by Lyra Evans
“It looks as though it was forcibly downloaded to his device,” Sky said. “Someone hacked in and put it there without him knowing.”
Oliver took the phone back. “I thought so,” he said, and clicked through to the conversations. There was only one, with a user named LastChance. The few messages exchanged painted a very clear picture.
Your lover is dying. I can help. If you want her to live, meet me in an hour.
And then it clicked, the missing piece settling into place. The thing worrying at the edges of Oliver’s thoughts, fraying his theories on the case, suddenly became clear, obvious. He remembered something from a long, long time ago. Something said in passing. Something Sky had said.
He looked up at Kyrie. “He didn’t kill himself,” Oliver said suddenly. “Not suicide, anyway. He was murdered.”
Kyrie stared in shock at him, hope and horror and helplessness chasing themselves across her face. “Murdered?” she asked.
Oliver nodded, and with a look at Sky and Connor, he said, “Yes. By a Fae.”
Chapter 13
The air was brisk with the coolness of late winter, the slow thaw before spring. Oliver breathed in deeply, deliberately, tasting the sweetness of the fresh air to cleanse his lungs of the antiseptic quality of Kyrie’s house. He supposed that would change now. Now there was no need for hospital beds and heart monitors, now there was no one dying, only dead. Perhaps the smell of flowers, thick in arranged bouquets, would replace the sterility of her home. But then, there hadn’t been any flowers at Connor’s for the wake. Werewolves didn’t console each other with dead and dying plants.
A buzzing, vibrating in Oliver’s pocket drew his attention. He pulled out his phone, the ID causing a blank in his mind for a moment. In the clarity of the moment he realized the killer had to be a Fae, he’d forgotten he asked Rory to interview his mouthy one-night stand. He swiped across the screen and pressed the phone to his ear, striding down the front steps of the house to walk toward the car.
“Before I say anything, I want to confirm you’re giving me an exclusive on this cases regardless of what I tell you,” Rory said, and Oliver bit back the smile that pulled at his lips.
“Obviously,” he said. “Did you find anything?”
A pause. “I found that your ex-lay is a douchebag,” Rory said, and Oliver exhaled a laugh.
“Colour me shocked.”
“Seriously, Oli, this guy,” she said, pausing for an long intake of breath, “what could he have said to get you to fuck him? He’s a piece of work.”
“I wasn’t so interested in what he had to say,” Oliver said in an undertone, watching Connor out of the corner of his eye. Connor was offering final condolences to a troubled, emotional Kyrie at the door.
“Right, well, he’s trash, obviously, but I don’t think he’s involved in your murders,” Rory said flatly. “I mean, he’s got some narcissistic qualities, sure, but he’s too stupid to be a serial killer. I’m not even joking.” Oliver pressed a hand against Connor’s car, leaning into it and studying the ground by his feet, his mind on Rory’s words.
“Just a slimeball fan?” Oliver asked.
Rory made a sound similar to a snort. “He’s not even that, Oli,” she said. “Sorry to break it to you. He’s not obsessed with you. He just wanted some cheap fame. Said he hasn’t slept alone since the story broke. Can you believe that shit? He’s been using his one-off with you to get laid. Fucking jizz-sock, he is.”
“Classy,” Oliver said, though he supposed fucking the asshat after a drunken grope in a club bathroom wasn’t all that classy to begin with.
“Pure elegance,” Rory said. “But given how useless that lead turned out to be, I poked around talking to Quentin Walker, the moron who ran with the story to begin with. He said he’s gotten calls and emails from other people coming out the woodwork to detail their exploits with you. Most of them he thinks are whackjobs and famewhores, all just looking for someone to listen to them. I doubt most people recognized you in their drunken states when you fucked around with them, so not much to worry about there.” Oliver felt the weight in his stomach again, his eyes meeting Connor’s across the roof of the car. He did not feel as though there was nothing to worry about. “I also managed to convince him not to put out any more stories about your sex life. Said the story was weak news to begin with, and flogging a limp dick is hardly going to make his career.”
Oliver grimaced. “Thanks,” he said. “But did he mention at all any Fae amid the attention whores who called in?”
