Monster

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “You’re suggesting it’s not relevant that your livelihood rests on solving this case?”

  “It changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything!” He stopped and sucked in a deep breath. “Shade, this is not a television show. There is no guarantee we’ll solve this case; no case has that kind of guarantee. I will not allow your personal business to—”

  “Please stop right there.”

  I had enough control over my magic that nothing exploded. But the anger in my tone was enough to silence the werewolf, and my hands shook in my lap.

  “If you were about to suggest that I would let my personal life lead me to rush a conviction, or even influence me to push for a resolution that was not one hundred percent supported by the facts, then I’d advise you to rethink your position. I told you when I arrived that I want the truth. Now, if Stephen is innocent—and I hope he is—I will happily remove that collar and walk away. However, if he is guilty, then don’t you want to know?”

  “There is no one hundred percent in real life.” Liam shoved a hand through his hair. “Stephen’s life is at stake. Do you expect me to believe if we don’t find a stronger suspect, you won’t be a little tempted to rush to judgment on Stephen?”

  “You mean the werewolf with the victim’s blood all over his face who admitted eating the body and is obviously hiding something?”

  Liam jerked back, shooting me a wide-eyed stare before forcing his attention to the road. Peasblossom slid out of sight under my hair, her fingers digging into my shirt to hold on.

  “You’re the one who won’t let me interview him,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t think he’s guilty?”

  “I want the truth.” He squeezed the steering wheel again, but not so hard. “Whatever that is.”

  “Then let’s find it. Together.”

  A long minute passed. Finally, the blistering energy rolling off the alpha eased, and I could breath again.

  “All right.”

  “All right.” I cleared my throat and settled back in my seat despite my racing heart. “So where to now?”

  “We need to interview Greg again.”

  “You think he might tell you something he didn’t tell Blake?”

  “Blake talked to him right after he found a dead body, when he was worried about Gypsy. I want to talk to him now that he knows Gypsy’s fine, and he’s had a chance to process everything.” He glanced at me. “I’ll interview him. Observe, but do not take over.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then sighed. “Listen, the first time—and sometimes the second time—we interview someone, whether they’re a suspect or a witness, the point is not just to check off means, motive, and opportunity. I’m not accusing anyone, or aiming to catch them in a lie. The first conversation is all about the timeline—getting the person’s story with as many details as possible. Details like what time was it, what did he do first, what was he wearing, who was there. Ask the same questions over and over. The more information I get, the better the chance that I’ll find out if he’s telling the truth.”

  “You want as much information as possible, because you never know what might be contradicted by someone else,” I guessed.

  “Right. Little details matter. If I ask him if he grabbed a snack before he left, and he says he snagged an orange, then later he tells me it was a bag of chips, then that’s a lie I caught him in. And if he told one lie, he probably told more. It’s easier to catch people in little lies.”

  “Because they don’t spend the same amount of time plotting the little details.”

  “Exactly.” He was silent, considering for a moment. “If I need help, I’ll tap my pen on my notepad. That’ll be your signal to step in. Until then, you let me do the talking. All right?”

  It was a small step forward, so I took it. “All right.”

  My concession seemed to chase the tension from his shoulders. An amicable silence filled the car as we drove. It was almost enough to silence the nagging voice in the back of my brain that wondered why he hadn’t wanted me to look around Oliver Dale’s apartment.

  Almost.

  Chapter 6

  The Tylers lived in a small house less than ten miles from the Rocky River Reservation. The neighborhood wasn’t as nice as Stephen’s, the yards smaller and the homes closer together. A few of the houses had heaps of junk collecting at the sides, mud-crusted children’s toys and broken lawn furniture, making them an eyesore on what was otherwise a quaint street. The Tyler home was among the more cared for, the white siding clean of the dirt that coated most of the other houses, as if the owner took the time to wash them on at least a semi-regular basis. It was a Saturday, and the beige Toyota in the driveway promised someone was home.

