Monster

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “The guns were ours.” It was the kid with the blue spikes. He looked younger now that he wasn’t threatening me, closer to thirteen. “Anthony made us give them up if we wanted to train.”

  “Train for what?” As soon as I asked the question, I knew the answer. “Oh, for pity’s sake, you were running an auto shop class, weren’t you?”

  Anthony nodded. “A man needs a skill if he’s gonna make an honest living. There’s always gonna be cars that need fixing, and no one’s gonna ship them overseas for a broken carburetor.”

  Smart man. The more I learned about Anthony, the more certain I was that he wasn’t the murderer. Unfortunately, the next most likely suspect wasn’t any better. I refocused my attention on Greg. He’d been in the park that night too. And he obviously had access to a gun. Several guns, if he had access to the box at Anthony’s apartment.

  Anthony followed my line of sight, but to my surprise, he didn’t get angry, or leap to Greg’s defense. “You have to decide what kind of man you’re gonna be,” he said gently. “I can’t make this choice for you.”

  Greg froze, then looked up at Anthony. A war played out over his face, anger at the world and a determination to fight it every step of the way battling against the desire to listen to Anthony, the father figure he needed so badly right now. In that moment, I saw what Mia saw, and I understood her loyalty to Anthony.

  Finally, Greg squared his shoulders. “What do you want to know?”

  I pointed to the weapon he’d surrendered to Anthony. “That’s your mom’s gun, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you have it on the reservation when you searched for Gypsy?”

  He shook his head. “No. I was going to, but I couldn’t find it.”

  It was a weak excuse. Unless his mom could prove otherwise, there was no reason to believe Greg hadn’t had access to her gun the night Oliver was murdered.

  Greg read my expression. He swallowed. “I tried to get another gun when I couldn’t find Mom’s.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Where were you going to get another gun?”

  Greg looked at Chris. Chris looked at Anthony, then me. “He called me,” he admitted. “But I was at my aunt’s, and she took my phone when I tried to text during dinner, so I didn’t get Greg’s call until the next morning.”

  It wasn’t a rock-solid alibi, but it would work for now. I let out a breath. “All right. I believe you.”

  Anthony faced the boys. I knew from the look on his face what he was going to say next, and they weren’t going to like it. “I’m turning myself in.”

  A roar of protest rose, but he raised a hand for quiet. “No. This is the way it has to be. I need to clear my name the right way.” He nodded to me. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  I was guessing he knew damn well he couldn’t clear his name of everything. He knew the rangers had searched his house, knew they had the guns. He was in serious trouble for that, even if they cleared him of the murder. As much as I wanted to believe the werewolves would keep an open mind, I feared Anthony would end up a sacrificial lamb—however unintentionally.

  Not if I can help it, I promised myself.

  Chapter 14

  “I’m hungry. Can we go to the café?”

  I stood beside my car, waving to Anthony as he retreated into the urban jungle to finish saying his goodbyes to the kids. He offered me that odd chin-jutting thing some men did instead of waving and then disappeared behind a fence.

  “Yes, we can go to the café.” I glanced down at my clothes and winced. My leggings gaped in two large tears, and I did not want to know what had caused the stains turning the bright red a dark brown. I rattled off a spell, a minor flex of my magic, and the tears in my clothing knitted together and the stains melted away. A cool breeze caressed my cheeks, now clean of sweat and grime. Mother Hazel would never have approved the frivolous use of magic, but I was having a bad day, and I didn’t care.

  “Yes, yes, you’re lovely again, nice to see you’ve mastered the Cinderella spells, now let’s go.”

  “Your concern is overwhelming.”

  I climbed into the car, smiling as Peasblossom dove straight for the GPS and found the address she wanted among the saved locations. It was a small café we’d discovered on our first case, an Otherworld sanctuary in the heart of the city. It was one of the few places Peasblossom could order for herself and enjoy her meal without hiding in a plant, or inside my bag.

  I fastened my seatbelt and checked my mirrors, but my attention kept wandering back to where Anthony had disappeared. I couldn’t get his face out of my head, that somber look when he’d announced his intention to turn himself in.

