by Jenn Burke
“Okay—I’ll see what I can dig up.” Her eyes were already taking on that faraway, I’ve got research to do! sort of look she got when a magical problem presented itself. I swear, Lexi would live on her computer if she could figure out how to monetize those skills. Not that she hated nursing, but she’d confessed to me one night that it was too mundane. She used her magic when she could, but healing energy was not an easy ability to master—and there were ethical issues too. People consented to normal medical treatment, not spells.
“Have a good rest of your shift,” I said as she started walking away.
Lexi turned and walked backward. “Get a new phone!”
We started back to the parking lot where we’d left Hudson’s beast. Neither of us spoke. I wasn’t sure why Evan was quiet, but me? My brain was trying to sort all of the information Lexi had shared into something I could use...and failing. I hoped Hudson was having better luck with the threads he was investigating. We had an unknown vampire killing people, and I had no idea how to even start to track him down. The anomaly I’d seen over Cyril’s body had no discernible connection to all of this, and Iskander’s attack? How did that tie in, if it did at all? My gut said it didn’t—it was an unhinged asshole who was pissed off I wouldn’t work for him. But hey, good call on my part, because fuck, my self-preservation instincts had been on the ball there.
“Can she really turn someone into a toad?” Evan asked suddenly.
“No.” I reconsidered. “Maybe.”
“Think I could pay her to visit my asshole ex?”
I grinned. “Probably not, but hey—there’s always Christmas.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dawn was the faintest blush at the horizon when Hudson returned home. To his home, I mean. It wasn’t my home, as much as—
Yeah, not going there.
I could have gone back to my apartment, but I told myself I didn’t want to leave Evan alone. Also, there were the whispers. I wasn’t convinced they weren’t just a figment of my imagination, but I didn’t feel up to chancing it. I was still worn out from the events of the previous day, and...
Okay, all excuses aside, I preferred being in a house with someone else in it.
Evan had already retreated to the basement bedroom—I guess little vampires had to go to bed early, like little kids—when Hudson flopped into one of the chairs with the beer he’d retrieved from the fridge. He looked more rumpled than usual, as though he’d run his hands through his hair frequently and pulled at and retightened his tie more than once over the course of the night.
“How was work?” I asked.
All I got in return was a grunt. Hudson tipped the bottle back, downing half the beer in a few swallows, and then let out a belch.
“So attractive,” I deadpanned.
He didn’t say anything, but slouched in the chair and laid his head back. “Work sucked. I spent the night walking around Cherry Beach, talking to everyone I could find.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “My feet are sore.”
I chuckled, because Hudson being all grumbly and a little whiny was cute. “Did you learn anything?”
“Not a damned thing. Cyril’s loft was far enough from the main traffic areas that no one saw anything.” He lifted his head for another drink. “We questioned his agent again—and managed to corroborate her alibi, so she’s eliminated as a suspect. She couldn’t tell us anything about strange people in his life—”
“AKA someone who might be a vampire.”
He tipped his bottle in my direction in acknowledgment. “Right. We’ve checked the security footage from the cameras outside the front entrance of his building—nothing. No fingerprints, no forensic evidence on Cyril’s body beyond the wounds themselves, nothing to tie his murder to Meredith’s.”
“Other than the fact they both attended a series of charity parties.”
“So did fifty other people, and they’re still alive. And yes, I’ve got someone working through that list. Nothing worthwhile yet.”
“Okay—what about the fact that there’s no evidence?”
“I can’t use a void of evidence as evidence, Wes.”
“Not officially, no. But a vampire murderer at one crime—weird—and the otherplane anomaly at the other—even more weird—is pretty good unofficial evidence that they’re connected.”
“Not really.”
I made a dismissive noise. I thought they were—but that was probably why I wasn’t a detective. “Are we going to talk about this morning?”
Another grunt, another swallow of beer. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Oh?” This should be good. “You don’t think so?”
He rested the bottle on the arm of the chair. “It was a—a normal reaction to waking up in bed together.”
“Was it?”
“I wasn’t offended or anything that you got off on my thigh.”
I glared. “I’m happy to hear that. Considering your hand was on my ass to encourage me.”
“Yours was on my dick.”
“After you grabbed me and pressed me up against your—”
His phone rang. “Rojas.” His expression darkened at whatever the person on the line said. “You sure? What time is it?” he asked, even as he consulted his watch. “Fuck. No. No, I can’t... No, I can’t slap on long sleeves and extra sunblock, Kat. You want me puking all over the crime scene? Coming down with a case of not-breathing? Name and address... No, I’m not attending... Fine. Name and address, please, Sarge.” He had on his crooked grin as he jotted down whatever Kat was telling him in his ubiquitous notebook. Finally, he tapped his pen against the paper. “And his name is on the list of the charity event?... Yeah, I figured. Thanks for the call.” He hung up and looked at me with a brilliant smile. “Wes.”
Uh-oh. There was a flare of excitement in my gut at the idea of a potential new clue, but an image of the last crime scene tamped it down. “Stop right there.”