  “Remember, I’ll do the talking this time,” Liam said, pulling his Jeep into the driveway. “Greg is still a minor, so we need his mom’s permission to talk with him.”

  I paused with my hand on the door handle. “But he’s a witness, not a suspect.”

  “He is a witness, but he’s also one of two people besides the victim that we can prove was in the park when Oliver Dale was killed. And he has a record.”

  “For breaking and entering,” I said, remembering the boy’s file from my earlier perusal. “That hardly qualifies him as a potential killer.”

  Liam got out of the car and circled around to my side, glancing at the house as he opened my door. “I’m not saying he killed him. I’m just saying we need to be open about the possibility. That means doing this by the book. If he did have something to do with Oliver’s death, I don’t want the case falling apart when it gets to court.”

  “And doing it by the book means playing nice with his mom so she lets us talk to him.” I shoveled a lapful of junk back into my waist pouch. It had taken me longer to find the mints this time.

  “Yes.”

  I zipped the pouch before meeting his eyes. The tension between us still hadn’t dissipated. I was irritated he hadn’t waited so I could look through Oliver’s apartment, and he was annoyed I’d commandeered the last interview. I hesitated to cause more friction.

  Still…

  “And you think an officer of the Cleveland Metropark Police will be more reassuring to the mother of a juvenile offender than a fellow female with no uniform or gun? Someone who isn’t part of the organization that arrested her son for B&E?”

  I tried to keep my voice light, secretly satisfied I’d finally gotten the chance to use B&E in a sentence. Liam didn’t appreciate my efforts.

  He tightened his grip on the still-open door. “Believe it or not, I am trained to speak with people who aren’t happy to see me. I can handle this.”

  I shrugged. “All right, you handle it. I look forward to watching your training in action.”

  The last bit came out more sarcastic than I’d intended, but he let it go. He led the way up the driveway to the front porch, and as we walked, I couldn’t help staring at his bare forearms. It was March, and since this was Ohio, that could mean a temperature anywhere between forty and sixty degrees. Today felt more like forty, but you’d never know it the way he marched around with no coat, and his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. I knew lycanthropes ran hotter than humans, but surely the rolled-up sleeves was a little much?

  At least he’s not wearing flip-flops.

  That thought sent me back to last year, when I’d been called out in the middle of January to a college campus to deal with a clurichaun in a fraternity. No less than two of the fraternity’s members had worn flip-flops to class—despite over six inches of snow outside. Even the clurichaun, drunk and half-mad as he was, had mocked them.

  “Shade?”

  “Hmm?”

  He didn’t respond right away. A feeling of déjà vu crept over me, and I shook off the haze of memory to look at the detective.

  Yep, I was leaning on him again.

  Blood and bones.

  “Sorry.” I lurched forward from the standstill we’
d come to as I drifted down memory lane and Liam realized I was invading his personal space. A gentleman would have let it go, ignored the social faux pas and continued on to the front door so we could question our witness and possible suspect.

  “You wanna tell me why you keep touching me?” Liam asked.

  He hadn’t moved from his spot. I stopped without turning.

  “Don’t we have more important things to be worrying about?” I asked.

  “Yeah. So if you could answer quickly, that’d be swell.”

  “Who says swell anymore?” Peasblossom said against the back of my neck.

  “Apparently, werewolves do.” I turned to Liam. “At least this one does. And as I’ve mentioned before—he can hear you.”

  “But what I don’t hear is an explanation for why you keep leaning on me.” Liam’s arms hung loose at his sides, but there was a tension in his stance that hadn’t been there a second ago.

  “Sorry,” I said finally. “Won’t happen again.” I started to turn back to the house.

  Liam locked gazes with me, and the force in the blue-eyed stare startled me into standing still. Unease slid down my spine. He was taking this way too seriously.

  “I’m sorry if it annoys you,” I said carefully. I shrugged. “I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s cold outside and your aura is really warm.”

