by Lyra Evans
Oliver laughed, and the sight of it visibly disconcerted Carmichael, if only for a moment. “You’ve just said you don’t want to kill us here,” Oliver said. “So what does it matter if we run? You won’t use your fancy bullets.”
As he spoke, Oliver heard a deafening crack, like the earth splitting in two, and there was pain. It spread through his left arm like a snakebite, white hot and extending over his skin. Oliver looked down as though in slow motion to find his arm red, dripping, a hole in his bicep. Carmichael’s placid smile remained unchanged.
“I never said I wouldn’t have you shot,” Carmichael said. “Just that I wouldn’t kill you here. Really, Worth, I expected better from you.”
Connor’s hand was clasped around Oliver’s arm, squeezing so tightly Oliver could barely feel his fingers. A tearing sound came from behind him, then another, and Connor wrapped piece after piece of cloth from his useless shirt to bind Oliver’s gunshot wound. It took Oliver a moment to figure out how Connor was tearing his shirt if both hands were occupied wrapping the tourniquet, but then he remembered Rory was there. She would be so angry the clothes she bought them were ruined. Oliver would have to have them laundered and fixed for her.
“Coward!” Connor barked, the knot of the tourniquet effectively complete. Oliver’s arm throbbed, and the pale pink cloth of the torn shirt began to turn red. Oliver was dimly aware he needed to focus. “You are no leader, not fit to lead sheep to slaughter. A real leader fights for his people, not the other way around.” Connor spat at the ground. “I’ve never met a Wizard who more deserved the title Ape. You disgust me.”
Carmichael rolled his eyes. “The feeling is mutual, Dog,” he said. With an almost indifferent gesture of the hand, Carmichael signalled his men to advance on Oli and Connor. Connor braced himself, growling deeply and trying to set himself to protect both Oli and Rory at once. Rory, meanwhile, had fastened her camera to her head with a band and held out her hands much as Maeve had done when they ran from her secret home.
Oliver stared down at his arm, his other hand pressing gently against the tourniquet, mildly amazed when the red stains deepened. Only when the pain of the pressure reached him, a sudden searing like he was being branded for sale, did Oliver snap back to the world around him. Slightly delirious now, he laughed roughly, madly, halting the progress of the officers.
“Don’t you want to know about our brilliant escape plan?” he cried to Carmichael. “It’s really unbelievable, I have to say. Please let me tell you.”
The High Warlock’s face wrought with disdain. “Why should I care about your hare-brained schemes? You won’t be escaping to anywhere but the afterlife.”
Oliver shook his head, still fighting the burbling laughter in his chest. Connor glanced back at him, sidelong over his shoulder, clearly concerned for Oliver’s well-being. “No, no, you’ve got to listen, it’s golden,” Oliver said, half doubled over from glee. He managed to straighten slightly and bring his uninhibited hand to his eye to wipe away a tear. “You’re going to let us go.” Oliver burst out into laughter again. “Isn’t it genius?”
A few of the officers glanced back at Carmichael, who was clearly unimpressed with Oliver’s sudden and acute insanity. “I’m sure,” he said. “And the sugarcane pixies will float down from the trees and sprinkle us all with happy thoughts and the true meaning of love.” Shaking his head. “Why would I ever let you go, Worth?”
Oliver managed to stop laughing but now stared at Carmichael with the same kind of placid smile he’d been given earlier. “Because I know, Frederick,” he said. “I know what you did. And how. And I can prove it.”
Carmichael raised one eyebrow. “You have lost it. Maybe the dog here fucked you to idiocy, or maybe you’ve had one too many Fae drinks, but you’re long past sane, Worth. It’s almost sad enough people might empathize with you at your execution.” He paused and thought. “Perhaps killing you here would be the safer bet.”
“I know you planned the murder of Logan,” Oliver said without preamble. “I know you made a deal with Kayla Pierce to kill Logan. I know you used Sky Hawthorne to cover your tracks. I know because Sky told me so. You should really keep a better leash on your pets.” Carmichael rolled his eyes.
