by Lyra Evans
They drove through the paved side streets of Nimueh’s Court in Oliver’s car, which was much smaller and less expensive than Connor’s. The faded fabric seats were worn down, the edges of his license plate beginning to rust. His car was an older model, bought used. But if Connor had any judgment on it, he kept it to himself as he curled up into it. His knees knocked against the glove compartment, and his head scraped the interior ceiling as they drove, though Oliver tried very hard to avoid this when he could. Connor looked much like a man folded into a child’s toy car, but there was no time for a police vehicle to come get them.
The drive was completed mostly in silence. Connor had been frosty since Oliver had told him he couldn’t stay in bed, and Oliver, despite himself, was hurt. He wanted to be angry, to scorn Connor for his behaviour, but he couldn’t. He’d wanted so badly for Connor to want—well, him. He wanted Connor to want to be with him, to—
But something had changed, and Oliver couldn’t quite figure out what.
Don’t have time to think about that. I have a murderer to catch.
They pulled up to the drive of the Carmichael Estate, and Oliver whispered a spell. The windows of the car immediately darkened, shielding them both from the view of the group of staked out journalists still at the gates. They assaulted the car with questions and knocks on the window as Oliver waited for the gates to open. He wasted no time when they did, driving up and leaving the journalists in the dust behind him.
The estate looked much the same as it had the last time Oliver had been there, with the exception of the set of police vans parked out front. Oliver turned the car to park on the other side of one police van, ensuring that when Connor got out, he would be hidden by the van. The last thing they needed was a reporter catching sight of him too soon.
As he exited the car, Connor stood, adjusting his suit, and paused. He seemed made of stone for a moment, and Oliver realized he was sorting through the onslaught of information bombarding his senses. After a moment, he nodded at Oliver, and Oli ushered him inside.
There were already two teams of forensic specialists inside, combing through every aspect of the manor. Daniel Brown was not at home, and neither was the High Warlock, though that was expected. Frederick Carmichael hadn’t lived at the Carmichael Estate since he was a boy.
“Find anything?” Oliver asked one of the techs, who turned to him with a look of disbelief.
“Nope,” she said, scribbling on a clipboard. “Nothing yet.” Her tone clearly indicated she didn’t think they would find anything ever, and the momentary wary glance at Connor told Oliver all he needed to know about her feelings regarding Werewolves.
“Well keep looking,” Oliver ordered gruffly, making his way through the manor and up the stairs. Connor followed behind, moving more stiffly than usual as he did. Oliver tried not to think too much about how attuned he was to Connor’s behaviours already, to the subtle difference in his mannerisms and movements.
The master bedroom was disused, it seemed. Eloise’s parents having died not long ago, Oli figured she hadn’t wanted to move into it too quickly. They turned down the hall, feet padding on the warm walnut floors. The walls were painted a rich cream and were adorned with paintings and artwork, much as the entryway and the sitting room had been. Oliver found Eloise’s room with ease. There were markers all over that the forensic techs had been in there, and one of them still was. A young woman with red hair was methodically searching through every book on the shelf, flipping page to page, to see if anything was hidden within them. The sheets of the bed were pulled back, and every surface of the room glowed with what looked like purple glitter. It was visible residue of the forensic spells, Oliver knew, meant to mark the searched areas until they were complete.
Nothing in particular stood out in the room, though Oliver hadn’t expected it to be easy. Daniel Brown could easily have discarded any bloody clothing, or vials of potion. Instead, he hoped that other traces would remain.
He turned to Connor. “Anything?”
Connor stood stalk still in the room, his eyes almost unfocused, as though they weren’t his primary sense in that moment. He tilted his head to the side slightly, sniffing at the air.
“There is no smell of death here,” he said, shaking his head. Then, stepping closer to the bed, he leaned down and smelled the sheets. The forensic tech watched him, wide-eyed and alarmed, but said nothing. “There is the vaguest smell of blood,” Connor said after a moment, and Oliver’s heart leapt. “But it could be from anything. The victim slept here. The residual scent could be from any small injury.”