  “Are you thinking of the dream shard?” Peasblossom asked. She flattened herself over the GPS, looking out the windows with an uneasy expression. “I don’t feel anything. Do you?”

  “No, no, it’s not the dream shard.” Though now she’d mentioned it, I was in more of a hurry to have a go at downtown traffic. “I can’t help thinking of those boys. What will they do when Anthony is in jail?”

  “You don’t think the wolves will believe he didn’t kill Oliver?”

  I pulled onto the street and followed the GPS’s mechanical instructions. “Liam is not my favorite person right now, but he’s not a bad man, or a bad cop. I think eventually he’ll admit that Anthony didn’t do it. It’s too hard for a human to lie to a werewolf.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “He’s got Anthony dead to rights on the weapons possession, so he’ll arrest him if only to hold him. Eventually, he’ll realize Anthony didn’t commit the murder, but there’s no guarantee how soon that’ll happen, and until then, Anthony will be at the mercy of three very stressed-out werewolves. We need new evidence. Now.” I let my head fall against the headrest. “I wish I’d gotten that wizard’s information. I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Perhaps his number is in Blake’s cell phone.”

  “How does that help m— What are you doing?”

  Peasblossom tugged at the zipper on my pouch, opening it enough for her to climb inside.

  “You’ll get lost in there again,” I warned her, keeping my focus on the road.

  Something black nudged its way out of the pack, followed by a grunting pink pixie. The object fell into my lap, and I stared. “Is that…?”

  “Blake’s cell phone.” Peasblossom leaned her folded arms on the zippered edge of my bag, her feet kicking inside the enchanted pouch. “I took it when they were being mean to you.”

  “You…” I should have given her a lecture about the dangers of stealing from werewolf law enforcement. But I was too proud of her. “You’re brilliant.”

  “I know.” She climbed out of the pouch and sat on my lap with the phone balanced in front of her. “What was the wizard’s name again?”

  “Vincent. Vincent Aegis.”

  She tapped on the phone. “Nope.”

  “Is he under ‘wizard’?”

  More taps. “No.”

  I bit my lip. “What did he call him, the nickname? Wince? Try that.”

  “Found him.”

  I continued navigating toward the café as Peasblossom called the wizard, setting the phone to speaker. Vincent answered on the second ring.

  “Aegis Analysts, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, Vincent, this is Shade. Shade Renard. We met yesterday?”

  Silence dragged out for a minute, and when he spoke again, his voice held more caution. “Yes. Yes, I remember. How can I help you, Ms. Renard?”

  “Shade, please. I have…concerns about the case. Could we meet?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Renard. Shade. I handed in my final report an hour ago. My participation in this case is over. I’m only a crime scene analyst, not a detective.”

  His tone said even more clearly than his words that he did not want to be involved. I was guessing he hadn’t wanted to be involved from the moment he’d found out about Stephen’s circumstances. “I understand. Bu
t I’m concerned the pack may not have attributed the correct weight to a few key pieces of evidence.” I paused. “Anthony Catello is about to turn himself in. Do you understand why I’m…worried?”

  Vincent cleared his throat. “I believe so. But I don’t think I can help you. I’m only the crime scene analyst.”

  He said the last line the way most people said “don’t shoot the messenger.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter, willing him to listen. “If you would just meet with me? Ten minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence. “Did Sergeant Osbourne approve this request?”

  “Liam understands that when Mother Hazel assigns someone a task—or in this case, a murder investigation—one has no choice but to see it through, and to do everything one can to be triumphant.”

  There was a strangled sound on the other end of the phone—a common reaction to the mention of Mother Hazel’s name. “Where shall we meet?”

  “Do you know Goodfellows?”

  “I’m five minutes away.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His tone when he said “you’re welcome” made it sound more like “if you say so.” I didn’t let that bother me. Vincent was obviously a lab man, not a field man, and Liam would have been an intimidating boss even for someone who didn’t prefer to stay behind a microscope.

