Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2)

by Clara Coulson

  There’s a magic practitioner leaning against the pole. Underneath a veil.

  And I know who it is.

  Allen Marcus.

  Of course. He was the one who called in this incident in the first place, and, as the local ICM leader, it’s his responsibility to deal with any potential leaks of practitioner secrets to the general public. With the unenthusiastic permission of the mayor’s office, Marcus has the right to strip civilians of their recent memories, in the case of undeniable exposure. The people lurking outside the grocery store qualify in spades, having witnessed naked people turn into giant wolves, followed by seemingly ordinary people performing legitimate magic.

  Marcus is waiting by the light pole for DSI to finish up inside and deliver the two wizards back to ICM custody for discipline. And then he’ll check the final box off on his to-do list: clear out any untoward memories the bystanders might have.

  Out of curiosity, I pluck my cell phone from my pocket. No signal. Marcus is using some kind of ward to block cell traffic around the grocery store so that no one has a chance to live stream or upload any video of the supernatural fight.

  He’s sneaky. I’ll give him that.

  He’s also in danger.

  McKinney was convinced someone else in the ICM was in cahoots with Halliburton. He never found out who, or if that was even true—because fuck if I know—so Donahue is just going for the most prominent target he can get his hands on in Aurora. He’s got nothing better to do with the time he has left, which isn’t much, seeing as his ugly mug will be on wanted posters all over the country by the end of the week.

  One last hurrah, he must be thinking, sneaking closer to Marcus. One last attack on the dreaded ICM menace.

  I can’t see Marcus underneath his veil, but he should be able to hear me if I give him some kind of warning that a Wolf is about to pounce on top of him. The question is what signal I should use that won’t turn Donahue on me—because I imagine if he spots the guy who killed his boss, he might have a change of heart about his intended target. And then, of course, there are the bystanders to worry about, none the wiser that another monstrous Wolf is creeping up on them from behind. If they get embroiled in this fight, they could end up dead. Or turned.

  Donahue pauses at the very edge of the alley, which is roughly ten feet from the SUV I’m sitting in. In order to sneak up on Marcus, who’s probably looking in the direction of the grocery store, the Wolf will have to pass behind the four DSI vehicles to get into a position for an ambush in the wizard’s blind spot. Which means he’ll pass by me. Which means I have the chance to deter his attack before it starts. Make some commotion. Which Marcus will notice. And then the wizard can take down the Wolf while he’s far enough away from the bystanders to minimize their risk of injury.

  Perfect.

  Except for the fact I’m not supposed to get out of the SUV.

  I promised I’d stay put.

  My eyes drift from my boss, visible in the store’s entryway, still railing on the wizard who knocked over all the shelving, to the innocent bystanders with no clue what powers surround them, to Marcus’ flickering shadow underneath the pole.

  The Wolf in my periphery slips out of the alley and slinks alongside the SUVs, padding softly across the packed snow. He peeks through the gap between the second and third vehicles to make sure his prey is in the same spot. Confirming the wizard hasn’t moved, he skulks onward. Closer to my SUV. And closer. And closer. And…

  You know what?

  Fuck it.

  I’ll take the verbal flogging from Riker.

  Unclipping my seatbelt, I spin around, reach into the back of the SUV, and heave up my duffle bag full of gifts. There are probably specialized weapons stashed in the equipment boxes bolted on the walls, but I don’t have time to get fancy with rifles like Harmony Burgess. Plus, I only need to distract Donahue for a few seconds. Long enough for Marcus to catch wind of the danger and intervene.

  I wrap the straps of the bag tightly around my bandaged hands and reach for the switch on the door that’ll blow the window. Kneeling low on the floor so Donahue won’t spot me early, I peek an inch above the doorframe. The Wolf is three feet from my window and closing in. Come on, I mouth, just a bit closer.

  Donahue stalks up near the window, my finger inches toward the switch—

  —and he stops.

  His Wolf ears twitch from side to side, like he’s caught some new sound he didn’t expect to hear between the murmurs of the bystanders and the raucous brawl inside the store.

  My finger trembles against the switch, sweat gathering on the back of my neck, as I wait for Donahue to parse the new sound—a plane, maybe, or a snow plow rumbling by on an adjacent street—and resume moving.

