by Lyra Evans
“But you closed that,” Connor said, and Oliver chanced a look at his face. He found Connor’s expression distant and hard but impossibly intense. Like looking directly into the sun, it was beautiful but painful.
“Yes, but only because I had their profile to work with, and I didn’t care about hurting the NCPD’s reputation,” Oliver said, a twinge of guilt eating at his throat. He should not have been the only one to get credit for that arrest, but the Daily Spell hadn’t cared about the reality of things. Still didn’t.
“Okay,” Connor said finally. A sigh escaped him, his whole body sagging under the weight of it. “So call them. Do you know anyone there we can trust?”
Oliver looked up at Connor again, their eyes meeting for a moment of worried questioning. In the end, Oliver was the one to drop his gaze first. His throat was tight. His tongue tasted like sleep and sandpaper. “Well, I do know someone.”
Chapter 9
It took three hours for the request to be put through to the Special Investigations Team. Oliver waited with Connor at Black Moon, casting stasis spells periodically to maintain the integrity of the crime scene and stop the body’s decomposition. The doctors Connor had assigned to the first autopsy had finished and delivered their results to Connor and Oli at the club. They were unsurprising. Cause of death was the bullet wounds to the chest. They bled out within moments. The lack of blood at either scene was still a question mark, but there was little evidence to answer it. The doctors had no idea where the blood went. Best guess was that the murder happened at another scene. But Oliver didn’t think so.
There was so little evidence, such a vacuous space left where trace evidence and magical signatures were removed, that Oliver had to think the blood went with it. The killer got rid of the blood the same way he got rid of everything else. And that had to be by magic.
But what magic left behind no signature, Oliver couldn’t say. He’d never come across anything like it.
Racer had returned to his patrol of the borders, while Estelle and Celeste went to inform the pack and the victim’s family of the news. They also promised to send along anyone who might have information Connor and Oli could use. But until the Special Investigator arrived, Oliver wasn’t sure how much information would be useful to them. He had some background in serial offenders, but not the kind of specialized knowledge they taught at SI Academy.
Oliver scratched the nape of his neck, sitting with his back to the bar. He’d been staring at the crime scene in the distance for what felt like an hour now, trying to see something that he’d missed before, something that wasn’t there. He tried to picture the victim and the killer interacting, imagined them meeting. There were so many things that didn’t add up yet, so many unanswered questions. The biggest of them was, of course, the why. Why would someone kill Jamie Grace and Malcolm Ryan? What connected them? Was it just the way they looked? Like Oliver? And what did that mean?
“You didn’t tell me much about your contact at Special Investigations,” Connor said, leaning over the bar, his back to the crime scene. He’d spent as much time looking away from the body of the victim as Oliver had spent staring at it. The line of Connor’s body was tense, sharp, and Oliver reminded himself that Connor didn’t see death on a daily basis.
“Not much to tell,” Oliver said, his gut squirming. “I wouldn’t call him a contact. They’ll probably send someone else, anyway. It’s a big team.” He shrugged, looking away from Connor. “But they’re the best in the Three Kingdoms, so I wouldn’t worry. They’ll help us figure this out so no more of your Wolves get hurt.”
Connor looked at him, his bright blue eyes dimmed by the shadows. Oliver couldn’t read the expression on his face, something constantly morphing between emotions and hidden beneath a steely veneer.
“It’s not just them I’m worried about,” Connor said quietly, and Oliver tried not to understand what he meant.
“There’s no reason to assume anything,” Oliver said, getting to his feet.
Connor followed him. He stood at least a foot taller than Oliver, and for the first time, Oli begrudged him that. “None except the only evidence we have,” Connor said, but Oliver brushed him off.
“I’m not a Werewolf, remember?” Oli said, and Connor barked a mirthless laugh.
“Obviously,” Connor said. Oliver spun, his muscles tense.
“What does that mean?”
Connor shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
Oliver closed the distance between them, standing taller and squaring his shoulders. Nadia’s drunken, angry words echoed in his head; the newspaper article’s vile accusations flashing before his eyes. “No. What? Say what you mean, Connor.”
