Witch Craft

by Caitlin Kittredge

  Everything was covered in blood. Liberal lines of low-velocity spray coated the desk, the carpet, the walls, even the blacked-out window that looked at the alley behind the shop. Manners had been shredded. It wasn’t hyperbole—his clothes were in tatters and the skin beneath was flayed open so that I could see gristle and muscle and bone.

  “Jee-sus.” Bryson stood in the doorway, one hand over his mouth. “Poor bastard.”

  I shut my eyes for a second, the blood scent and the sticky feeling on my skin making me want to scream—or howl.

  Get a grip, Wilder. Get it fast.

  Okay. I took two steps back, putting myself outside the crime scene. There was still blood on my shoes. “Crap,” I muttered.

  “My lord.” Annemarie took one look at the body and the blood-painted office and retreated. I heard her calling for backup and radioing Pete to come down and assist the CSU team.

  Bryson put a pudgy hand on my shoulder. “You okay, Wilder?”

  I looked at him. “Not really, David,” I said.

  He grinned. “Because of that little old dead body? Come on. I’ve seen worse at the butcher’s shop.”

  “No,” I murmured. “Because I think someone tried to kill me.”

  Five

  I got the duty of standing by the crime scene, making sure no one disturbed it, while we waited for Pete and a CSU team. Annemarie barely stayed in the store, and Bryson hovered where he didn’t have to look at the body.

  “What d’you mean, someone’s trying to kill you?” Bryson hollered from his vantage point.

  I waved him off. “Forget it, David. It’s not important right now.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more—Bryson is a gossipy old woman at heart—but the CSU team arrived, all somber navy windbreakers, silent figures who went about their duties with an air of resignation.

  Pete came over to me. “I called the medical examiner from day shift, but he kicked it to Dr. Kronen, because they’re swamped from the weekend. I didn’t complain.”

  “Fine,” I murmured.

  The tech with the camera did the requisite headshake and muttered, “Hex me.” I took note of that. She might be a friendly, if this was the sort of thing that put people on opposite sides of the supernatural/plain human fence.

  Pete did his job smoothly and efficiently, and I was proud of him. He had his own camera and a slew of evidence bags, and he bagged Milton Manners’s hands and photographed every corner of the room. Anything that might be trace, including the blood-spattered laptop and ledgers on the desk, got bagged and tagged.

  Bryson yelled again. “Sawbones is here, Wilder!”

  Bart Kronen gave him a distasteful look, lips pulled tight like a purse. “So good to see you again, Detective.” Sarcasm dripped off his words like venom, but he smiled when he saw me. “Lieutenant Wilder. Congratulations are in order.”

  “Appreciate it, Bart,” I said. “But save it for when I haven’t just discovered a hacked-up body, maybe?”

  He shrugged. “As you wish.” The dead never bothered Bart. He pulled their secrets free as easily as I interrogated a live suspect. Bending over Manners, Bart didn’t even flinch as he peeled back the shirt shreds and shone his penlight into the wounds.

  “Well, I can already spot your fallacy, Lieutenant,” he said.

  I didn’t want to walk into that room again. The smell was overpowering, and looking at the red, ripe meat was making me think all sorts of nonhuman thoughts.

  But I did, because I was better than my were. I had a job to do, and the day I freaked out in front of Kronen, the gods, and everybody was the day I retired for something less taxing, like mall security.

  “Okay,” I said to Bart. “What did I do wrong?”

  “Aside from put your footprints in the crime scene?” His eyes twinkled with amusement. This was Bart’s version of comradely chatter. “This body was not hacked.” He showed me the furrow in Manners’s back, ragged along all the edges. “I can see how you made the presumption. Something like a machete would make these long cuts. But this was a short sharp instrument, dragged with great force, almost as if this poor soul were raked over.”

  I knew what was coming and excuses were already in my throat.

  “These marks were most likely made by claws,” said Bart.

  “It wasn’t a were,” I shot back. “I would have smelled him. Her. Point is, it couldn’t have been a shape-shifter.” Both were and Wendigo smell pretty distinctive, and they weren’t here. Just blood, and the cloying smell of imminent decomposition.

  “Be that as it may,” said Bart gently. “There are a great number of scent markers in this room. Are you sure you did not become confused?”

  “I don’t get confused,” I snapped. “It was not a were. I’m not turning this into a witch hunt, Bart.”

  He stood up, careful not to get any of the spatter on him. Better than I’d managed it. My skin crawled and I wanted nothing more than to douse myself under a hot shower.