  The tension in his shoulders wrenched tighter. “I’ve heard of spells that can siphon off someone’s life force through touch,” Liam said, never taking his eyes from mine. “I’m sure Mother Hazel knows such a spell.”

  My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  “Why do you keep leaning on me?” he asked again. “Why did Mother Hazel send you?”

  I shook my head, too shocked to be embarrassed anymore. “And here I was worried you’d think I was flirting. No, I’m not siphoning your life force.” I said the last part with as much mockery as it deserved. “But thank you for the accusation; that’s…that’s very flattering.”

  “Way to lay on the sarcasm,” Peasblossom said appreciatively.

  “Mother Hazel offered you an unqualified favor for taking this case, and you said yourself you don’t know why.” Liam took a step closer. “Why are you really here?”

  “I’ve fallen into a nightmare.” I twisted my head to look at Peasblossom. “Do you know why I’m leaning on him?” I asked. I didn’t bother to whisper. He’d hear me anyway. “Do you feel like touching him?”

  “He’s too big for me,” Peasblossom said matter-of-factly. She tilted her head and gave Liam a once-over. “You really don’t understand why you want to lean on him?”

  “Peasblossom,” I snapped. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Fine, fine. So touchy.” She snorted and smacked my back. “Ha! Get it? Touchy?”

  “Peasblossom!”

  “All right, all right, geez.” She scowled and settled into a sulk. “Shifters have warm, buzzy energy, and you’re a witch, so you can feel it. Liam’s upset, so he’s giving off more heat.” Peasblossom shrugged. “Feels comfy to me.”

  “Why do I keep leaning on him?”

  “Why do people touch wet paint?” Peasblossom said exasperatedly. “Who knows? Maybe you need a hug—what’s the big deal?”

  I pressed my lips together and faced Liam, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. “I swear on my magic and my life, to my knowledge, I’m not using magic on you or against you. I don’t know why I’m leaning on you.” I paused, then rolled my eyes. “Your aura does feel good. Near as I can tell, that’s all there is to it.”

  Liam studied me hard. When he took a quick step toward me, I let out a squeak of surprise, my eyes widening when he leaned in and scented the air above my skin. I was still staring, dumbfounded, when he leaned back.

  “I believe you.” He looked like he was going to say more, then thought better of it. Before I could question that look, he resumed his brisk walk up the driveway to the front door of the Tyler home.

  “That was very embarrassing,” I muttered.

  “It looked embarrassing.” Peasblossom leaned out, holding on to a lock of my hair to keep her balance as she studied my face. “I hope you weren’t leaning on him because you’re attracted to him.”

  “Why?” I pulled at the lines of my coat, letting my brain settle before I followed Liam.

  “Because if you’re aroused, then he’d have smelled it just now.”

  I froze, staring at Peasblossom.

  “I’m just saying,” she said, holding up her hand. “That would be really, really embarrassing.”

  I pushed all thoughts of Liam and shifter auras out of my face and half ran up the driveway. I didn’t have time for this.

  “Not that it wasn’t already embarrassing,” Peasblossom added.

  I ignored her, arriving on the front porch as Liam raised a hand and knocked on the door.

  A minute later, it swung open and a petite blonde appeared wearing a pair of black dress yoga pants and a pale blue button-down shirt. When she saw Liam, the smile on her face wilted and wariness creased the corners of her mouth. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, I’m Detective Sergeant Osbourne of the Cleveland Metro Police Rangers. I’d like to speak with Greg Tyler, if I could?”

  The hand not holding the door open braced on the frame, barring our path. “I’m Mia Tyler, Greg’s mother. Is this about Oliver Dale?”

  Liam nodded. “It is.”

  “Greg already told you everything he knows.”

  Her tone wasn’t unfriendly, but her body language made it clear she intended to keep our visit short, sweet, and outdoors. If I didn’t already know her son had a record, I would have guessed it now. She was in full-out protection mode, and Liam hadn’t said a word about Greg being anything more than a witness.