“Fascinating,” he said. “And why exactly would I make a deal with a filthy dog, much less use a psychotic Fae to cover my tracks? I was under the impression Sky Hawthorne was dead, anyway. Killed by your lover’s minions, actually. How would I use him if he’s a corpse?”
Oliver sucked on his teeth. “So much defensiveness,” he said. “So many questions. I will answer them all.” He paused to cast a weak healing spell on his arm. The blood began to slow. “I don’t know how you found Kayla, but you did. Maybe she lied about the old lady who raised her or maybe she didn’t. Either way, she should have, by all means, forged a bond with her nurse. Whoever kept Kayla alive and healed her literally saved her life. And for what? No one around Kayla now could possibly have been her saviour. So either Kayla is pure evil and ruthlessness, or more likely, whoever saved her life also ruined it. Whoever that is would have to be a right piece of work to make Kayla turn on the person who kept her alive all those years.” Oliver shrugged. “So you used her. You convinced her to help you get rid of Logan, and in exchange, Kayla would get control of the Werewolf Court. Only you didn’t count on Kayla betraying you back.”
“No one counts on betrayal,” Carmichael said, only slightly annoyed. “But I have no knowledge of Kayla Pierce. And these accusations you’ve levelled against me are treasonous and punishable by death.”
“Good think I’m already going to die, then,” Oliver said, and he heard some reluctant snickers from the surrounding officers. “Sky came to you, broken and mangled. You helped him too, promising him the only thing he wanted in the end—revenge. And now with two allies, however unwilling, you had the makings of a brilliant coup planned. When you stumbled in on Nimueh and Logan—well, you just took it to be serendipitous. Kayla murdered Logan; Sky wiped the scene and planted evidence to implicate Connor. And voila! You’ve got yourself a nice little coup.
“You knew Nimueh would be crushed because, let’s face it,” Oliver said, glancing at Connor, “Fated love doesn’t just pop up every day. But what would you know about it, anyway,” he added, shooting the High Warlock a look. “Now for Sky’s revenge and your ascension to power to succeed, you needed a power vacuum in Logan’s Court. Connor was the only viable Alpha contender, being groomed by Logan himself, so you framed him for the murder, forcing him to flee and abandon his claim. That way, no one else would be able to take over until the moment was right for Kayla to step forth.
“Only Kayla didn’t wait. She betrayed you, figuring out what you really are, and warned the Wolves against you. With Nimueh M.I.A. and the people of her Court still uncertain about war, you needed to crush their faith in her and reignite their fear of the Werewolves in one fell swoop. That’s where Tirnanog comes in.” Oliver pressed a hand to the gunshot wound, casting healing spells and pain relief spells, but they were having little effect. “You sent out some trusted servants to attack the town and make it look as though it was the Werewolf Court retaliating for Logan’s murder and my perceived part in it. With a massive tragedy like that, no one would stand in your way and decry war. And with Kayla so new and so battle-rusty since her coma, there would never be an easier time for Wizards to take over Werewolves.”
Carmichael crossed his arms over his chest, studying them. Several officers were much closer now, the barrel of their guns nearly touching Connor’s bare chest as they pointed at him.
“That’s a very fanciful story, but it’s preposterous,” he said. “I would never attack my own people. There is no advantage to harming the citizens you proclaim to protect. It’s—”
“Provable,” Oli said, holding out the little evidence ball. Carmichael stopped short, his eyes trained on the ball. “I told you I had evidence.” Lifting the gleaming ball to his eyes, Oliver said, “Almost missed it. Goo
d think I don’t trust anyone. See your people set the fire in an abandoned house, then ran off to safety as the fire ignited the thatched roof of the house and ate through the rest of the town. And I know it was Wizards not Werewolves because they used an accelerant.” He tossed the ball up and caught it with the same hand. “A magical accelerant, no less. I pulled these traces of it from the corner of one of the houses.” He shrugged. “Should have been more careful, Frederick. Not all cops are created equal.”
Carmichael frowned at Oliver, his face now a mask of hatred, bared to the world. “Even if that’s the case, how can you possibly tie that to me?” he asked.