  “As you wish, Lieutenant,” said Bart. “But until you can show me the talons of the creature that did this, I will be forced to record my initial impressions when I retrieve this man for an autopsy.”

  He turned to sign out with the uniformed officer at the door, and I had a brain wave. “Bart, wait!”

  I caught him by the shoulder. “Could the weapon have been anything like this?”

  This was going to suck, both for me and for my reputation in the department. Who was I kidding? I had none left, except as Wilder, that crazy bitch in the basement.

  Bart eyed me. “I’m waiting, Lieutenant.”

  I sucked in a breath and let the phase come, drawn in by the smell of Manners’s blood. My claws came out again, my eyes changed from gray to gold, and I felt my teeth start to grow.

  “Holy crap,” Bryson said, from far away. I held up my hand to Bart. The claws were clean, the blood from the seal woman erased.

  “Could they be something like this?”

  Bart never blinked. He took my hand and examined my claws, running his thumb along the edge like you would a high-quality kitchen knife. “No,” he said shortly. “These are too small and narrow.” He released me. “It appears you were right, Luna. A were is not the culprit here.”

  I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t as sure as I seemed. Every were pack is different—different magick, different abilities, different physiology. I already lived with enough twitchy fear in my hindbrain because of what the general public thought of us. I wasn’t giving Bart any more reasons.

  “Hey, Wilder.” Bryson’s voice broke through my fog. I spun on him, snarling. To his credit, he only flinched. “You can put it away now,” he said. “Uh … everyone’s sorta looking.”

  My instincts warred for just a second before I clamped down on the were. I’ve had fifteen years of practice, and only when I get truly enraged do I have trouble keeping my monster under wraps. Slowly, I felt stings in my eyes and jaw and hands as the phase receded.

  “What are you all looking at?” I snapped at the slack-jawed evidence techs. “The department doesn’t pay you to stand around picking your teeth. Get back to work!” The force of my voice shook them out of their stillness, and they flew back to their tasks.

  Bryson shook his head. “You gotta prepare me for that shit, Wilder. Otherwise I’m gonna be reaching for the silver bullets.”

  “You don’t have silver bullets,” I snarled, childish and cranky. The phase was a lot like PMS—it played havoc with your emotions and never left you in the best of moods.

  “I do.”

  The voice from over my shoulder had an amused tinge, which was the only reason I didn’t spin around and immediately punch the owner in the face.

  Will Fagin stood just behind me, way too close for comfort, his sunglasses in place. The suit was slate-blue today, with a red tie and shiny black shoes. Very Rat Pack. “What are you doing at my crime scene, Lieutenant Wilder?”

  Maybe it wasn’t too late to punch him in the face.

/>   I pasted a wide smile on my face instead. “I’m so sorry, Agent Fagin. I wasn’t aware that your name was on this particular crime scene. That seems to be an issue with the two of us.”

  Okay, that was kindergarten, but the guy was so smug he could drive a Buddhist monk to sarcasm.

  Fagin got even closer to me, tilting his shades down. His eyes, up close, were the color of India ink, with tones of deep blue like sunlight trying to reach the bottom of the ocean. “Look, Ms. Wilder, I don’t want to get into a jurisdictional pissing contest here, but if that’s what you want, I’m telling you now—I’m the best in this town, and you’ll lose to me.”

  Bryson and Annemarie had clustered behind me, and Annemarie gasped at what, to her ears, was foul language. Bryson just looked like he wanted to clean the floor with Fagin. I gripped the agent by the elbow. “Can I speak to you outside for a moment?”

  “I don’t think we really—ow! Hey!”

  Were strength has its benefits, for sure. I grabbed Fagin by his upper arm—solid, lean muscle under my grip—and dragged him out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

  “Bloody hell!” he snapped. “You almost dislocated my shoulder.”

  “Yeah, well, man up,” I suggested. “Mr. Big Tough Federal Agent.”

  “I never claimed I was tough,” Fagin said. “Just the best. Now, what? What’s so important?” The corners of his mouth were twitching. I amused him. Christ, he really was looking for a beating.

  “Why the Hex are you here?” I demanded. “This guy was a small-time fence for stolen goods, which, last time I checked, was not the provenance of ATF. So either come up with a damn good reason for being here, or step off.”

  Fagin looked at his shoes. Probably checking his reflection. Not a hair was out of place, and in the sun he was very blond and very good-looking. Not that I was checking him out or anything. Police officers notice everyone, pretty or not.

  What? We do.

  “I can’t tell you that,” he sighed finally. “It’s a confidential investigation by the Bureau.”

