Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2)

by Clara Coulson

  However, the uniforms don’t seem to give a crap about their antics. Most of them aren’t even paying attention to the media. Which is strange. They usually bark out commands for the press to Step the hell back whenever someone slides a single shoe over the tape line. But today, judging by the way they keep glancing back at Jameson’s, all they care about is the deadly crime scene hidden inside.

  That or its implications.

  I’m not sure which is worse. Yet.

  After I check my belt to ensure my DSI badge is in place, I tug my collar up as high as it can go and march off toward the bar and grill. My boots crunch hard on the snow, but the sound is muffled by the wind, so none of the reporters notice me until I’m right up on them, heading for the tiniest gap in their sardine-tin-like mass. It’s a male reporter who spots me first, his eyes quickly flicking my way to decode the dark shape emerging from the sheet of whirling white. For a second, he doesn’t appear to realize what he’s seeing—and then his face lights up like he won a jackpot. He turns my way and shoves the mic in my face.

  “Sir, are you a DSI agent?” His smile is plastic and painful. “Do you have any information on the murders you can share? Do you—?”

  Someone reaches over the man’s shoulder, grabs his wrist, and forces the mic away from me. I follow the arm to a uniformed cop standing behind the reporter. In the snow, I don’t recognize the guy at first, but when I maneuver around the overeager reporter and stop at the yellow tape, I find myself staring into a face that looks marginally friendlier than it did when I investigated Jason Franks’ dorm room.

  Officer Ringer.

  Ringer tips his hat to me and side-eyes the reporter, daring him to raise the mic again. The reporter backs off, and Ringer releases his arm. The officer then lifts the perimeter tape to let me pass. “If it isn’t my favorite Kook,” he mutters. “Running a bit late, aren’t you?”

  “My truck doesn’t like the snow, apparently.” I shrug. “I skidded off into the ditch back at Arby’s.”

  Ringer snorts. “Whatever, kid.” He nods toward Jameson’s. “Get on in there. It’s a real doozy this time.”

  I duck under the tape. “And you don’t mind the Kooks being there, contaminating the crime scene?”

  Ringer drops the tape and sighs. “Kid, I wouldn’t care if the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security showed up this time. We need all the help we can get.” He removes his hat to wipe off the accumulation of snowflakes. “It’s a goddamn mess in there. Worst I’ve ever seen. Watch your step.” With that, he shifts his concentration back to the flock of reporters still jabbering for the morning news.

  I suppress a shiver and continue on.

  The double doors of Jameson’s entrance, partially open, beckon me to enter. The last time I was here, the night I met Mac at the post-grad party, the entryway was inviting. Warm, orange light spilled out through the thick, arched windows at the top of each door. The bell on the doorframe jingled not only from coming or going, but also from the heavy steps of tipsy people dancing to outdated jukebox music. You could smell fresh food all the time, ten feet from the entrance. French fries, pizza, burgers, hotdogs, and even seafood, a specialty of the chef who’d worked there for over a decade.

  Jameson’s is popular for a reason—it’s that one place in town where anybody can go for a bit of fun and relaxation whenever they need it.

  At least, it was.

  I ascend the old, snow-covered steps, push one door open in utter silence, and walk inside.

  What greets me is neither warm nor inviting:

  The quick, solemn glances of crime scene techs, scouring the main bar and seating area for clues. Dusting over the tables and chairs and countertops, like they’ll be able to find the one fingerprint in a thousand that’ll crack the case. Snapping photos of the empty stage, where a band probably played last night, the wooden boards scratched and dented from years of dragging instruments to and fro. Picking up detritus with tweezers, dyed strands of hair, a fingernail fragment, an old candy wrapper discarded in a corner. As if any of those things will uncover the truth behind a violent, supernatural murder.

  But it’s their job, and they do it well. So I say nothing.