Oliver grinned widely. “I’m glad you asked!” he said. “These helpful paw prints left in the ash turn abruptly to Human footprints just here.” Oliver pointed behind him. “Then, for some inexplicable reason, they turn back on themselves and head into Nimueh’s Court. You’d expect a Werewolf to go straight into the Werewolf Court for protection.”
“So? That doesn’t mean—” But Oliver cut him off.
“Your almost-son-in-law developed a transformation potion through ArcaShield, a company under the umbrella of Obscura Industries,” Oliver said. “Which you own. As the last remaining Carmichael, everything in the Carmichael line goes to you. That includes all the unused products developed by the now-defunct ArcaShield. This potion allows any Witch or Wizard to transform themselves into an animal, but it forces you to leave your clothes behind. So when you transform back, you’re completely naked.” Oliver glanced at Connor here. “Werewolves transform with all their clothing intact.” Connor obligingly illustrated this for the dumber members of the crowd, shifting into his massive Wolf form and back again, not a piece of his remaining clothing out of place. “You’re the only person who had access to those potions, and the only person who knew about Nimueh’s affair with Logan.”
There were some gasps from around them, some quiet muttering, and not a little shifting, but most of the guns remained aimed at Connor’s chest. Carmichael’s smile had turned cold and calculating, his eyes hard and empty.
“Well done, Worth,” he said. “You’ve a gift for police work, I must say. Such a pity you’re going to die. In another life, I could have used a detective as keen as you are.”
Oliver shook his head. “I’m not going to die,” he said, then glancing at his still-bleeding wound, he added, “not today, anyway.”
“And how do you figure that?” Carmichael asked, nodding to his men to continue their advance. This time, most of the men hesitated, with only a handful directly in front of Oli and Connor actually continued to approach.
“Because I decide who lives and who dies in my Court,” Nimueh said. She stood tall and regal, clothed in a beautiful, iridescent blue dress cut square across her chest and looping up behind her shoulders to act as straps. Her waist was accentuated with a chain of office and royal seal, and on her head perched her glinting crown.
Carmichael turned to Nimueh, his eyes wide and sharp, his face wrought with anger. The crowd behind her slowly grew, the noble families who remained loyal to her gathering to stand at the side of their Queen. Oliver was pleased to see Brook standing among them, his guard’s uniform pressed perfect, his rifle aimed squarely at the High Warlock.
“You have broken the solemn vows you made the day you took office,” Nimueh told him, her head held high, looking down her nose at him, as though he was vermin. “You have betrayed the sanctity of the Treaty and done irreparable damage to the Three Courts. You are guilty of treason of the highest order, and you will be punished accordingly.”
Carmichael laughed a hollow sound. “Get down off your pedestal, Nimueh,” he snapped. “You’re finished in this Court. Once it comes out you were having an affair with Logan—”
“They already know,” Nimueh said, her expression unyielding and without fear. “An announcement was broadcast only minutes ago to all the Courts. My ex-husband stood with me to make public our divorce and the amicable nature of it. I proclaimed my love for Logan and my deepest grief at his loss. You have nothing to hold over me now, Frederick.”
Carmichael hesitated a moment, then took a step to the side, the ranks of NCPD closing around him. “You have no evidence to prove I had Logan killed!” he cried.
“No,” Oliver said. “But we can prove you conspired to murder innocent Witches and Wizards and destroy the town of Tirnanog to incite an unlawful war.”
Carmichael’s gaze shifted wildly between Oliver and Nimueh. “How? You’re pitiful evidence? Collected from a contaminated scene? Who will believe the accused murderers of a leader of the Three Courts, anyway?”
“I think I can help with that,” Maeve said, stepping forward with a bound, compliant Sky in tow. “I’ve already heard the testimony of this piece of Fae dirt,” she said, jerking the golden chain binding Sky to her so that he stumbled forward. “And he has some very interesting things to say, let me tell you. He also claims it is you who are responsible for the unsanctioned assault on my Court’s land yesterday. Which means you are in violation of the peaceful agreement between our Courts. More treason charges for you, it seems. Furthermore, Rory Birch has been live broadcasting your delightful exchange with Oliver to the whole of Nimueh’s Court.”