His tone stung, like coarse salt on a wound, and Connor shot him a distant look. “You don’t act like a Werewolf,” Connor said, toeing the line of another thought. Oliver could see it in his pale eyes.
“Implying?” he asked. There was a friction between them, sparking on the air, and Oliver wasn’t sure he liked it.
Connor took a measured breath. “A Werewolf wouldn’t let someone else write his headlines.”
Oliver stepped back, a rush of cold down his spine. “So that’s it,” he said, and Connor’s face shifted to regret in an instant. “The article. You think it’s my fault.”
“No!” Connor said, reaching out to the air, as though he meant to touch Oliver, but Oliver stepped further back.
“You think if I’d made it public we’re in a relationship it wouldn’t have played out that way? You think the Daily Spell wouldn’t have asked the same fucking questions if I’d been the one to tell them we’re dating?”
Connor carded his fingers through his hair, eyes searching out an answer on the floor. “No, Oliver, I didn’t mean—”
“Say what you do mean, then!” Oliver snapped, and Connor stepped forward again, his eyebrows knitted, his eyes a glassy reflection of the fear Oliver felt since his last trip to Black Moon.
“Oliver, I don’t—”
A slamming door halted Connor’s words. Both of them froze, meeting each other’s eyes with narrowed pupils. They turned toward the entrance to Black Moon, creeping sideways to maintain the cover of the wall as long as possible. The echoing sound of footsteps, steady and measured, met their ears. Connor pressed a finger to his mouth, listening hard and sniffing the air. Oliver’s body was wrought to tension, unmoving. As he watched Connor’s face for some sign of what was coming, he saw Connor’s blond eyebrows knit together, then arch upwards in confusion, before—
“Oli!” The smooth, velvety voice shot straight to Oliver’s stomach, churning the acid around the weight that settled there. Throat tight, shoulders braced, Oliver turned to see a familiar face.
No fucking way.
A man stood at the mouth of the entrance hall of Black Moon. His hair was dark red and close-cropped on the sides, the top growing longer in artful tufts pointing off to one side. His eyes were a bright green, slanted slightly. His face was speckled with tiny freckles that spread out to his finely pointed ears. One ear bore a thick, jade loop earring—always the same one. He was dressed in a relaxed and rumpled button-up shirt in deep plum coupled with expertly fitted, black pants. Oliver watched as the man, taller than he was but shorter than Connor, stepped forward with his arms as wide as his smile to greet Oliver.
“Oli, it’s been too long,” he said, reaching around for a hug before Oliver’s frozen, stiff body could react. He pressed his palms languorously to Oli’s back, breathing in as he held him, then released Oliver and stepped back. The same wide grin still played on his features. It was almost alarming to see him smile that way. The last Oli saw him, he’d looked much less happy.
“Sky,” Oliver said, his mind barely able to process his mouth speaking the word. A chanced glance at Connor found him standing as stiff and stony as Oliver, his piercing eyes trained on Sky as though he was a man holding a whip before an abused dog.
“When I got the call to consult on this case, I could h
ardly believe it,” Sky said, biting his lip and letting his green eyes rove slowly over Oliver’s whole body. His tongue flicked out a moment to wet his lips when he was done, and Oli saw Connor’s lip curl a moment in his peripheral vision. “I was just on the edge of Nimueh’s Court dealing with a cross-kingdom potions ring when they pinged me. As soon as I realized it was you, I told them I had to take it.” He laughed softly, still ignoring Connor and staring only at Oli. Oliver felt as though he was pinned to the wall like a specimen butterfly. “You look—” he hesitated, inhaling sharply, “good.”
Oliver swallowed hard. Despite himself, his heart skipped. There was a time when he’d have done anything to hear those words from that mouth. A time when Oliver lived for that look. But that was a long time ago, and his mind angrily quelled the skipping heartbeat, the nostalgic stupor.