  There’s a long, awkward moment as I stand in the entryway, the door swinging shut behind me, buffeted by the wind, where I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to go or what I’m supposed to do. The actual crime scene isn’t visible from the doorway, and I don’t hear the chatter of detectives, or smell anything that screams decay. The crime scene must be on another floor, up in the lounges, maybe, or perhaps the sports bar, or, if we’re being cliché, maybe in the gloomy basement where they store all the—

  Ella Dean emerges from the darkness behind the unlit bar on my right and clears her throat in the most admonishing way possible. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence at last.” She shuffles over to the opening in the side of the bar. “Thought we’d be out of here before your lazy butt even arrived.”

  I open my mouth to spout out an excuse for my tardiness, but all that pops into my head is the yellow-eyed guy. Who has nothing to do with this murder investigation—and let’s face it, is probably just some supernatural drifter with no real significance in my life. I snap my jaw shut, hard, and then murmur, “Sorry, Ella.”

  Even in the dimness, I can see the suspicion run across her face like an electric wave. She shakes her head, banishing whatever she wants to ask me—or more likely, storing it away for a proper interrogation later—and motions for me to follow her toward what I realize is a narrow doorway, tucked in between a row of beer taps and a rack of glasses. “Bodies are down here. Crime scene’s wrapping up their initial sweep now, so we’ll be moving the bodies in about fifteen, twenty minutes. I’d like you to take a look at them, preferably before we unroll the body bags. You displayed some solid intuition when it came to Franks. I’d like to see it in action.” She backtracks to the door, resting her arm on the frame as she eyes me with a combination of annoyance and doubt. “If that’s all right with you.”

  Oh, man.

  I’m going to get the best lecture later.

  “Uh, sure thing. Coming. Right behind you.” I cough, half choking on my own spit, and hurry over to the bar. “So, where are the bodies exactly?”

  “Basement storeroom.”

  “…Basement?”

  “Yes, Cal. The dead bodies are in the creepy basement.”

  And here I thought the monster-hunting business would keep me away from the crime novel clichés.

  Chapter Four

  The smell hits me four steps from the bottom of the stairs. It curls up the wooden boards and painted walls like a miasma, the scent of copper tinged with early stage decay. Rotting flesh marinating in a pool of blood. Wriggling things too small to hear or see slowly digesting the remnants of what was once a human being and is now a lifeless shell doomed to disappear into the earth.

  It’s not the first time I’ve smelled a decaying body. But it is, by far, the worst.

  I step into the storage cellar behind Ella, the narrow staircase opening up into a massive room with a low ceiling. Shelving lines every wall, save for a few spots where short halls branch off into other rooms. There are crates and barrels and sacks piled up in an orderly fashion, waiting for an employee of Jameson’s to take one off the top if they run out of an essential ingredient somewhere upstairs. There are jars with fancy labels, and cans with generic labels, and plastic bottles with no labels at all that were likely bought in bulk from a cheap wholesaler. All of it is arranged meticulously, the consistent organization of a dedicated staff. Jameson’s pays well, I’ve heard, and the personnel act accordingly.

  It would be a shining example of a popular restaurant’s storeroom—the sort of thing you’d see in an industry magazine—if it weren’t for the fact that every goddamn thing in the room is covered in blood. All the ketchup and mustard packets. All the sacks of flour. All the wine bottles. All the kegs. All the little spice jars, hundreds and hundreds o
f them. There’s not a single item I can see that hasn’t been sprayed in sticky, half-dried red. If Jameson’s doesn’t lose three-quarters of their business from the bad press of murder on the premises, they’ll still take an awful hit from having to toss the contents of their storeroom.

  I hesitate on the last step, watching Ella as she maneuvers across the few spots on the floor clear of blood. Someone placed several X’s of neon yellow tape to mark a clear path across the stone, so no newcomers would ruin their shoes, or contaminate the crime scene with red footprints that don’t belong.

  Carefully, I follow the tape markers, trailing behind Ella deeper and deeper into the storeroom, until we round a stack of wooden crates to reveal the epicenter of the homicide that has the Aurora press in a frenzy on this fine, snowy morning.

  Ringer wasn’t kidding.

  It’s a nightmare of a murder scene.

