemstone felt cool against his fevered skin, and the weight of it was more comforting than Oliver thought a choker had any right to be. Obsidian was a magic stone, used for complicated spellwork by the wealthiest Witches and Wizards in Nimueh’s Court. Nimueh herself had several obsidian pieces. It was a reliable conductor for magic, but prohibitively expensive.
At a loss for words, Oliver glanced at Connor in the mirror. The expression on Connor’s face was warm but closed, and Oliver couldn’t make out what he meant by giving him this gift.
“You want me to walk in there with a weapon in plain view?” Oliver asked finally, immediately cringing inwardly at the incredulity in his voice. But his nerves were already frayed from the bombardment of sensations and the confusion surrounding Connor. He needed to find a way to ground himself before they left.
“It has several purposes,” Connor explained, his long fingers lingering on the stones at the back of Oliver’s neck. “The choker is ill-placed for attack spells, which will make the Wolves more comfortable. The fact that you could still use it notwithstanding, they’ll assume it’s more for your protection. Which it is. Obsidian chokers make for a fantastic focus point for shielding spells. Plus it marks you.”
“As a Wizard,” Oliver said. “How is it you know so much about magical gemstones and their uses?”
Connor made a noncommittal sound. “I make it my business to know about anything that might present a danger to me or those important to me.” He glanced back at the bathroom. “I also employ a number of wards and spells in my daily life. All supported by gemstones and runes, of course. Werewolves don’t have that kind of power. Most of them are wary of Wizard magic, but I find it much more useful than frightening. You may have noticed the laundry spell set into the perimeter of the bathroom.”
Oliver shut his eyes a moment, cursing himself. He was an idiot for not noticing it right away, but he was relieved Connor hadn’t walked in on him in the bath. Oliver stepped away from the mirror, looking for more distance between himself and Connor. He played it off by looking around the perimeter of the bedroom, searching for signs of runes and warding.
“And you just happened to have an obsidian choker on hand for me to borrow?” Oli asked. He’d already found several runes in the floorboards. Simple cleaning spells and basic protections. Nothing unusual, unless you counted that they were in the home of a Werewolf.
“No,” Connor said. “I had it made.”
Oliver spun around, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed over his chest. “You had it made. In the three hours since I met you?”
Connor cocked an eyebrow, his infuriating smile still in place. “Three? It’s been nearly six, Detective Worth,” he said. “We’ll need to be leaving soon, in fact.”
Oliver coloured. How long had he been in the bath? How had he lost track of time?
“I’m ready when you are,” Oliver said. Connor tilted his head and drank in the sight of Oliver again. Oliver shivered.
“You are, aren’t you,” Connor said. “But I’m afraid there’s one more thing. You’ll need to eat something. Food from Logan’s Court will help blot out the residue of Nimueh’s Court. Make it more convincing you’re my consort. There’s some dinner prepared downstairs.” Connor gestured for him to go ahead.
Oliver swallowed hard and nodded, realizing he hadn’t eaten since the morning. Maybe food would help quell the flips in his stomach, or part the haze in his head. He walked to the door, hovering on the threshold a moment, hyperaware of how close Connor was.
“Oliver,” Oli said after a moment. “Or Oli, really. If you want me to seem like your—consort—you should call me by my name.” He looked up into Connor’s turbulent blue eyes, clouded with something Oli couldn’t process. Breath caught in his chest, Oli was drawn in, breathing in Connor’s closeness as though it was his path to sanity. After a long moment, he snapped himself out of it and tried to shake it off. He had a job to do. With a shrug, Oliver added, “although clearly you don’t have an issue marking me as a Wizar
d with this.” He gestured to the obsidian collar.
Connor caught his wrist, grasping it with surprising gentleness. He didn’t let go until Oliver looked at him again. “It isn’t to mark you as a Wizard,” he said. “It’s to mark you as mine. Oliver.”
Chapter 11
Dinner turned out to be steak, rare, with roasted potatoes and mixed vegetables. Oli cut into the meat with silverware made of, he suspected, real silver. The plates were bone china so fine they were translucent against the light, and the stemware was crystal cut with such precision it reflected light like diamonds. As he sliced into the nearly raw meat, Oliver heard the knife skid against the plate and immediately froze, teeth gritted, his enhanced senses making the sound more painful than usual. The fork alone was more expensive than the whole of Oliver’s kitchen set.