Oliver deflated, his frustration beginning to show on his face. “You’re sure?” he asked, and Connor looked at him. The expression on his face was closed, unyielding, but he nodded.
“More than anything, it smells like magic. Some powerful magic was used to blot out all the other scents.”
Biting back the curse at the tip of his tongue, Oliver paced the room. “And there were no unidentified potion vials in the garbage? Not in the bathroom or kitchen or anything? You’ve checked all the traces of residue everywhere?” He directed these questions to the forensic tech, who gazed, still alarmed, at him now.
“Everything,” she said, holding a book page half-turned in her hand. “We’re just finishing with the books here, and in the master bedroom, but it doesn’t look like there’s any trace evidence here.” Then, seeing Oliver’s livid expression, she added, “Sorry.”
He shook off her apology. “Did you check the wards? The records of entry and exits?”
She nodded. “First thing we did. It’s like Daniel Brown said in his statement. He got in at eleven p.m. and didn’t leave. No one came or went until the next morning.”
“Right,” Oliver said, “but was there any information about animals crossing the perimeter of the wards during that time?”
She opened her mouth a moment, then hesitated. “I’m not sure, actually. You should ask Katie Green. She’s the lead—”
But Oliver didn’t wait for the rest of the sentence. He was out the bedroom door and down the stairs, Connor following closely.
“Katie Green?” he called out, unsure who he was addressing. The woman who gave him the disbelieving look turned around, and Oliver rolled his eyes inwardly. Of course. “I need to see the logs for the wards.”
She made an impatient noise. “I already checked—” but Oliver gave her such a look she fell silent. “Fine, fine.” With a wave of her gloved hands, the alexandrite stones sewn into the fabric glowing, she called up the ward logs.
Oliver stood before the shimmering timeline on the air before him. The log showed up as a straight line, breaking and zigzagging with every passage into and out of the grounds. The biggest peaks glowed in green with names scrawled above them. These marked the residents of the Estate coming and going. Daniel Brown’s peak was marked at 11:04 p.m. and did not reappear until almost twenty-four hours later. The morning after the murder, there were numerous peaks in purple, each marking the entrance and exit of a visitor to the Estate. Oliver’s own name hovered above two of the peaks. There were no peaks for people coming or going during the murder window—one a.m. to four a.m.
But between Brown’s peak at eleven, and the first officer coming to inform him of Eloise’s murder at seven a.m. the next day, there were smaller breaks and zigzags in the otherwise straight line. The colour of the line didn’t change at all, and they were unmarked by names, but they did have timestamps.
“What are these?” Oliver asked, and the tech pursed her lips.
“Those are disturbances in the wards,” Connor answered instead. She glared at him. “They appear when something not Humanoid passes onto or out of the grounds.”
Oliver studied the peaks. “Why are some larger than others?”
“They mean larger disturbances,” the tech answered this time, apparently displeased at having her job done for her. “The little breaks are either very small animals, like rodents, or else far from where the wards are
set into the ground. A bird flying overhead might make a break like that. The larger peaks are from larger animals. Cats, dogs, you know. The bigger it gets, the bigger the animal. But why does this matter?”
Oliver shot her a look, then turned back to the timeline. There were two large peaks that night, greater than any of the other small breaks in the line. One of them happened just after one a.m. The other occurred just after four. A rush of satisfaction flooded Oliver, and he pointed to the peak.
“These,” he said. “What animal could have made these?”
The tech seemed confused. “A deer, maybe. I think a fox would be too small for that but maybe—”
“A wolf?” Oliver finished for her, and she hesitated.
“Yes, but—”
“What’s between here and the crime scene?” he asked. Daniel Brown had to clean up somewhere. He had to have gotten rid of the evidence of his crime in some way.
“Lots of things,” the tech said, and Oliver ignored her.