  The bright lights brought in by the crime scene techs illuminate the full, horrific glory: three bodies, torn to shreds.

  One of them is slumped in between two racks of sugar. His left leg was sheared off at the knee and slung four feet to his left, the shoe sticking out from behind a box marked FRAGILE. His right arm is bent at a severe angle, one of the bones jutting out through the skin, a brutal compound fracture that would have cost him months of pain had he lived.

  But he didn’t.

  After mauling him, his killer dealt the ultimate finishing blow. His head is sitting in his lap, severed at the base of the neck. The mouth is stuck open, a silent scream.

  The second body is in no better shape, but this one still has a head attached where it’s supposed to be. Unfortunately, his internal organs are not in their proper places. They’re scattered in a rotting heap around his motionless form, which is curled up as if he was trying to keep his guts inside his abdominal cavity. Alas, the killer didn’t let that happen. The organs didn’t just spill out. They were torn out and tossed aside.

  “Jesus,” I whisper under my breath as I turn toward the final body.

  This one is different from the others. He’s seated at a small table erected in between two stacks of crates. There are three chairs, two overturned (where the other men must have been sitting before the attack), and the man’s body lies limp in the one closest to the wall. His condition is somewhat better than the others—perhaps because he died first? His throat was slashed clean through, his blood gushing out onto the tabletop and down his suit jacket, soaking through the white shirt beneath. He would have died in seconds.

  Heck, I hope they all died in seconds.

  I stop at the edge of the carnage, where most of the blood has pooled into a slow-drying, shallow pond on the concrete floor. Ella rounds the pond to confer with someone on the other side, and as I pull my gaze from the brightly lit circle of death, I spy my captain, Nick Riker, standing there, rigid and stoic. The fluorescent glare highlights the wrinkles on his face, his lips stuck in a sour scowl, narrowed eyes roving over the bodies again and again.

  I force down another shiver. Because if Riker is on scene, it means serious shit is going down. He hasn’t been in the field since the Etruscan Incident, since DSI dove full force into the pursuit of Charun, after the Psychopomp kidnapped Cooper Lee. He reinjured his leg during that battle—the leg he almost lost in France—and had to get yet another surgery and restart his rehab program all over again. He’s been pissed about that for several weeks now, despite reassurances from his doctors that his leg will, eventually, be eighty or so percent of what it once was.

  (A hundred percent is out of the question.

  It usually is when there are metal screws in your knee.)

  Something made Riker come out here. Something I haven’t noticed yet.

  As Ella and Riker start murmuring in low tones, too soft for me to make out the words, I reexamine the bodies. Knowing I missed whatever detail made my boss wander out into the blizzard. It can’t be the state of the bodies themselves—Charun did worse than that to all his victims, and Riker didn’t take the field until that final, decisive battle—so it must be some other aspect of the victims or the crime scene.

  I quickly check for any summoning circles or wards or other traces of spells, but my magic sense catches nothing but the faintest wisp. There’s no spell work in here recent enough to have been used for last night’s murder.

  So it’s not the crime scene that brought Riker out here.

  It must be the victims. Their identities. Someone in this room is important.

  Picking up the tails of my coat to avoid the blood on the floor, I crouch low and take a long, hard look at each of the dead men’s faces. The decapitated one is a complete stranger. The disemboweled one looks somewhat familiar, as if I’ve passed him on the street a few times. Maybe someone who lives in my neighborhood or frequents the same places I do. But he’s not any kind of major Aurora personality—at least not a public personality. I suppose it’s possible he’s some kind of underworld celeb, in the mob/gang sense or the supernatural sense. But I’d have to ask to find out, and Ella brought me down here to find clues, not ask questions. I can do that at the inevitable task meeting later.

  So I move on to the third guy, the one in the chair.

  And on my second viewing, I recognize him immediately.

  “Holy shit,” I blurt out, far too loud in the quiet room, “is that Mayor Slate?”