The smile died away. “There’s been another murder.”
“This is Toronto. Of course there’s—”
“It has a lot of similarities to Meredith’s and Cyril’s. Member of high society, upscale digs...”
Damn it. I would never wish for someone to die, but the fact that someone had might be the break this case needed. But still...the effects of haunting Evan dragged at my energy and made me cautious.
“Did I mention that this guy’s name appears on the same invitee list as Meredith’s and Cyril’s?”
Yep. A clue. I scrubbed my hand over my face and decided just to be honest with him. “Evan disappeared last night. I had to haunt him.”
“The teleporting thing?”
“Yeah. I found him having a snack.”
“Shit.” Hudson drew out the curse, tension ratcheting through his body. “Is he—Did he—”
“Everyone’s fine. Your son’s a picky eater.”
“Not funny.”
I needed to tell him more about Evan’s depression, but now wasn’t the time. “Haunting is hard. I’m tired. And now you’re asking me to go to a crime scene—when the last one I was at, I almost got sucked through the otherplane.” I bit my lip. “Hud, I want to help, I swear. But I’m not gonna lie... I’m fucking terrified.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see him weighing the pros and cons in his head. Eventually, he grimaced. “I need you to be there.”
Of course he did. Because the job was always going to be more important than me. Had I thought our little groping session this morning meant that had changed? God, I was an idiot. He’d told me himself it meant nothing—when was I going to start believing him?
I pushed up from the couch and brushed my pants. “Fine. We’ll discuss my bill tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I scowled. “Favors are fine and good when they’re being repaid, but
I’m not seeing any reciprocation here.”
Hudson narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? You’re going to bill me?”
“You’re getting paid for your work. Why shouldn’t I?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Why, because I think I should be compensated for—”
“No, because you’re pissy that I’m asking you to do something you don’t want to do. So out comes the ‘Wes doesn’t give a fuck’ attitude.”
Righteous anger bubbled up, bringing with it a shitload of sarcasm. “Oh, totally. Sure. That’s why I’m pissed.”
“Do you think I like the fact that I have to ask you this? That I can’t attend the scene myself?”
“Do you think I like the fact that no one’s going to be there to save me from another trap?”
“You know what to look for and what to avoid. You’ll be fine.”
“You’re using me.”
Hudson’s brows dropped low, but he didn’t refute my accusation.
“Even if it puts me at risk. I’m a convenient tool.” I let out a huff of humorless laughter. “A convenient body in bed.”
He wilted slightly. “Wes—”
“We had sex this morning—”
“We rubbed one out on each other. That’s not—”
“It is totally sex. We gave each other orgasms. After thirty-three years, we gave each other orgasms. And you can’t even stick around long enough to say anything about it?”
Hudson wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I—”
“You know I don’t do casual sex. You know what this morning meant.”
“It shouldn’t mean anything.”
Was that statement more for me, or him? “Goddamn it, Hudson, I’m sick of the hot and cold.”
“Yeah,” Hudson muttered. “Me too.”
When nothing more was forthcoming, I swallowed hard and headed for the door, grabbing the page with the address on it as I walked by him. “Fuck you.”
* * *
I was glad Evan and I managed to retrieve my car from the Yorkville mall, since I hated relying on cabs. And Uber or Lyft or whatever the ride-sharing service was du jour—they were weird. What happened to “don’t accept rides from strangers”? Mind you, without a phone, those services were out, anyway—and I’d forgotten what it was like to try to find an address without GPS.
It sucked.
Rosedale was an even nicer neighborhood than Forest Hill, where Meredith’s house was located. The curvy road that led through the heart of the area was flanked on either side by stone walls and iron gates protecting enormous mansions. All the properties seemed immaculate—from the road, anyway. Like anywhere else, there were probably plenty of secrets and lots of dirt to be found behind closed doors.
As it turned out, once I was in the correct area, it was easy enough to find the murder house. Just look for the flashing red and blue lights. I slowed down, like any good rubbernecker, but continued past without stopping. I turned down a side street a few blocks away and parked the car before referring to Hudson’s note again.
Shawn Cartwright. Age 55. Owner of three car dealerships, producer of “Canada’s Scariest Roads” TV show.
Oh hey. I’d seen that reality show. It wasn’t bad.
The rest of Hudson’s notes were sparse. Apparently Mr. Cartwright was married with two grown kids. The family had been out of town on a trip, but Cartwright had to return to Toronto for a reason that wasn’t yet clear. The housekeeper found his body as she arrived at the house early that morning. No details on how the guy died, and I was okay with that. This time, I was going to stay far away from the body.
The otherplane welcomed me like an old friend. I made my way through the neighborhood back to the Cartwright mansion quickly. I slipped through the mansion’s walls—always a weird sensation—and emerged in the kitchen.
Cops were everywhere, their forms fuzzy and indistinct. I recognized Kat’s silhouette in the dining room, speaking to someone seated on one of the chairs around the large wooden table. Listening in for a few seconds, I determined this was the housekeeper, and she didn’t have much useful information for me.