  The thing is, he doesn’t.

  Instead of shaking the new noise out of his mind and continuing forward, his Wolf ears flatten against his head, his muscles tense up like he’s ready to leap thirty feet, and his eyes, those dark, bitter, reflective werewolf eyes…roll directly toward where I’m squatting in the SUV.

  It’s about when Donahue charges at the window that I finally realize what he heard.

  My heartbeat.

  (Boy, I miscalculated this time, didn’t I?)

  A giant Wolf head fills my view through the window as Donahue slams into the side of the SUV. The vehicle rocks to the left, and I lose my footing and land flat on my aching ass. I fumble the duffle bag, and it comes crashing down on top of me, thirty pounds of gifts battering my body even blacker and bluer than it already was. Flailing, I toss the bag into the seat and scramble up, only to find Donahue has backed up to ram the SUV again.

  He rushes forward and drives his head into the window. Furry skin peels back to reveal the white, bloody skull beneath, cracked from the impact. But the bulletproof window cracks too. And unlike the Wolf, the window can’t repair itself.

  As the Wolf retreats a second time to align himself for another run at the SUV, I get the pleasure of watching torn, dangling werewolf flesh begin to rapidly knit itself back together.

  Rapid healing is not as pleasant-looking as you might imagine.

  My right hand clutches the duffle bag strap, a dozen half-baked plans forming in my muddled mind at once. I chance a glance over my shoulder, but Marcus’ shadow is still standing under the faulty light pole. Either he hasn’t heard the commotion over here, the sound lost in the windy day, or the noise from the grocery store battle is masking it. (Or, I think grimly, maybe he knows exactly what’s happening to me but doesn’t care to intervene because it’s not ICM business. Erica mentioned to me once that the ICM doesn’t really give a shit about what happens to Crows.)

  Either way, I have to get out of this situation. Now.

  Donahue hits the window again, and a massive spider web crackles across the glass.

  One more try. And he’ll be through.

  The Wolf staggers back, blood soaking his snout, and positions himself for the final charge.

  I sling the duffle over my shoulder and pray I time this correctly.

  With hatred brimming in his eyes, Donahue digs his claws into the snow, growls, and launches his enormous body at the center of the cracks in the window. His snarling face grows larger and larger in my vision, teeth bared, ready to shear my head clean off my neck with one violent snap of his jaws. His head whips forward, inches from the glass—

  And I spring the switch on the door.

  The release charge detonates, and the weakened window explodes outward in a wave of deadly shards. Donahue doesn’t even have time to look scared before a hundred pieces of sharp glass eat into his face, flaying the flesh off his skull, severing half an ear, shredding his nose, and slicing through the soft bulb of his left eye. Thrown off balance by the assault, he crashes headlong into the side of the SUV, breaking at least one bone with a resounding crack. His Wolf body slumps onto the snow, soft cries bubbling up his throat as the pain sets in.

  But the injuries won’t last long.

  I hurl
myself out the empty window and somersault onto the half-shoveled sidewalk, using the duffle bag to soften the impact. The force of the landing jars every one of my injuries—Ow!—but not enough to tear any stitches or worsen my hairline fractures. As I scramble up, I keep my eyes trained on Donahue, who’s finally realized my ploy and is trying to force himself onto his feet.

  His head is craned over his shoulder at an awkward angle that would probably break a human neck. His left eye is a red, gushing mess, but his right is still alight with the same fury as before.

  He’s not giving up that easily.

  I pick up the duffle bag and shuffle away through the snow, intending to round the trunk of the SUV to catch Marcus’ attention. He can’t ignore my plight if he sees Donahue within spitting distance of the crowd in front of the grocery store. (Got to have that plausible deniability if you want to conceal the fact you’re an unrepentant asshole.)

  But when I’m mere steps from passing the taillight of the vehicle and moving into the open, a powerful gust of wind from the oncoming winter front hits me at exactly the wrong moment, as I’m sliding across a patch of pure ice. I slip and fall flat on my ass.

  A vicious snarl breaks through the weeping wind, and a Wolf-shaped shadow eclipses my own. I wheel around and cover my body with the duffel bag in the nick of time, as Donahue’s enormous, frothing jaws bite right through the fabric and into the gifts inside. Flowers crunch. Candy bags rupture. Two lovely vases shatter. The Wolf rips the bag out of my hands, enraged, and shakes it the way a dog shakes a well-abused toy, before tossing the bag fifteen feet across the snow, far out of reach. My ruined gifts scatter across the sidewalk.

