“We obviously have some things to discuss,” I said and tucked a copper strand behind her ear.
She stepped back and narrowed her eyes. “Yes, we do, but not like you think.”
“Then perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner?” I turned up the Scottish charm again. “We could clarify the nature of whatever this is between us and share what we know about LeConte’s death.”
“I’ve already told you everything.”
Again, I decided the less I gave away, the better. Might as well make her wonder. “I have a few more questions to ask you, but I’d prefer not to do it here. These walls have ears.”
“And god knows what else.”
“Right. Dinner tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Tomorrow is the Solstice. You told the detective you had plans.”
“They fell through. I was thinking you could take me to the ceilidh.”
“Being in that crowd will make it difficult to talk,” I said, “especially about our unusual situation.”
“I’ll feel safer with people around. Let’s see how the evening goes, and we can decide from there.”
“Fair enough. I’ll pick you up at six?”
“Fine. My address is in the file you no doubt have.”
She turned and stalked down the hall. I didn’t bother to stop the grin that broke out on my face—she was jealous! I’d have to thank Reine the next time I saw her, which hopefully wouldn’t be soon. She’d reminded me all too clearly that fairies were trouble with a capital T.
When I reached the first floor, my phone buzzed with several messages and reminders—Laura had come through for me, as always, and it was time to go meet Cora Campbell, fellow Council member and the wife of the Lycanthrope Purist cult leader.
“I took the liberty of having the cook prepare a light lunch for us,” Cora told me when I arrived at her estate and her butler took my raincoat. We skipped the cheek sniff—neither of us enjoyed the other’s company, so we minimized contact. She maintained that having a lot of property due to her own wealth and not from organization funds kept them from being a real cult, but I didn’t buy it. Her charismatic husband didn’t mind the label, and indeed, he flaunted his ability to be a thorn in the Council’s side through his wife’s influence.
“Where is your husband?” I asked once it became apparent Bartholomew Campbell was nowhere in sight.
“He got called into Headquarters for a meeting, but he said you’re welcome to stop by after we talk.”
Cora Campbell looked late middle-aged, which meant she was at least ninety, perhaps even older. She wore a dark blue dress that clung to her ample curves, and her dark hair didn’t show any gray, although she had some laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth.
“Dreadful business at the Institute,” she said once we were seated and warmed our hands with delicate china cups of tea.
“You do cut right to the chase,” I told her. “And of course you know why I’m here. The Lycan Crier got a letter from someone in your organization claiming responsibility for the murder of Otis LeConte.”
She shook her head and placed her teacup on the saucer. “I can’t say who sent the letter—how would I know?—but I can assure you, no Purist would do something as messy as murder a human in cold blood. We take our gift as predators seriously, but we do not act like common animals. There are other ways to eliminate problems.”
“Oh?”
Lunch arrived on covered silver trays, which uniformed staff removed with a flourish. Rare tuna sat on a bed of greens, and a side plate held lemon, but no dressing. Great… Cora was on a diet again, which likely meant the first part of the next Council meeting would be spent listening to her extolling it and trying to get everyone else to join her in doing it. I bit my tongue before I asked if she intended to remove me by starving me to death.
“Politics, Gabriel. Words are much more effective in removing rivals than is violence. You do lack a certain subtleness, you know. I’ve often said so to Morena.”
“And what has she said in return?”
“You’re still young and have a lot to learn. Although we’re not so far apart in age, you and I. And you have a pretty face to go with your nice body.”
The look she gave me dialed the atmosphere up from moderately awkward to severely so. Mindful that she might be playing the game she’d just described, I chose the course of avoidance and moved on with my questioning.
“Tell me your whereabouts on Tuesday morning.”
She nodded. “I was here getting ready to host a Purists Ladies’ Luncheon. You can ask any of the staff.”
“Right, I’m sure they’ll all vouch for your alibi. And your husband?”
“He was at the headquarters. I’ll refer you to his staff. Surely you don’t think one of us would have done such a foul deed?”
“Of course not.” But I could get a warrant to look at telephone records and search emails. “However, as the leader of an organization claiming responsibility—”
“Which we are not. Claiming responsibility, that is. As I said, I cannot fathom why anyone from the Purists would do that. Murdering humans goes against our core philosophy of treating our lycanthropy as a gift and using it responsibly to show our kind that they need not be afraid of the urges, which can be channeled into more productive means.”
“Like hunting on lands that aren’t yours,” I couldn’t resist saying. A case had come before the Council the previous year.
She dismissed my challenge with the same airiness she’d exhibited when she’d paid the trespassing fine. “The forest was wild long before humans came around with their petty sense of ownership.”
I doubted she’d take so kindly to someone hunting her game on her property, but I didn’t want to antagonize her.
“Is there anyone within the Purists who might be holding a grudge, someone who would want to make you look bad?”
She tapped the tines of her fork against her lips. “None that come immediately to mind. We’re blessed with loyal organization members and staff for the most part. You’ll have to ask Bartholomew if he’s gotten any complaints from the Headquarters employees.”