Rory paused again. “Fae? I mean, there were probably a few,” she said. “Why?” The uptick in her tone at the end of the question was so pointed it nearly stabbed Oli in the ear through the phone.
“Exclusive, remember?” Oli said. “New evidence. I think the killer’s a Fae.”
Rory sucked in a breath. “I mean, I’ll ask Walker to go through his emails to see. But most of what he showed me was from people obsessed with the limelight, not with you. They didn’t really seem like slasher-novel fodder to me, but I’ll check again.” There was a pregnant moment after that, and Oliver, knowing what was coming, waited. “If this psycho’s a Fae—Oliver you need to be extra careful. You can’t accept anything from anyone. Fae are—we’re—”
“I know, Rory,” he said and tried to force lightness into his voice. His eyes followed Connor’s white-blond head as he folded himself into the car. Sky, next to him, glanced over, his green eyes lingering a moment too long on Oli’s face before he, too, climbed into the car. “Don’t worry. I’ve got people here who have my back. Connor and Sky won’t let anything happen to me, I’m sure.”
“Good,” Rory said. There was a beat, then, “Wait—Sky? Did you say Sky?”
“Let me know about the emails,” Oliver said, hanging up with only a smidge of guilt. He could practically hear Rory screaming profanities on the other side of the border. With a low breath, Oliver crawled into his backseat position.
They drove off in silence, the moments stretching out before them as the road unfurled. His mind a fractured glass, each piece reflecting a different subject, Oliver lost himself in thought for a while. After a long stretch of straight road, Connor finally broke the silence.
“Are you going to explain?” Connor said, and Oliver blinked up at him in confusion. “How you know it was murder? How you know if was a Fae?”
“Because it’s the only explanation that fits,” Sky answered for him. Oliver’s jaw tensed, watching the muscles of Connor’s neck pull taut. Sky spoke as though it was obvious, as though anyone could see it, but Connor didn’t know Fae like Oliver did.
“Your instructiveness is dizzying, really,” Connor said, his tone cold and flat. “You should teach.”
Sky’s posture shifted slightly, his head tilting back against the seat in an effort at precise relaxation. Oliver rolled his eyes at both of them, though they couldn’t see it.
“Will Sumpter may have shot himself, but he couldn’t make any of the other details happen,” Oliver said, trying for plain but gentle in his voice. “He couldn’t remove the sense evidence from himself or the crime; he couldn’t destroy the magical signature. And he definitely couldn’t cure Kyrie.”
Connor’s eyes flashed up to the rearview mirror, seeking out Oliver’s face. His lips parted slightly, his blond hair falling in pieces over his forehead. Oliver was struck by his gorgeousness, as though he’d somehow forgotten.
“Her recovery is evidence?” he asked.
Sky drawled, “She did say her illness was incurable, did she not?”
Connor’s eyes flicked sideways to Sky, a rueful look on his face. Oliver watched him through the reflection in the mirror.
“Which implies no one was capable of making it happen on their own,” Connor snapped, but Oliver shook his head.
“A Fae could,” he said. “A very, very powerful Fae.”
Sky squared his shoulders, cracking something in his back. The audible crack distracted Oliver a moment.
“How is that possible?” Connor asked, his eyes back on the road, focused on driving.
“Fae magic works on exchanges, on deals,” Oliver said, trying to simplify what would inevitably have been a much more complex and possibly condescending explanation if Sky were to give it. The dislike that rolled between Connor and Sky was crawling over Oliver’s skin, tearing at him. “On their own, a Fae makes an exchange with the natural world. Give up something of their own in order to gain something in return. It’s tricky business, because Fae don’t always give up the obvious thing. To pause time, for example, you have to give up some of your own. But you can also take time you had or would have with a person, rather than the time left in your life.” Oliver paused, gauging Sky’s reaction, but he was silent and still. “When a deal is struck between a Fae and another person, this gets even more tricky. The Fae can offer something, some magic, to the person in exchange for something. Take a beautiful talent or ability in order to make someone physically beautiful. They can decide on the terms before the deal is struck, if they’re honest. But they can also outline their own terms without the person’s consent if they choose. We had a Witch come in, once, trying to press charges because she’d asked a Fae to speak with her comatose father one last time. Only once the conversation was done, she was unable to speak at all. He’d taken her voice for the exchange. Made taking her statement somewhat difficult.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the trickery of Fae,” Connor said, shooting Sky another glance.