“You’re the Special Investigator?” Connor asked, breaking the swirling storm of emotions hanging between Oliver and Sky. As though just noticing him, Sky turned and appraised Connor. He stood at his full height, still a few inches shorter than Connor, but Sky didn’t look it. He held himself grand, larger than life, and Oliver found himself struggling to breathe. Sky was as he had always been, completely unchanged by the years. Was Oli the same? Or was he worn and wasted now?
Or was he somehow more appealing than he had been as a new recruit in the Police Academy?
“Ah, you must be Connor Pierce, Alpha of this sector,” Sky said, but the title sounded as meaningless in his voice as if he’d mentioned dust on the ceiling. “Sky Hawthorne. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand.
Connor’s gaze shot down to his outstretched palm, his eyes widening. He stepped back from Sky, an expression of incredulous horror on his face. Oliver could do little but watch as his past and present collided, as though he were a passive onlooker, unable to halt the scene unfolding.
Sky smiled something genuine and laughed, taking his hand back. “Just testing,” he said, as though it was a very reasonable joke.
Fae magic worked as a formal exchange; in order for something to be given, something had to be taken. Giving a Fae your hand, or taking theirs, was binding yourself to a contract you haven’t read. It was impossible to know the terms, so impossible to know what would be taken from you and what you’d get in return. Most Fae avoided offering their hands to people. Rory certainly made sure never to take Oliver’s hand, even in jest. But Sky had a particular liking for messing with people.
Finally snapping out of his trance, Oliver stepped between Sky and Connor, glaring at the Fae. “Very funny,” he said. “Can we get to work now? Before the stasis spells break and the scene’s integrity crumbles?”
Sky raised his hands in surrender and walked around Oliver toward the body. Connor eyed him as he went, wary. If he’d been in his Wolf form, Oliver was sure he’d have his hackles raised.
“Oli?” Connor asked, his expression pointed. Oliver exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
“It’s nothing. We just—knew each other once,” he said with a shrug, trying to forget. “A long time ago.”
“That’s a strange way to say we were lovers,” Sky said, his gaze fixed on the victim. Connor’s entire body seemed to compress before Oliver’s eyes, his back straighter than he’d ever seen it. Oliver wanted to throw up. Or strangle Sky. Possibly both. “Almost bonded, if memory serves.” Sky glanced over at Oliver, his eyes half-lidded. “Memory like a dream, now, I guess.”
Oliver ground his teeth together, his face pulled into a grimace. Connor, still hard in his every movement, walked away from Oli to stand opposite Sky next to Jamie Grace. He stood as a sentry above the body, as though afraid Sky might pose a threat. He was protecting his fallen Wolf. Maybe Connor thought Jamie Grace was the only ally he had left in the room.
A squeezing, strangling feeling pressed down from Oliver’s eyes, along his throat, and into his lungs.
“This is the second victim,” Sky said, mostly to himself. “The last one having been strung up in front of your other club—Hunt, was it?—and this one posed, on display in the middle of this one.” Sky circled the body, arms crossed over his chest. “The shots to the heart were cause of death?”
“Yes,” Connor said, his mouth barely moving.
“Silver bullets, mating collar, blindfold. From all Three Courts, obviously. And no other physical evidence to speak of,” he murmured. “And only twenty-four hours apart.” He tilted his head and sucked his teeth. “You were right to call us. It’s not serial yet, but by the looks of it, it will be. He’s not going to stop. Not with this level of skill and control.” He considered Jamie Grace’s body as though it was a work of art, not a living person. “The bullets suggest a Wizard or Fae. A Werewolf would have little use for bullets if he meant to kill another Wolf.”
“No Werewolf would kill like this,” Connor said sharply, but Sky ignored him.
“Still, the collar is unique to Logan’s Court. The killer would have to have at least some background in Werewolf customs to know to use it. And then the blindfold.” He tapped his fingers against his lips, in the way he used to do when considering a particularly complex problem. Oliver had memories of that expression, that gesture, as Sky studied crime scenes and case files. He’d seen that expression during the pub quizzes for the Academy recruits. He’d seen that expression when they played—“Fae-made. Obviously. As was the rope at the first scene. That’s interesting.”