“I’ll do that.”
“As for anyone outside the organization, we do have many enemies. Again, you’ll have to get it from Bartholomew, but we’ve compiled a list of those who have threatened or otherwise been unpleasant to us.”
“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t expect that list to be useful—the Purists weren’t very popular outside their own little circles—but maybe it would have some overlap with someone else.
“And now for some sparkling water with lime to help cleanse us of impurities.” Cora signaled to the butler, who served us tall glasses. My stomach growled when I smelled the lime he squeezed into the water.
“Ah, Gabriel, you men do have all the luck with metabolism,” Cora told me.
I stopped at a pastry shop in the little town between Cora’s estate and the Purist Headquarters for a meat pie. As much as the cult might want to embrace their animal sides, Cora might find it unpleasant when they rebelled in hunger, at least if that was how they were all eating these days. Not that I had a problem with fish, but I needed a little more than scraps not to feel hungry. Yes, if past patterns held, we were going to get a diet lecture at the next Lycanthrope Council meeting. If the Council was a family, Cora was the crazy aunt who insisted everyone listen to her latest fad.
In spite of our long lives with a few points of connection, Bartholomew Campbell and I had rarely met, and I couldn’t remember what the man looked like in person aside from slick and untrustworthy. I pulled up pictures from his appearances at public events on my phone as I ate my snack to try to jog my memory. Finally, I found a good one with enough resolution it wouldn’t pixilate when I zoomed in. It showed Bartholomew
and Cora at a charity event the year before. She wore a black dress and a somber expression, but he was all big teeth and confidence. Like her, he had wavy dark hair that he allowed to grow thick and full as a sign of virility. Unlike her, he’d not aged much, looking about forty or so to her late forties/early fifties appearance. I couldn’t remember the year they married, a date that would likely be adjusted for the press so as not to give away their long life spans. That he had allowed himself to be photographed so much indicated the extent of his ego. In spite of the human world being aware of Chronic Lycanthropy Syndrome as a psychological disorder of impulsivity, they weren’t aware of us as werewolves. At least that was how we tried to keep it.
When I arrived at PHQ, the headquarters for the Purist business/cult, I was surprised to see the parking lot almost empty. Was it a holiday?
“Most of the company has Solstice week off,” the pretty young secretary explained to me when I remarked on how quiet it was. She tucked her dark brown curls behind her ears, which sparkled with diamond stud earrings. “We have a retreat center in the Hebrides that they go to for learning and reflection on this sacred time.”
In other words, it was “get the culties away from society and use the energy of the pagan feast of enlightenment to further confuse them” time, but I only nodded politely and said, “I see.”
“But Mister Campbell is here and said he’d see you when you arrive. I’ll just let him know you’re here.”
“So you don’t get the week off?” I asked after she’d informed him via intercom, but he’d asked me to wait until he finished a phone call.
“No,” she said with a pout. “Mister Campbell says he just can’t do without me. I’ll be going next week with him and his wife.”
“That’s too bad you couldn’t go with the rest of the company, but I’m sure your services are indispensable.” As your hastily and crookedly buttoned blouse shows. I guessed my arrival had interrupted them since there were no other signs of hanky panky, most notably the odor one would expect. I said a prayer of thanks to whatever gods might be listening. Sometimes a sharp sense of smell wasn’t an advantage.
“Mister Campbell will see you now.”
I walked into a corner office with a view of the town, hills, and forests that surrounded the office park. It was high up enough that to see the peasants parked in the lot below would require an intentional look downward. Bartholomew Campbell sat behind a large modern metal and glass desk and looked not at all flustered in his tailored suit. Perhaps he really had been on a phone call and not doing other things. He didn’t stand when I entered.
“Ah, McCord, is it?”
“Yes, thank you for seeing me today, Mister Campbell. I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”
“Not at all, nothing that can’t wait ’til a bit later.” His handshake was firm, friendly, and I hoped, clean. It was the kind of handshake that welcomes you to the club, wink wink, nudge nudge. Everything from his wavy product-laden hair to his shiny black shoes solidified my dislike of him, and I wanted to grab the little secretary and bring her into the real world, show her there was something better out there and not all men were predatory creeps like her boss. Not that kidnapping women was something I typically did.
“So how’s the little woman?” he asked.
“I’m not married.”
“Oh, a handsome guy like you, unattached? And one of us too. You know women are drawn to our power especially once we embrace it as we should.”
“And how is that?” I asked and then mentally kicked myself for playing right into his spiel.
He stood, and the bulge in his pants was unmistakable, being at eye level to my sitting self. I averted my gaze and groaned inwardly—flexing his power by trying to convert me was going to be foreplay for Bartholomew Campbell.
“I know you’re familiar with our organization, Mister McCord.” He gestured out of the window. “You’re familiar with our holdings and properties, so you know our influence. Yet you’ve never come to any of our celebrations or accepted Cora’s and my invitation for dinner.”