Connor, sitting across from him, did his utmost to ignore the screeching sound Oliver made, but the slight wince gave him away. Oliver thought he saw Connor’s ear twitch and wondered how sensitive Connor’s other senses were. Werewolves’ magic was evident in their transformations, of course, and their connectedness to the Moon and stars, but it was also performed in their senses. No other creature in Nimueh’s or Maeve’s Courts could boast greater senses than the Wolves of Logan’s Court, and few alive knew the full extent of what those senses could do.
Oliver had come face to face, quite literally, with his painful ignorance about Werewolf senses earlier when Connor confronted him in the entryway with a laundry list of the scents that hung around him. He was grateful, despite himself, that Connor had bothered to warn him and give him a chance to rectify the situation. If Eloise’s killer could smell her death on him too, then Oliver would lose any hope he had of catching the murderer.
Still, he might have already lost that. Oliver chewed his steak slowly, enjoying it despite the rawness, the taste of each spice flaming in vivid detail on his tongue, and considered Connor. He had far exceeded what was expected of him in terms of cooperation. He owed Oliver nothing at all, and even if he meant that he wanted to prove his innocence, he didn’t need to. He was protected by the Treaty and all the Alphas of Logan’s Court. He was as immune as immune could get. Was it all really about the possibility of war?
Oliver didn’t quite think so. Connor seemed as though he could easily take care of himself, and Oliver didn’t think Connor was the type to run from a fight if his people’s lives were at stake.
There is the other possibility, a voice in Oliver’s head supplied. He could be doing all this to stay close to you and ensure you don’t find the evidence you need, to steer the investigation in the direction of his choosing. An elaborate ploy, sure, but an effective one. You’re at his mercy here.
The piece of steak in Oliver’s mouth caught in his throat as he mulled over the possibility. Choking slightly, he reached for the crystal glass and took a long drink of water. Connor watched him.
“Food not agreeing with you?” he asked as Oliver coughed against the lump in his throat. He realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t steak he was choking on, but the thought itself. “I can have something else made if you prefer.”
Oliver shook his head. “No, no, it’s fine,” he said, picking up a potato and shoving it into his mouth to prove his point. He did the same with the rest of the food on his plate, swallowing some vegetables nearly whole to clear it. “Great. Thanks. We should go.”
Connor watched Oliver with some measure of alarm, holding a glass of wine in one hand, his own plate only half-finished. “In a hurry to be rid of me?” Connor asked, the playfulness of the question undercut by a flare of bitterness.
Oliver wiped his face and placed his napkin on the table, his knee jittering beneath the tablecloth. “I’ve wasted enough time, already,” Oliver said, keenly aware of how long he’d been in Logan’s Court, cut off from contact with his precinct. “I’ve got to find that Wolf so I can put this case to bed. He’s the best suspect I’ve got, other than you.”
Connor stilled, releasing his wineglass a moment too soon. It clinked audibly against the tabletop; the liquid within it sloshed dangerously against the sides of the glass. Oliver’s knee stopped jittering, his entire body searching for calm, anticipating a threat. But Connor exhaled slowly, wiping at his own mouth with the napkin, and seemed almost disappointed when he turned to Oliver.
“You’re so certain it was a Wolf who killed her,” he said. Oliver met his gaze, his eyes hard to Connor’s glittering look.
“Yes,” Oliver said. Connor’s expression became pointed, questioning, and Oliver raised his hands from the table. Splaying his fingers wide, palms down, Oliver focused on the crime scene from the previous day, calling to mind all the images, sounds, and smells of it. He drew on all his senses from that moment, and his hands pivoted, turning inward, palms directed at one another. As he did, drawing stiffly on the air as though tugging at fabric, his hands began to glow. Softly at first, then brighter and brighter, and once his hands were palms up, the light emerged from his hands and floated on the air. The light grew and shifted, until it spread so wide it became clear.
And there it was, a shrunken model of the crime scene, floating in three dimensions between the two of them. Connor watched the magic, and Oliver watched Connor. The moment Eloise’s body appeared before him, his eyes widened, pupils contracting. His lips parted for only a second before he shut his mouth and his jaw clenched. He was uncomfortable with the sight, but pride or determination or something else forced him to keep looking at it.