“Why?” Connor asked. His every word was ice and blade.
Sky glanced up at him. “Because Werewolves and Wizards make rope and blindfolds too. Only Wizards make silver bullets, and only Werewolves make those collars. He chose to get rope and a blindfold made in Maeve’s Court. It wasn’t a necessity.”
“So why do it?” Oliver asked, stepping into the circle around the victim. Sky favoured him with a long look, and Oliver hated himself for shivering.
“That’s the question, really,” he said, looking back down at the body. “Rope to bind the hands and hold him up; blindfold to cover his eyes, to blind him…” Sky paced back and forth a moment. “It has to be a message of some kind. I’m just not sure what he’s saying yet.”
Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but another slam of the door distracted him. They all turned to the entry hall, watching and waiting. Oliver glanced at Connor who stared resolutely forward, his fists balled. A muscle in his jaw tensed, bulging slightly. He looked ready for war.
Estelle emerged from the darkness with a young woman. The woman was olive skinned with flowing, curly brown hair. Her eyes were a warm brown ringed with red. She’d been crying. Oliver cast up a shade, blocking out Jamie Grace’s body from view.
“Connor,” Estelle said, sparing Sky only the barest hint of awareness before moving toward her Alpha. “Jackie Grayson. She was Jamie’s best friend.”
Jackie heaved a silent sob and nodded sadly to Connor. Oliver moved closer, trying to repair the gaping wound between him and Connor, but his presence wouldn’t be enough to do that. Not alone.
“Jackie,” Connor said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“N-no, I’m sorry, Alpha,” she said, fighting back another wave of tears. Oliver cast Connor a confused look, but Connor only had eyes for Jackie then. He squeezed her arm gently, soothing her, and ushered her over to the bar to sit down.
“What do you have to be sorry for?”
Jackie sat on a stool and pulled out a tissue to wipe her face. “It’s my fault he’s d-d-dead!” The tears broke through the dam of her emotion, and she sobbed into the tissue. “I should have told him not to go, should have stopped him, but I was s-so busy with Oscar I d-didn’t th-think—”
“What do you mean, Jackie? Stopped Jamie going where?” Connor asked, still soothing her. Estelle stood guard next to Jackie, her expression pained.
“He was at the wake yesterday,” she said, finally managing to quell the flow of tears for a moment. “He wanted to honour Malcolm, but Jamie’s never been comfortable around lots of people. You know
. So he told me he was going to meet someone, to honour Mal in his own way. Just not around everyone. Didn’t want everyone to—to see.” A fresh wave of tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Who was he going to meet, Jackie?” Oliver asked, softening his words as much as possible. Jackie shook her head.
“I d-don’t know his name,” she said, wiping her face with a sodden tissue. Estelle pulled another clean one from nowhere and handed it to Jackie. “Jamie just said he’d been talking to this guy for a couple days and really liked him. He said he though they might have a real chance as a couple, but obviously—” Unable to finish the sentence, Jacking dropped her head and cried freely into herself.
“Jackie, I know it’s hard, but this is really important,” Oliver said. “How did Jamie find this guy?”
Jackie shrugged, shaking her head. “I told him not to find people through that Ember app. I told him he’d never find real love that way. They’re just people who want flings and one-night stands. Their kind will only hurt someone like Jamie, who wants a relationship.”
Oliver straightened, his blood running cold. He tried to ignore her final words, knowing they weren’t about him. This was about Jamie and Jackie’s guilt. Not Oliver. But the twisting in his gut intensified, and Connor wasn’t looking at him at all.
“His phone wasn’t at his home or Connor’s?” Oliver asked Estelle. She shook her head.
“Jackie, did Jamie have a usage-tracking app on his phone?” Oliver asked. She looked up, her brown eyes drowning in tears.
“I… I think so,” she said. Connor stood up without hesitation and went behind the bar, pulling out the small laptop he kept there for work. Turning it on, he called up the website for the tracking app and turned it to Jackie.
“Phone number?” he asked, and Jackie gave it to him. “Do you happen to have any idea what his password might be?”