“Well, very powerful Fae can make bigger exchanges,” Oliver said, “the most difficult of which is trading lives.”
A long silence bled out between them all, and Oliver studied both men in the front seats. Sky knew this, of course. He’d been the one to tell Oliver, years ago, when they were different people, in a different relationship. He’d told Oliver of all the possibilities out there for Fae magic. Oli was bound by the limitations of his gemstones and the unfair trade of Wizard abilities. They could produce things out of thin air, but therefore couldn’t perform the most powerful magic. They could not bring anyone back to life, defeating death, or force people to fall in love, or control people, stripping them of free will. Wizards couldn’t stop time or change the very nature of a person or thing. Because they couldn’t give anything back. They couldn’t give up their own time to take time, they couldn’t take a life to save one. Only Fae could manage that.
“The killer forced Will to trade his own life to save Kyrie?” Connor said, words like breath on the window, barely there and fading quickly.
Oliver let his eyes travel over the length of Connor’s body, his hand unconsciously finding its way to his own neck, to the obsidian collar. “I don’t think Will was forced.”
Connor fell silent, and though Oliver wasn’t looking at him now, he could feel Connor’s eyes, glancing in the mirror.
“He offered Sumpter a choice,” Sky said, breaking the precarious moment between Oli and Connor. “He could save the life of his fated love, but only if he was willing to give his own in return.” Sky’s face was turned out the window. “He probably performed the other magic once Sumpter agreed. Gave him the gun, the dildo, the collar—then took his magical signature and sense evidence.”
“No,” Oliver said, remembering the collar Kyrie wore. “If he gave Will a collar, Will didn’t use it. He wore his own collar.” His fingers pressed harder into the fabric over the obsidian collar. The stones dug into his neck, pressing down on his windpipe. “He wanted to keep Kyrie with him as he did what he did. He couldn’t bear to be alone.”
No one spoke after that, not until they pulled in to the driveway of Connor’s manor. They stepped out to find Wolves filing into the house, a heavy sense of loss hanging over all of them. Donna was at the door, welcoming them all and handing them each a small bundle of twigs and grass.
Connor stopped just inside the door. Donna greeted him with a worn expression, her face pale with the solemnity of the day. “Dax and Lola came by with Estelle to take the body away. We cleaned up the blood. Everything is ready for the cleansing.”
Connor nodded, his hand finding Donna’s shoulder to squeeze it briefly. He made his way back downstairs without comment, and Oliver followed him. Sky hung back, speaking briefly with Donna. Chest tight, Oliver watched him in the fading light of the day, the dying sunlight setting his red hair ablaze with a crown of light. Oliver swallowed something down.
In the basement, Oliver found a different scene to the wake for Malcolm Ryan. Wolves were gathered, too many to count, each of them transformed into their animal form. The pack sat around the room, taking up every inch of space, with the bundles of twigs and grass held loosely in their teeth. Arranged in rough circles around the couch where Will Sumpter had died, they faced the crime scene with quiet, mournful eyes. Connor stood, still a man, before them all, slightly to the side of the couch. A strong sense of intrusion speared through Oliver’s chest and stomach. He hung back by the stairs, pressing his back to the wall to make himself small as possible. He didn’t think he should be there, with Connor and his Wolves, when he’d failed them so spectacularly so far. Three murders, three lost members, and still only the barest of leads. Oliver wanted to run from them, but something rooted his feet to the ground. As though he knew it was more important for him to be there.