Oliver waited for him to take stock of the crime scene, to notice the torn wounds, the splatter of blood, the violent assault. He waited for Connor to come to the same conclusion as the medical examiner, as the police, as Oliver himself. That only a Wolf could have killed Eloise Carmichael. Nothing else fit.
Connor swallowed hard, finally pulling away from the floating model. He actually turned his head away at long last, as though he couldn’t bear it being near him anymore. “Can you shut it down, please,” he said, through gritted teeth, and Oliver did, still eying Connor’s face. Once it had gone, Connor exhaled and relief flooded him. He breathed quickly, once, twice, three times, as though rinsing his senses. And Oliver suddenly understood.
“You could smell it,” he said, amazed. The crime scene recreation spell called on all the senses, but Oliver had never met anyone who could feel those portions of the memory. It was used for the visual effect. But it had never been performed for a Werewolf, as far as he knew.
Connor turned back to him, his expression clouded. “Was that not the point? To push me to the edge and see if I fell over?” His words were harsh, edged with a sharpness Oliver hadn’t heard in him before now. Oliver said nothing to this, trying to decipher whether his anger was rooted in being faced with a violent death for the first time, or faced with his own work he might regret. “I can see why you think it was a Wolf,” Connor finally said, the calm demeanour slipping back into place. “And it might have been,” he went on, and Oliver felt a moment’s vindication before Connor added, “just not a Werewolf.”
Oliver felt his jaw drop slightly, the possibility seeming so farfetched he couldn’t grasp it. “Not a Werewolf? You think she was attacked by a wild wolf in the middle of Nimueh’s Court?”
Connor shrugged. “That’s not my job,” he said, and Oliver glared at him. “All I can tell you is that no Werewolf would have done that. Not even the youngest, most uncontrolled Werewolf would have attacked with that kind of unrestrained violence.” He set aside his meal, apparently no longer hungry, and looked evenly at Oliver. “Wizards think that when a Wolf loses control, they go wild, tearing things apart in lunacy. But that’s not how it goes.” Connor’s eyes were streaked with a ferocity rooted in his heart, the core of him suddenly showing. Oliver felt melded to the chair, trapped by Connor’s look, by what he was about to say. “When a Wolf loses control, they become more animal, yes. But no true Wolf would attack like that. Not unless they’re rabid and sick. A true Wolf attacks with precision,
intent. They are efficient hunters, not reckless ones.” With a disdainful look at the space between them where the crime scene had been, Connor said, “And that was nothing if not reckless.”
As he spoke, a glimmer of the truth of Connor played around his features. It was as though the Wolf in him, the most honest part of his identity, were coming to the fore. It was glorious and beautiful and full of danger. But, like he said, Oliver had no sense of an unrestrained danger. It was like fire—only damaging if uncontrolled. Connor was controlled power, harnessed for efficiency and purpose.
Oliver thought back over the images of the crime scene in his head. There was definitely a lack of control in the violence of the murder. Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Maybe,” he said, finally. “It could have been a lack of restraint, sure. But it could also have been a deep, unfettered hatred. They do seem to go hand in hand, don’t you think?”
Connor paused, a smile drawing at the corners of his mouth. He got to his feet and stopped by Oliver’s chair, offering him a hand. “They do,” he said. “Which makes our mission tonight even more important.” Oliver hesitated before taking Connor’s hand. “Hate, as I have come to understand, seems to be the currency of Nimueh’s Court.”
Oliver took Connor’s hand, his mind on Connor’s comment. He felt himself rising to his feet and guided into the entrance hall. “What does that mean?” he asked, and Connor only smiled.
“Because as you’re about to see, Oliver, there is not a Wolf in Logan’s Court who hates Wizards the way Wizards hate us.”
Chapter 12
Oliver shifted in his seat as Connor drove. The night had fallen inky black over Logan’s Court, the spires of the pine forest slashing at the horizon like turrets. Logan’s Court, unlike Nimueh’s Court, was made up mostly of forest. The woods were vast and deep, punctuated only by a mountain atop which Logan’s Castle stood, hewn from the rock and emerging as though a golem. The forest spread outward from the Mountain, named Razortooth for the maw of the Court’s first Alpha, and the kingdom was veined by rustic, unpaved roads meant mostly for travel and transportation between the other Courts. It was a beautiful view, really, though Oliver couldn’t really appreciate it.