  “Ex-Mayor Slate,” says a voice behind me, one I vaguely recognize. I crane my neck to peer back at the staircase and find Allen Marcus the ICM leader staring at the scene in distaste. He’s dressed in a thick winter coat, complete with plaid scarf and earmuffs, snow still clinging to the hem of his pants. With a frozen grimace, he marches across the room, stepping carefully on the taped X’s, until he comes to stand next to me. His attention lingers on the body of Aurora’s former mayor, like he’s hesitating to look anywhere else.

  Then his eyes jerk toward the disemboweled man.

  Marcus mutters, “Goddammit, Halliburton. What did you get yourself into?”

  Riker steps farther into the light. “So he is one of yours, Marcus?”

  “Unfortunately.” Marcus paces in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “He’s the new treasurer for Aurora’s ICM chapter, and the second highest-ranking wizard in the city, after myself.” A gloved hand emerges from his pocket, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve known Ben Halliburton for thirty-six years. And now he’s a gutted body on the floor. Good gods.” Marcus pulls away from the circle of death, steels himself to restore his indifferent façade, and faces Riker. “I’ll have to inform the High Court about this, you know? Halliburton was internationally renowned.”

  Riker stares Marcus down and replies, “I don’t care what you do, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our investigation.”

  “The High Court will want to perform their own—”

  “The High Court can talk to Mayor Burbank’s office if they’d like a place in this investigation. Beyond that, they need to steer clear. The mayor has marked this case top priority, and barred even the PD’s detectives from stepping foot onto this crime scene until further notice, until my team and our associates discover and arrest—or eliminate—the culprits responsible for the death of former Mayor Slate.” Riker raises a finger when Marcus tries to protest. “This is not negotiable, Marcus. This is an order from the mayor himself: No supernatural organization may interfere with this investigation in any way, without a formal invitation to do so. Which the ICM does not, and will not, have, given that one of your own is involved here.”

  “If you’re suggesting that Halliburton was—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I called you down here to identify him because an ICM badge was found in his wallet. That’s it.” Riker nods toward the staircase leading out. “Thanks for your help. Please leave. If you, or the High Court, would like to be involved in this investigation further, please direct your inquiries to Mayor Burbank’s office.”

  Marcus doesn’t move
for a full thirty seconds, and I start to think he’s going to rebuff my boss and start a fistfight in a blood-filled basement. But finally, he retorts with, “I see you’ve finally overcome your grief regarding Bishop’s unfortunate loss and regained that old asshole attitude of yours. In that case”—his tone turns acidic—“please tell Mayor Burbank to expect a call from Wizard Ambrose of the High Court sometime in the next forty-eight hours. It’s bound to be a delightful conversation.”

  Riker pointedly ignores the jab about Bishop and replies, “You underestimate Burbank.”

  Marcus turns on his heels and storms back to the staircase. Just before he hits the first step, he throws the darkest glare I have ever seen (including Charun’s) over his shoulder and says, “So you think, Riker. So you think.”

  Chapter Five

  “Um, does anybody want to tell me what the heck that was about?” I rise from my crouched position and glance back and forth from the now empty staircase to my captain and teammate. “Because that was way more hostile than the last interaction we had with the ICM.” I know DSI and the ICM don’t really get along—the magic practitioners don’t like us normals butting in—but I thought the Etruscan Incident had been a good indicator of the degree of tension between us (mild and occasionally crispy, like KFC chicken). Apparently, I was wrong.

  Is this why Riker and Erica spent years trading secrets under the table?

  Because we always snipe at each other like rabid dogs?

  Ella maneuvers around the blood pond again and pats my shoulder. “Sorry if that seemed a bit over the top. A couple years back, we had an incident where a minor practitioner was murdered by a wizard after a public dispute. The ICM High Court swarmed us and tried to take the case, insisting it was their business to punish the wizard using their laws rather than our own. Their recommended sentence for the bastard? Like, three years in a cushy low-security prison. For first-degree murder. Mayor Burbank nearly had a stroke, especially when the High Court spirited the guy off in the middle of the night. To an undisclosed location in Europe.”