He pulled out his phone and checked the map, marking the location of the Carmichael Estate and the crime scene on it. Connor surveyed over his shoulder. Oliver scanned quickly, looking for anything that could be significant. He didn’t have to look long. A point on the map stood out, approximately half way between the Carmichael Estate and the crime scene.
He looked up at Connor, a smirk rivaling Connor’s signature on his face. “Looks like we’re going to ArcaShield.”
Chapter 20
ArcaShield’s main building was smaller than Oliver might have expected for Obscura’s main defense developer. The building was old—the heavy red brick exterior betraying its origins as a repurposed factory. The main building was six stories high and nondescript but for the large sign in front of the doors with ArcaShield’s logo and name. These were clearly the offices. Behind that, a larger, more warehouse-like building sprawled out. There were large windows, high along the roof of the warehouse, and some of them were open. Now and again, little jets or puffs of coloured smoke emerged and vanished on the wind. The magic they were doing inside was clearly potent, and given the lack of lower windows, it was clear they didn’t want anyone to get a peek at what that magic might be.
Oliver paused in the car, his hand on his keys as he gazed out the windshield toward ArcaShield. He’d recovered his handcuffs—engraved with runes to stop charged suspects from using magic—and clipped them to his belt, under his shirt. He considered the quartz-lined gloves for a moment, then his eye caught the glint off the obsidian collar in the mirror. Though the location was less than ideal, Daniel Brown would know right away something was wrong if Oliver showed up wearing his attack gloves. He adjusted his jacket collar to better hide the obsidian choker.
He was ready, everything he needed within reach. But still Oliver’s hand hesitated on the door latch. He turned to Connor, whose expression he hadn’t been able to read effectively since they left Logan’s Court.
“Listen,” Oliver said suddenly, scarcely having made up his mind before speaking. “Maybe you should wait here.” Connor turned to him slowly, his eyes a steely blue, like the sky after a hurricane. There was a tugging feeling in Oliver’s throat, but he forged on. “Daniel Brown may be a murderer. And if he is, he thinks he’s gotten away with it. Walking in with a Werewolf in tow might make him realize something’s up. He might get desperate—attack.” Oliver thought he was making a pretty good case, so far. “You’re just a civilian,” he added and immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw Connor’s eyes flash.
“I am an Alpha of Logan’s kin,” Connor said, his tone hard as ice and three times as cold. “Though to you I may be nothing more than a civilian consultant, I assure you, I can look after myself.” Oliver felt as though he’d been slapped. Connor opened the door to get out, and Oliver followed him quickly, frustrated and hurt. Why couldn’t Connor see he was just trying to protect him? “And I highly doubt your senses are as keen as mine when it comes to detecting the presence of death and magic.”
Oliver frowned, glaring at Connor. He ignored the last comment, feeling the tugging in his throat worsen. It was joined by a sinking sensation in his stomach, and as they walked away from the car, toward ArcaShield, he began to regret leaving his quartz gloves behind.
Inside the glass front doors was a large reception desk, manned by an older woman with steel-grey hair and an expression that indicated she was not to be trifled with. Oliver unclipped his badge from his belt and held it up. Her eyes flitted to it, then to Connor, and her expression remained unchanged.
“Detective Worth,” he said by way of introduction. “I need to see Daniel Brown.”
The woman blinked slowly. “Appointment?” Her voice was rough and bored.
Oliver’s expression hardened, and he placed his hands on his hips. “I’m investigating a murder, Ms.,” he glanced at the nameplate, “Burroughs. So unless you’d like to be arrested for obstruction, I suggest you let me and my associate through to Daniel Brown’s office.”
The woman considered him a moment, her eyes flicking back to Connor again. “Mr. Brown isn’t in his office at the moment.”
Oliver pasted a strained smile on his face. “We’ll wait for him there.”
She sat unmoving, apparently willing to call Oliver’s bluff, but when her eyes flitted back to Connor one last time, she looked suddenly terrified. Oliver glanced over at Connor only to find him staring impassively at the woman.
“Top floor,” Ms. Burroughs said, her eyes now wide and unabashedly trained on Connor. “Large office at the end of the hall. I’ll buzz you up.”