“I just accepted Cora’s invitation for lunch, for which you were too busy.” Although I resisted the temptation to put “busy” in air quotes, I allowed my skepticism to come through in my tone. “I’m not interested in joining your organization or in playing political games. I only socialize with people whose company I feel I would enjoy, and this isn’t a social visit.”
He shook his head. “Cora has spoken highly of you,” he said and sat. “But she’s said you’re stubborn.” He shifted his weight, and I hoped something pinched him in an uncomfortable spot.
The skin under my nails itched like I wanted to change and challenge him, but I forced my hands to be still and took a couple of deep breaths to deactivate the fight-or-flight, but mostly fight, system.
“I would say you’re in a strange position, Mister Campbell.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and his lip twitched. Would he dare bare his teeth? I leaned forward—bring it—but I kept my tone polite. “As I said, I’m not here for a social call. I’m wondering what you know about the letter that was sent from someone in your organization to the Lycan Crier claiming responsibility for the murder of Otis LeConte.”
He dismissed it with a wave of his hand much like his wife had done. It occurred to me they had practiced the reaction together to perfect their synchronized condescension.
“We have many enemies, Investigator.”
The use of my title made me sit up straighter—could he be acknowledging my Council authority? I let him keep talking.
“Yes, I’m fully aware of why you’re here. The question is why you’re bothering us instead of trying to catch the real criminal.”
“Well, if you’d tell me who that is, I’d be happy to go chase him or her. Meanwhile, if you can’t tell me who did it, then I’d appreciate knowing where you were on Tuesday morning.”
“I was out of town at our retreat center getting it ready for the Solstice gathering. I believe my secretary told you about our annual company retreat?”
“And would she or anyone else be able to verify you were there? When did you return?”
“I just got back yesterday. And yes, several of my staff people were there with me. Not my secretary, though.”
“Interesting.” Especially considering the nature of their relationship. “I would need someone not directly involved with your organization to provide an alibi. A shop girl, perhaps? Or a chips girl?”
“And what are you implying?”
“Nothing.” I leaned forward. “But keep in mind, I am the Council Investigator, and some things are very obvious.”
He scribbled a name on a piece of paper and slid it across his desk. “Here. This person will be able to verify I was in Oban on Monday night.”
The paper had a woman’s name on it. “Not Tuesday morning?”
The smug arch to his eyebrows indicated he’d been welcome to stay over.
“As you mentioned, you have money, holdings and property. Those talk. I need a copy of the itinerary for your trip including where you stayed and ate.”
“Are you implying I’d bribe someone to give me an alibi?”
“You said it, not me.”
He pushed himself up on his hands and towered over me. Something stirred in the pit of my stomach and drove me to my feet, my hands clenched in fists. He bared his teeth, and I returned the expression. Instead of attacking, he nodded like I’d confirmed something for him and turned his back on me. I was dismissed.
“Power, McCord,” he said over his shoulder when I reached for the doorknob. “Remember, women love it.”
The feral expression on his face made me feel sorry for the poor secretary.
Chapter Thirteen
The secretary stood when I exited and pulled down the front edges of her blouse, which was now buttoned properly. It was probably a size to
o small and strained across her small breasts. I smelled her perfume—less delicate than I expected for her build—and when she looked up at me, her lips parted, and her eyes glazed over.
“What can I do for you, Mister McCord?” she asked and licked her lips.
The cortisol and other chemicals associated with the change coursed through me. Good gods, what had that monster trained the poor girl to do, to respond to? I deliberately recalled the feeling I’d gotten when Reine cleansed Max, torrents of icy waters pouring through me. “I need a copy of your boss’s itinerary for his recent trip to the Inner Hebrides and the list he’s compiled of his enemies. His wife mentioned it to me.”
“I’ll be happy to get those for you.” She moved like she was in a dream, and whatever it was rising up in me wanted to growl at her to move faster, but I calmed it with another deep breath that she must have taken to be an impatient sigh because she sped up.
“Jade, get in here!” Bartholomew’s shout made us both jump, and she shook her head, her cheeks warmed by a blush. I glanced at Bartholomew’s door, which stood cracked open.
“This is all I can give you,” she said and handed me a stapled stack of papers.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” Her big brown eyes glanced worriedly toward the door, and the sunlight highlighted the flecks of gold in them. My sensitive ears picked up the impatient breathing behind it, and it occurred to me she wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming encounter with Campbell.
“Do you want to go grab a cuppa?” I asked. “It’s about time for tea.”
The sad smile she gave me twisted my heart and made her look older than her years. “Not today, but perhaps soon.” She looked pointedly at the documents she’d handed me. “You’d better go.”
A wave of anger rose from the center of my gut, and I had to leave before I rescued her from Campbell.
“Fuck it,” I said and turned at the door. “Jade, come with me.”
She hesitated from where she’d emerged from behind the desk and shook her head. “Maybe later,” was all she said, and then she practically ran into Campbell’s office.
Blood's Shadow: The Lycanthropy Files, Book 3 Page 11