Most of the cops seemed to be moving in and out of the back sunroom’s French doors, and one glimpse told me why—the dead body on the patio stones surrounding the in-ground pool. I glanced at him and looked away, unwilling to have yet another image of a corpse seared into my brain. Shards of glass around him sparkled in the rising sun, and there was so much blood, it didn’t even look red but deep and dark and black.
The snippets of conversation I caught helped me piece together what I was seeing. Apparently Shawn had been pushed out of a second-story window. A closed second story window. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around the amount of strength it would have taken to do it.
Thankfully, I saw no weirdness hovering over Shawn’s body, and no whispers invaded my brain. Letting out a slow breath of relief, I refocused on the interior of the house.
It was all marble and white walls and columns, décor that made Meredith’s elegant place look positively cozy in comparison, and Cyril’s chaotic even in its neatness. The Cartwright mansion was sterile and cold, and hardly deserved the term home. The art on the walls was classically themed, the furniture chosen because it was ornate and over the top, and nothing had any personality beyond “a lot of money was required to buy this.”
I was seeing a pattern in each of the murder scenes—every victim had a home dripping with abundant illustrations of their wealth. Maybe the murderer was trying to make a point?
I wandered through the rooms on the first floor but saw nothing interesting, not even in the two offices located at one end of a long hall. Knowing next to nothing about Shawn Cartwright and his family, I had no way to tell if anything was out of place or missing or...weird. What did Hudson think I was going to find? The only time I’d been remotely useful was when I’d actually witnessed Meredith’s murder—and even that was debatable.
As always, thinking of Meredith’s death brought with it the guilt I hadn’t yet assuaged. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, and a cop walked through me—only to halt with a full body shudder before he moved on. I didn’t want to be here, and I might not be useful, but it was something. I was doing something. And whether or not I found anything, it was worth the effort just in case I did.
Fuck Hudson for being right. Again.
I trudged upstairs, suspecting it would be more of the same as on the first floor—a whole lot of nothing—but I wasn’t willing to leave the job half done. Unlike Meredith’s place, with its collection of unused bedrooms, most of the bedrooms on this floor exuded the sense of being lived in, or at least used more frequently. None of them had much personality, but that was par for the course with the rest of the house. I avoided the master bedroom and its rash of cops—that must have been Shawn’s exit point—and instead went to explore the loft entertainment room.
It overlooked the dining area and sported a big-screen TV and more comfortable-looking furniture than anywhere else in the house. The far wall was covered in bookshelves holding rows upon rows of classic hardcovers, from Beowulf to The Illiad to more contemporary fare like Farley Mowat, Margaret Atwood, and Nora Roberts, to an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Old school.
I was about to turn away when something pinged my brain. I looked more closely at the second shelf of encyclopedias and frowned. Even when books were pressed tightly together on a shelf, there was some indication of space between them. Not the case with this row. All of the covers seemed...attached to one another. Like they were glued together? I checked the other shelves to confirm that I was seeing something odd, and yep...the other books had some give between them that was missing from the second encyclopedia shelf.
But why?
Maybe they were hiding something. They could be a front for a secret cubbyhole, but I couldn’t risk moving thing
s around from the otherplane, not with a roomful of cops a few doors down, and I certainly couldn’t manifest even for a short time for the same reason.
But I could stick my head through it.
Not that it would get me much information, but I’d be able to sense if there was space there that shouldn’t be. I could pass that info to Hudson, who could then figure out how he was going to “discover” it for himself.
Taking a deep breath, I bent over and stuck my head into the row of encyclopedias. All light was cut off and I tamped down on my instinctual panic. It had taken me a long time—years of doing it—to get used to the feeling of merging through solid mass, like a wall. It offered no resistance, but it felt thicker, like moving from dry winter air to humid summer air in one step. It screamed across my nerve endings as wrong-odd-strange, and I’d had to master the art of not panicking whenever I did it. Which was why I always counted my steps—it was a reminder it would end.
This time, there was only the slightest brush of thicker air—three steps—until suddenly there was space. And...a nightlight?
Holy shit. A secret passage.
Yeah, that was the back of the bookshelf behind me, as best as I could tell. A set of steep stairs led downward, the way polka-dotted with faint LED glow nightlights, the sort that emitted very little light and required almost no energy to run. How to keep your secret passage conveniently illuminated without drawing attention to it. I headed down, and it was bizarre to know I was probably encased in the bulkhead between the foyer and the dining room. I stayed in the otherplane to make sure no one could hear my movement.
The stairs emerged into a room in the basement. The lights that had guided my steps down the stairs were continued into this room, but the larger space made them less effective. Still, I could see enough to make the hair on my arms stand on edge. There appeared to be no other points of entry and the room was completely tiled, ceiling to floor, with a drain embedded in the center.
So...they...washed stuff off in here. It was...some kind of washing room. With shelves sporting weird figurines. And a pattern in the tiled floor that looked like a pentagram?