Oliver smiled more pleasantly. “Thank you.”
He led Connor around the desk to the elevators without waiting, and after a few moments, one dinged. The doors slid open slowly, creaking slightly, and Oliver stepped inside. The interior was finished in faux-wood paneling and had the distinct look of something stuck in another era. Thumb to the plastic button for floor six, Oliver shot Connor a look.
“What did you do?” he demanded as the elevator doors closed.
Connor shrugged. “Nothing at all. Though I am quite tired. Keeping the Wolf in check at all times can be difficult on so little sleep.” Oliver flushed slightly. “I may have slipped for a moment when I yawned.”
“You threatened her?” Oliver cried, and Connor looked affronted.
“Only if you consider being a Werewolf inherently threatening,” he said, and Oliver cursed under his breath.
“Of course I don’t,” Oliver said. “But she might, and if she reports you—”
“It’ll only reflect her own bigoted views,” Connor finished. Oliver ground his teeth. “But she won’t. I know the type. That one moment of perceived danger was the highlight of her life. She’ll be telling anyone who’ll listen how she narrowly escaped a Werewolf attack.”
Jaw tight, Oliver ignored Connor as the elevator dinged at the sixth floor. They exited the elevator into a deserted corridor. The walls were painted a hospital-standard shade of taupe, the floor a cheap, flecked linoleum. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered and hummed. Everything about ArcaShield’s offices suggested Obscura put the bulk of their time and money elsewhere. As they walked down the hall doing their best not to squeak on the linoleum, Oliver thought he was beginning to see the full picture of Daniel Brown.
The door at the end of the hall was closed, but the nameplate on the door, black with gold lettering and clearly expensive, marked Daniel Brown’s office. Oliver tried the knob, but the door was locked. With a glance around, Oliver focused on the obsidian collar and whispered a soft incantation. A pulse of magical energy, and the lock clicked. Oliver pushed open the door but did not step through.
“An unlocking spell?” Connor said in an undertone. “That’s all it took to get into the office of the CEO of a defense company?”
Oliver couldn’t quite believe it either. He scanned the threshold for indications of wards and runes—protective enchantments meant to keep out unwelcome visitors. But there were none
.
“Either Daniel Brown is an idiot,” he muttered, “or he was just genuinely certain no one unwanted would ever come snooping.”
Oliver made to step inside, but Connor’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Are you certain this is legal?” he asked, and Oliver stilled. Searching the office without Brown present was a tremendous opportunity, but if he broke any rules at this stage, it could endanger the case.
“I told the receptionist what we were going to do, and she gave us access,” he said, trying to talk it through. It sounded weak even to his ears. Connor nodded.
“Perhaps it’s best if I go first,” he said and slipped by Oliver. Once in the office, Connor turned to face him. “Shall I search while you stand there? Or would you like to follow me in? You could argue you followed me to stop me trespassing.”
Oliver made a face and stepped into the office. The contents of the room probably cost more than the entirety of ArcaShield’s offices. A plush, ornate carpet covered most of the floor, and atop it sat a heavy, carved wood desk. A top-of-the-line computer sat on one corner of the desk, the monitor angled toward the high-backed leather chair, the keyboard hidden somewhere below. Artwork hung on two of the walls—one massive painting Oliver could barely discern as art, and one smaller black and white photograph of a farm. A hard sofa sat under the large painting, and small tables at either end were adorned with crystal sculptures that emitted a soft luminescence.
Oliver wasted no time. He cast around, reaching out with his magic, for all the usual signs of struggle, violence, and death. But nothing came up. Not blood, not death. There was no trace of anything, it seemed. Nothing but magic.
A heavy magical signature hung over the room, as though a Witch or Wizard had exploded their power all over the office. It was chaotic and confusing. Oliver pulled back, not wanting to feel the mess of magical signatures anymore. His head pounded.
Connor, meanwhile, stood stalk still, taking in the scents of the room.