It was watching a giant stumble before his very eyes, a massive, untouchable figure suddenly stooped, shaken, scared. Carmichael cast a wide shield charm around himself and the nearest NCPD officers, throwing wild curses as he could.
“You’ll have to fight your way through to me!” he said, his claims more and more desperate. The smell of rampant magic, hot and spiced and laced with burning sugar and fresh daffodils, spread over the area as Nimueh and her cohorts threw up their own shields. Oliver cast around himself, Connor, and Rory, deflecting a cutting spell just in time. The injuries on his back from his fight with Sky burned as he did, straining muscles and flesh not yet properly healed. The gunshot wound bled anew, soaking through the tourniquet and dribbling down his arm. He fought to keep alert and moving.
A haze of spells and gunshots going off, screams of pain and anger, everywhere magic flew by. Oliver cast his own spells, knocking the nearest officers unconscious, unwilling to harm them further than that. They made their way, behind their bubble shield, toward the clot of officers protecting Carmichael. Rory pulled resources from the ground and trees around them to reinforce Oliver’s shield against the shield-piercing bullets. As they approached, knocking back officers and downing threats, Connor pulled at the guns that pierced through the shield, launching them aside just as they went off, shooting instead into trees or other officers where he couldn’t avoid them. He cast the now unarmed officers aside, knocking them unconscious with swift kicks or punches.
“I should have killed you the moment I saw you, Oliver Worth!” Carmichael bellowed, casting a spray of curses at Oliver. Oliver threw all the force of his magic into his shield charm, but the injuries to his back and arm weakened him severely. His magic stuttered, fading, and Oliver looked up to see the curses coming at him, sure he was about to die.
But he didn’t. Where the curses should have flown smoothly through the air to hit Oliver square in the chest, they instead hit an invisible barrier, dying on impact with a new shield. Oliver searched around to find his saviour, an officer standing behind Carmichael, his gun now pointed squarely at Carmichael’s back.
“Who—” Oliver began, words dying as he watched the officer pull off his helmet. Davin stood with Carmichael at gunpoint, his other hand held out to maintain the shield in front of Oliver.
“Couldn’t keep it all up,” Davin said by way of explanation. “I’ve got my issues with Werewolves, I know. But turning on civilians… attacking our Queen directly? No. You’re a monster, Carmichael. I don’t know how I ever believed any of your lies.”
The rest of the officers dropped their weapons, seeing one of their own turn on Carmichael. Some of them followed Davin’s lead instead, ensuring Carmichael was unable to fight them off and escape. Nimueh step
ped forward between them, and they inclined their heads to her, the largest gesture of respect possible as they had their weapons trained on Carmichael.
“I hereby pronounce you guilty, Frederick,” she said. “You are sentenced to lifetime imprisonment in our highest security facility. Furthermore, to ensure you are unable to commit any further atrocities, you shall undergo the ancient ritual of release and be stripped of your magic.”
Carmichael said nothing, his eyes a feral in their loathing. He struggled meaninglessly as he was bound and gagged to be transported away. Oliver grinned with pleasure as he watched Carmichael toted off by Davin and the rest, officers occasionally poking at him with the butts of their guns. Then finally, Oliver’s body gave way, and he collapsed.
“Oli!” Connor cried, gathering him up. “He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get him to a hospital.”
“No,” Oliver said, pressing a palm to Connor’s chest. “Just heal me here. Quickly.” He looked up at Connor, their eyes meeting for a long moment. “We’ve got one more stop before we’re done.”
Chapter 28
The high sun wore gradually into the afternoon, the sky bright and clear, a summer wind blowing upward from the South, carrying with it the promises of the season. They stood stoic, still, staring down the single road that rolled out between Nimueh’s Court and the Werewolf Court. A tentative sense of calm settled in Oliver, his back properly healed but still smarting, his wounded arm pulled up in a sling while the muscle-knitting spells did their work. The blood and pain were gone, but the injury halved his spell-casting ability.