  I wasn’t far from the café, and it took only a few minutes before it appeared on my right. I pulled into the parking lot and chose an empty parking space by the door. I walked inside and was immediately greeted with the earthy scent of the brick walls, the combination smell of napkins and silverware, and a mouth-watering concoction of cooking meat and vegetables that declared today’s special was beef vegetable soup. As soon as the doors closed behind us, Peasblossom leapt out of my shirt to stand on my head with her hands on her hips.

  The sprite standing at the short hostess podium turned her focus to the pixie, brushing a lock of pale blue hair behind her pointed ear. “Table or a booth?”

  “A booth!” Peasblossom declared.

  “Excellent choice.” The waitress smiled at me and gestured for us to follow her.

  “I want honey—a big cup, not the little portion people get with their tea,” Peasblossom told her.

  “And for you?” the waitress asked me.

  “Tea.” I took a deep breath through my nose and sighed. “And perhaps a cup of beef vegetable soup?”

  “Coming right up,” the sprite said.

  I settled into the booth, letting out a long sigh as I eased against the cushioned seat. My eyes drifted closed, and I placed my hands flat on the table, needing that solid anchor to keep myself from floating away. Today had turned out to be a lot more exciting than I’d expected, and it was catching up to me. Stress tightened the muscles between my shoulder blades, and my thoughts had twisted into a chaotic jumble of what-ifs and but-whys. I had to relax, and that meant organizing my thoughts. It was time to take notes. I unzipped my pouch and reached in to feel for a notebook.

  “Shade?”

  I paused in the middle of balancing a picture frame amidst a pile of loose beads I’d pulled from my pouch. Vincent stood beside my booth, his hand wrapped around the top of a walking cane that I would have bet my last Post-it note was actually his staff under a glamour.

  “Oh, hi, Vincent. Thank you for coming.” I gestured to the seat opposite me. “Please, sit down.”

  “My pleasure. Though I don’t see how I can help you.” He accepted the invitation to sit, though his gaze lingered on the growing mess of random objects on the table in front of me. “Lost something?”

  “Not exactly.” I shoved my hand farther into the pouch and let out a little sound of triumph as my fingers found the notebook I’d been looking for.

  Vincent arched an eyebrow at me as I held it aloft. “Success.”

  “Indeed.” I set it down as the waitress arrived with my order. “Now, I need a pen…”

  “If I may?” Vincent said. He smiled at the waitress. “Have you a pen my associate might use?”

  The sprite smiled and put a pen down beside my cup of soup. “Just leave it behind when you’re done.”

  “Excellent. And tea for me? Best just bring the pot.”

  She nodded and left to fetch his order. I gathered all the debris and shoved it back into the pouch. “I’m glad you’re here. I really do need your help.”

  Vincent shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fingers dancing over the edges of his brown wool coat. “Yes, well, I’m not sure what more I can offer you beyond what was in my report.”

  I put the pen to paper, scribbling out “Opportunity” at the top of the page. “Well, as things stand, we have three suspects based on opportunity. Stephen, Anthony, and Greg.”

  Vincent shifted uneasily, the fingers of both hands drumming on the table’s surface. “Stephen is not in the clear, then?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t forget Mia.” Peasblossom’s voice was thick with honey, her words almost unintelligible. “Women can be murderers too.”

  Vincent followed the sound of the pixie’s voice like a man in a horror movie turning to see where the strange sound is coming from. He closed his eyes when he saw Peasblossom sitting with her legs wrapped around a ramekin of honey, both arms deep in the sticky stuff.

  “That’s Peasblossom,” I told him. “She’s my familiar.”

  “I see.” He took a slow, deep breath, then forced his eyes open. “How do you do?”

  “How do I do what?” Peasblossom frowned, one honey-laden hand pausing halfway to her mouth.

  Vincent’s eye twitched. He tore his gaze from the pixie and met my eyes. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  I added Mia’s name to the list. Peasblossom was right. I hadn’t considered Mia, but maybe I should. Greg had called Anthony when Gypsy escaped, but no one had asked him if he’d called his mom too. In fact…

  I crossed out Anthony and Greg.