  My back is pressed against the cold ground. Donahue’s colossal paws land on either side of my head. His wounds weep blood far too close to my own, hot red drips steaming as they hit the snow. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. No weapons to defend myself with.

  The heartbeat that gave me away pounds faster and faster inside my chest. Fuck. Now what? Think. Think. Think, Kinsey!

  Donahue looms over me, a growl under every ragged breath, and his remaining eye meets my own as his lips draw back again to reveal the same bloodstained teeth, sharp and powerful. And this time, there’s nothing between them and the tender flesh of my throat.

  My brain goes on the fritz, thoughts falling away into static, and I can do nothing but open my mouth to scream in terror when Donahue drops his head and snaps his jaw—

  A bullet eats a hole in the werewolf’s shoulder, flesh and blood spraying into the wind. Donahue recoils in pain, crying out, and stumbles away from me, back toward the alley. Another round slams into the sidewalk near the Wolf’s front paw, flinging snow and ice. A third skims along Donahue’s ribcage, leaving a bloody streak stripped clear of fur.

  The Wolf panics at the onslaught and scampers into the shadows of the alley—but not before a fourth and final shot buries itself deep in his hindquarters. A broken howl of agony chokes his throat, and Donahue flees.

  A few seconds later, as I’m lying on the snow, panting both in horror and relief, a quick-moving shadow passes over me. A man in casual winter clothes darts toward the opening of the alleyway. But he stops before he even makes it to the dumpster five steps down the passage. Though I can’t see into the alley from my current position, I can guess why: Donahue has vanished. Even injured, he was able to run fast enough in Wolf form to reach the adjacent street before the shooter caught up. There’s no way the man can capture him now. He’ll either have a safe hiding place or a getaway ride stashed somewhere nearby.

  Donahue may have been McKinney’s mook, but he’s not that stupid.

  I shut my eyes and force my racing pulse to calm the heck down. Fingers shaking, I check my exposed face and neck for any werewolf blood near my recent lacerations, but I feel nothing except my own sheen of sweat cooling on my cheeks.

  Boots crunch across the snow toward me, and I sense the presence of the unknown shooter as he crouches next to me. He’s breathing pretty hard too, I notice. Winded, maybe, from running up to help me. Or perhaps exhilarated.

  I open my eyes to check out my savior.

  My hero.

  Captain Juan Delarosa.

  Delarosa yanks down his blue scarf, revealing the shadow of a beard. “Are you okay, Kinsey?” he says. The gloved hand holding his gun trembles wildly, and he looks over his shoulder three times in two seconds, as if he thinks Donahue might round back on him and pounce.

  His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, indicating he hasn’t slept well (or at all) in several days. And the distinct odor of alcohol rolling off his skin tells me he was probably at that seedy bar down the street when DSI suddenly rolled up to Stein’s and ruined his attempt to drink himself under the table.

  Given the way he wobbles when he leans closer to check me for injuries, I’m surprised he managed to land a shot on Donahue at all. I would be impressed, really, and congratulate him, if my stomach didn’t sink through my spine and into the frigid ground below at the mere sight of the captain whose subordinate I failed to save.

  Every puff of his beer-ridden breath drives my guilt deeper and deeper into the snow, especially when I catch him wiping a stray tear off his cheek, poorly disguised as scratching an itch. He’s in this state because Liam Calvary is in the morgue. And Liam Calvary is in the morgue because I couldn’t stop McKinney from murdering him in cold blood.

  I miserably failed to protect Liam—but his captain saved me anyway.

  My tongue tries to find words, any words, but all I manage to blurt out is, “I’m sorry!”

  Delarosa recoils at the volume of my voice, nearly losing his footing. “Huh? Sorry for what, Kinsey?” He slurs a bit on my name. “Wasn’t your fault that goddamn Wolf came after you.”

  “No. Not that…I meant…” All the moisture in my throat dries up, and I choke on air.