“Our loss is great,” Connor said, holding his own bundle of twigs. It was tied with a woven string. “Our pack is wounded, bled by an enemy that denies us the right to fight back, the right to defend ourselves and our loved ones. This is not a worthy enemy. We will not be intimidated, cowed by fear. We will not succumb to the cowardly tactics of a panther in the grass, waiting in silence, in cover, to pounce on the unsuspecting. We will not yield to a faceless shadow, intent on breaking our spirits as he breaks our hearts.” Connor spoke with ferocity, with fervour and passion, with belief in his Wolves and love Oliver recognized as that of a family. He’d not known that kind of love in many years. Bowing his head, Oliver felt hollow. “Our home, our place of sanctuary has been disgraced, tainted with this underhanded action. But we will not bend and allow it to remain so.” He held out the bundle of twigs, and each Wolf lifted its head in turn, pointing their bundles upward at the ceiling. “With wood and herbs of the sacred forest, the birthplace of our people, of our blood, we will burn the stain of this loss away. Will we wash the world in ashes and rise, together, as a stronger pack, a stronger family. We will wear the losses of our brothers on our pelts, in our eyes, and we will hunt for them, as they will hunt eternal in the Endless Night.”
The words crashed over Oliver, soaking through him to the bone. A vision of spectral Wolves, racing through a forest of stars to hunt down comets and meteors, to circle the Moon forever, consumed him. A tightness, like death, like suffocating, rose in his chest, in his throat, until he wanted to cry out and sob. When it passed, he felt raw and hungry and desperate for the warmth of Connor’s arms. As if he felt it too, Connor looked over at Oliver then, his blue eyes blazing with fire. After a moment, he held out his bunch of twigs to Oliver asking silently with his eyes.
It took a beat for Oliver to understand; then, without speaking, he cast the spell. Tiny flames erupted around the room, lighting the ends of every bunch of twigs. Once they burned, Oliver dropped the spell, the obsidian collar warm against his skin. Soft, white tendrils of smoke curled up above the pack, moving on the air like leaves on a current. It smelled of sandalwood and pine and sage, as though a forest were born into being in this room, healthy and bright and full of life.
Oliver watched the smoke spiraling, letting the breath of it into him, hoping it could cleanse him too. He wanted free of the weight in his stomach, of the churning, roiling emotion, of the tightness in his chest. He wanted free of the clenching of his fists, the grit of his teeth. He wanted to forget the old yearning for Sky and a flash of his smile and the press of his lips. He wanted to lose himself in Connor, in the taste of his tongue and the feel of his body. Oliver wanted, more than anyt
hing, to lose the shame of his past, the article that outed him, and the way Connor looked at him now—wary and worried and more distant than Oliver could take.
When he looked over, Oliver found Connor standing next to him. Smoke of the incense filled the basement, but the bundles had burned down. The pack began to settle, to curl up with one another on the floor, all around the room, still all pointed at the couch where Will Sumpter died.
“Aren’t you staying?” Oliver whispered, afraid to disturb the weighty calm over the room. Connor shook his head.
“Tonight, we sleep upstairs, where we belong,” Connor answered. He led Oliver upstairs, his hand in Oliver’s. His skin was warm, soft, but his grip was tighter than Oliver expected.
Opening his mouth to ask he didn’t know what, Oliver was cut off. Sky appeared before them, holding a small tray with three glasses atop it. Each glass was filled with a blue, slightly smoking liquid. Connor tensed slightly.
“It’s a Fae tradition,” he said, his expression betraying the slightest hint of uncertainty. Oliver had never seen Sky uncertain, about anything. “Rainwater, we call it. We drink it after a painful loss, to calm the soul and mind, to restore peace to the heart.” He bit at the inside of his lip. “It’s my way of apologizing,” he added quietly, and Oliver stared at him. “For earlier. I was tactless and rude. Out of line.” He proffered the tray again. “Please, let me make amends.”
Connor studied his face a moment, his nostrils flaring slightly as he sniffed the air. Oliver wasn’t sure if he was smelling for ingredients in the drink or for a sign of underhandedness from Sky. Blue eyes flashing to the tray and back to Sky, Connor didn’t move. Sky let his own gaze follow Connor’s, then nodded, understanding. He placed the tray down a nearby table and stood back.
“No tricks, no magic,” he said, holding his hands up. “No strings. It’s just herbs and fruit with spring water from Maeve’s Court. And a dash of vodka.” He shrugged a small smile, and Oliver waited for Connor’s move.