  “He spoke to my sergeant, Detective Blake Giles. I was hoping I could speak with him myself?” Liam gave her a smile warmer than any expression he’d given me. “It’s routine, nothing serious.”

  Mia didn’t look convinced. “Greg isn’t here right now. I’ll tell him to contact you.” She started to close the door.

  “Mrs. Tyler,” Liam said, his voice still calm, “I need to speak with Greg as soon as possible. I know you’re busy, and I’d hate to keep coming back. I just have a few questions. Where is Greg right now?”

  “I don’t know.” She met his eyes as if she could will him off her porch. “Probably with friends. He’s sixteen. I don’t keep track of him every second.”

  “Does he have a cell phone you could call?”

  “Why don’t you give me your card and he’ll call you when he comes home?” Mia countered, lifting her chin.

  She wasn’t giving in. Liam reached into his pocket, took his card from a small stack, and handed it to Mia. She snatched it out of his hand and started to shut the door again.

  Without thinking, I burst into a fake coughing fit, raising my arm to cover my mouth.

  Mia paused, startled, watching me through the gap in the half-closed door. “Are you all right?”

  It was an automatic response more than any true concern for my welfare, but I didn’t need her sincerity. “I think so.” I gave a few more coughs, roughening my voice. “But could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  Suspicion tightened the lines around her eyes, and she didn’t answer right away.

  “I can’t believe you’re trying the old ‘get in the door by faking a cough’ routine,” Peasblossom muttered against the back of my neck. “It won’t work.”

  I coughed again, ignoring my familiar’s judgment. Unfortunately, Liam heard her as well. His expression seemed less than supportive.

  Sod it. Plan B.

  I called my magic as I drew breath for a final round of coughing, threading warm strands of purple energy into my voice. I’d never tried to tie a charm spell to a cough to make it more convincing, and the magic balked at the attempt, refusing to latch on to the rough bits of sound. I hummed between coughs as if I were trying to clear my throat.
It wasn’t easy with Mia and Liam gaping at me as though I were about to hack up a lung, and fake or not, the cough hurt my throat. I kept on, though, and finally, the magic relented. The air between me and Mia glittered, and Mia’s suspicion melted into concern.

  “I’m sorry, yes, come in, I’ll get you some water.”

  Liam followed me inside, his gaze boring a hole between my shoulder blades as Mia led us into a spacious living room. To the left, a half-wall partitioned off the kitchen, the stove visible from my viewpoint near the threshold. I stopped in the center of the room, holding my hand to my throat as if warding off another cough. The buzz of shifter energy pressed against my back as Liam stood behind me, closer than was polite. He waited until Mia disappeared into the kitchen before speaking.

  “Are you all right?”

  “My throat hurts,” I rasped.

  “Any reason you didn’t use your magic in the first place?”

  I should have told him it was because he’d insisted I let him handle it unless he gave me a sign—which he hadn’t. “Mother Hazel,” I told him instead.

  I could feel Liam’s confusion at that, but this wasn’t the time to explain my mentor’s opinion on witches who used magic to solve mundane problems. Magic was a last resort, not a first, and she’d ground that philosophy into me from the first moment she became my mentor.

  Our hesitant hostess returned with a glass of water, and I accepted it with real gratitude, taking a big gulp before slowing to smaller sips. The cool water soothed my abused throat, and I sighed.

  “You have a lovely home,” Liam said, breaking the silence. He squinted at a picture sitting on the desk in the corner. “I think I know him. Isn’t that Anthony Catello?”

  I followed his gaze, surprised to see Anthony’s face smiling at me from the small silver frame. The protective—and somewhat foul-mouthed—dog owner stood beside a beaming teenage boy I recognized from his mug shot as Greg Tyler. Greg’s curly brown hair erupted around the edges of a blue knit cap, and his eyes shone with excitement. Mia stood on Greg’s other side, also smiling. They all wore dark parkas and jeans, and their cheeks were rosy, as if the day had been cool. A perfect family portrait.