  Delarosa’s drunk brain takes a few good seconds to process the meaning of my garbled words. His mouth drops open in a hushed oh, and he finally loses his balance, thumping back onto mushy snow that must soak through his worn jeans. But he doesn’t appear to mind. His free hand rubs his stubbly cheeks, while his tired eyes cycle through more emotions in half a minute than a stone-cold sober person could manage in hours. Anger. Sorrow. Remorse. Self-loathing. (To name a few.)

  He eventually settles on shame. “Kinsey,” he says, slurring worse this time, “you weren’t responsible for what happened to Liam. You’re a rookie, and so was he. It’s the job of us ‘old fogies’”—he chuckles softly; old fogies must’ve been Liam’s joke—“to take care of new recruits until you all get the practice, the experience, you need to survive these hellish cases. You’re not expected to be able to defeat a pack of violent werewolves as a third-class detective. And, just being months on the job, you’re certainly not expected to be able to n-neg-nego—worm your way out of an impossible hostage situation.”

  The captain sniffles, nose bright red from the cold. Or from recent crying. “Now, I don’t blame Amy and Ella for your abduction either. Of course not. They were outnumbered. Badly. It was…it was no one’s fault. No DSI agent’s fault.” His tone hardens. “The only fault lies with the Wolves. The Wolves, and especially that motherfucker McKinney.”

  A wistful expression washes over his exhausted face. “Captain Riker hasn’t let me in on all the case details since he booted me off the roster. But yesterday, he met with me after lunch, and gave me enough to subdue my curiosity.” He swallows thickly. “He told me McKinney died. The night you were rescued. That he died at the construction site where you were found.” The gun slips out of his fingers, and both his hands land on my shoulders. “Did you…Did you kill him, Kinsey? Did you kill the bastard who murdered Liam?”

  “I…I did…” My words emerge as a whisper, my mind haunted by the memories of that fiery night at the construction site. I remember the weight of the metal pipe. Remember the way my muscles screamed when I thrust it down into McKinney’s chest. Remember the Wolf man
dying before me, nothing but the light of the flames left in his vacant stare. “Yeah, I killed him.”

  Delarosa embraces me, breath hot in my ear. And for a fleeting second, he sounds completely sober when he says, “Thank you.”

  Then he releases me into a sitting position, one hand on my arm to keep me from sinking down into the snow bank again.

  At the same time, three people storm around the back of the SUV, armed to the teeth. Ella, who’s leading the charge, stops short when she spots Delarosa next to me, instead of the enemy she must have been expecting. Amy and Desmond, not far behind her, lower their weapons after the same moment of surprise.

  Delarosa points a thumb over his shoulder. “One Wolf. Escaped through the alley. Long gone now, but you might get lucky tracking him with the snow.”

  Amy nods to Ella and says, “Want me to get the auxiliary guys on it?”

  “Yeah, go,” Ella replies, sticking her gun back in its thigh holster.

  Amy disappears around the SUV, heading toward the grocery store, while Desmond trudges over to the alley, following the blood trail Donahue left behind. “Somebody nailed him,” he mutters, impressed. His eyes find the discarded gun on the snow. “Not too shabby, Captain Delarosa, considering your current state.”

  Ella maneuvers around the captain and swipes his gun off the sidewalk. “You’re not supposed to carry this in public when you’re on bereavement leave, Juan,” she says, but not hard enough to bite like her usual criticism. “You know the rules.”

  Delarosa hangs his head. “I know…”

  “Hey, now.” I brace myself against the SUV and shakily stand up. “Poor judgment aside, he was the only one who came to my rescue. If he hadn’t been armed, Donahue would have killed me.”

  Ella fingers the gun for a tense moment, then offers it to the captain. “Stick it back in your coat, or wherever you had it concealed.” She sighs. “Be quick about it. Nick’s heading this way.”

  Delarosa blinks up at her in obvious shock—Ella usually plays by the rules. Hesitant, he accepts the gun and slips it into a hidden pocket inside his heavy black coat, right as Riker is turning the corner around the SUV. “Thanks,” he whispers under his breath, and Ella acknowledges she heard him with a nod so slight that anyone more than two feet away wouldn’t catch it. And yet, somehow, that little nod carries a lot of meaning. Namely that Delarosa will owe her for a long, long time, and he better damn well not complain when she asks anything of him, no matter how awful.