  Vincent leaned forward. “They’re no longer suspects? I thought…”

  “I spoke with them today. I’m convinced neither of them shot Oliver Dale.”

  Vincent pulled at the collar of his mint-green button-up shirt where it poked out of his coat. “May I ask what convinced you?”

  Being a wizard, Vincent would have understood if I’d told him it was a gut instinct. Wizards weren’t unlike witches in that respect, and we learned early not to ignore our inner voices. But I’d already had one man insinuate that my ovaries somehow guided my investigation, so I wasn’t in the most trusting mood.

  So instead, I related my experience in the warehouse. “They didn’t have to let me go. Anthony could have stood there and waited for Chris to shoot me, or Greg could have shot me while I was unconscious. There were a lot of boys in that warehouse, lots of suspects for when the cops found my body.”

  “I see.” The waitress brought his tea and left the pot. Vincent poured himself a cup with the desperation of a man who needed tea to breathe.

  I looked down at my list, staring at the two names left. “We have no proof that Mia was there before Greg called her to come pick him up. And we have no motive for Stephen.”

  Vincent didn’t look away from his tea.

  “I think it was Mia,” Peasblossom said. She shoved her hand in her mouth again, smearing almost as much honey over her face as she got in her mouth. “Women are vicious.”

  “She has access to a gun. No alibi.” I tapped the pen on the paper. “She had a strong motive. Not only does she care about Gypsy, but Oliver was blocking her promotions. That’s serious business for a single mom with a teenage boy to feed.”

  Vincent said nothing. I noted with some interest he was already pouring his second cup of tea.

  “Then there’s Stephen. He was there, and he had the right caliber weapon. He also had the victim’s blood on his face. What do you think, Vincent?”

  “I’m not a detective. I would
not presume to—”

  “Stephen’s story is pathetic,” I said evenly. “You know it is. And Liam refuses to let me interview him at all.”

  “Ms. Renard, please—”

  “Oliver was shot, but Stephen omitted that fact. Liam asserts that there may have been predation before Stephen found the body, a barghest or a coyote. You’re the crime scene analyst, so you tell me, does that story hold water?”

  The wizard winced, clutching his cup of tea as if it were his only anchor to this world. “No. No, it does not hold water.”

  I dropped the pen and leaned forward. “You’re certain?”

  He nodded. “I’ll show you.” He dug in the pocket of his pants and withdrew a phone. “It’s in the gallery somewhere…” After squinting at the screen, he poked at the buttons and frowned.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, I’ll do it.”

  Peasblossom slogged across the table, leaving sticky footprints in her wake, and grabbed the edge of the wizard’s phone. Vincent’s jaw dropped as she tugged it out of his grip and let it fall to the table. Honey dotted his screen in thick smears as she tapped at the phone, accessing the gallery and pulling up a video previewed by an image of a forest scene.

  “There,” Peasblossom announced.

  I cleared my throat. I almost tried a “Cinderella” spell on it, but electronics could be tricky. Electricity and magic were both energy, and sometimes using a spell on an electronic item was akin to using a charger that gave off a higher voltage than the device could handle. Accidents happened. Instead, I dug in my pouch until I unearthed a handful of wet wipes.

  I carried a lot of those.

  Vincent pressed his lips together, cleaning his phone as best he could before handing it to me.

  “Press play and you’ll see my analysis for yourself.”

  I nodded and tapped the button to play the video. The sound was too low to hear what was said, but the picture said enough. Oliver Dale’s body—what remained of it—lay on the grass. Bright lights illuminated the scene. A man’s hand appeared in the picture—I guessed Vincent’s, based on the silver ring on his thumb. He waved his hand, and my eyebrows rose. Smoke flowed out from his fingertips, rolling over the ground and the body. It sank into every surface it touched, simmering down to a fine silver sheen. After a few breathless seconds, plumes of smoke shot into the air, each one taking shape as I watched.