  “No interdepartmental cooperation, no crime scene,” I said. “Get moving, Fagin.”

  He sighed. “You’re really throwing me out? Me? I class up the joint.”

  “Try to get a court order, if you want,” I suggested. “Or show me some proof that this is an ATF case. Your choice.”

  Fagin paced a few steps away, and then back. He was out of control now, and I liked it. People are easier to read when they’re off balance. “You’re a real hard-ass, you know that?”

  “Thank you,” I said with a grim smile. “I’ve worked at it. Mostly because of cocky bastards like you.”

  “Me?” He poked his vintage jacket, affronted. “Doll, I simply acknowledge that I have a certain skill set. It’s everyone else who’s cocky.”

  Doll? I contented myself with rolling my eyes. “You going to ’fess up, or are you going to hit the road, Agent?”

  “Fine.” He heaved a sigh. “But I’ll need access to the office.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “Let’s go.”

  We wound back through the dusty shop, putting on paper booties this time to protect our shoes from the blood. Fagin snapped on gloves, stepped over the body like it was a box of crackers, and beelined for a cheap oil painting on the wall. A pastoral scene, cows and all. He took the ugly thing off the hook and there, set into the plaster like a fresh wound, was a safe.

  “None of you thought to look for this?” I demanded to the CSU crew and my detectives. Annemarie spread her hands. Bryson had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “My fault,” said Pete shortly. “I didn’t search the room thoroughly. I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” He was glaring at Fagin like he wanted to melt him in a microwave.

  “Forget it, Pete,” I said, loud enough for all to hear. “Fortunately, we have Agent Fagin to show us the error of our ways.”

  Every single eye in the room lasered into the agent’s back. There. See how smug he was with my entire squad and tech team turned against him.

  “Thanks,” Fagin said, examining the safe. There was a keypad combination lock. “Really. Can’t tell you how much I love dealing with hostile locals.”

  “Payback for the whole pissing-contest thing,” I said, pleasant as if I were in church, chatting with the vicar. Not that I’ve ever actually been to church, voluntarily.

  “You know, I was wrong about you,” said Fagin.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Not only are you a hard-ass, but I think you’re as nasty and underhanded as I am.” He punched a code into the keypad and the safe unlocked.

  I edged up to him until we were touching, front-to-back. “I don’t know what universe you’re living in,” I murmured into his ear. He got very still, every bit of him tense, hand resting on the safe handle. “But in case you didn’t know, women work in law enforcement now. And occasionally, we’re even good at it. Call me a cute nickname again and I will castrate you in public. And then I’ll laugh. You’re right: I am nasty. That’s exactly the kind of nasty thing I’d do.”

  I punctuated the last with a soft growl that stood every hair on Fagin’s neck straight up. He turned around, ever so slowly, until we were separated by maybe half an inch, sharing body heat.

  “Wow,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. His eyes were shining. Both of us were shaking a little, me from being pissed the hell off, Fagin from … I scented him.

  “Do you want to go out to dinner sometime?” he asked, a grin splitting his face.

  I closed my eyes and forced myself not to bang my head into the wall. He smelled cool and sweet, with an undercurrent of that man smell that they get when they’re, well … use your imagination. “Gods,” I muttered.

  “I’m sorry,” Fagin said. He dropped his gaze from mine. “I’m just … I’m used to dealing with dumb cops. It’s been that way in every posting I’ve had. No one wants to deal with the feds, and they stonewall us, and they’re rude. But you—you’re not rude.”

  “What am I?” I asked, not backing up. I had the upper hand, it seemed, what with my chest pushed into his, and I was going to abuse it. “Tell me, Fagin—what else could you possibly say about me?”

  “You … you are something approaching terrifying,” he said, and laughed. “Now, Lieutenant Wilder, do you want to see why I’m interested in poor old Milt down there? Really?”

  Kronen’s morgue team had arrived, and rolled Manners into a body bag. The screech of the zipper bespoke finality. It was over now. We could return to our lives.

  I backed away from Fagin, who still had that evil grin on his face. “Yeah. Show me.”

  Fagin twirled a combination and jerked the safe open with a ker-chunk. I expected cash, drugs, maybe some gold bars from Nazi Germany. I didn’t expect guns.

  They lay in neat rows, eight of them, four pistols and four small-caliber machine guns. Fagin swept his hand over his bounty. “We got word of high-end guns coming into Nocturne via antiques shipped from Eastern Europe and Asia. Seems that Milt wasn’t happy with fencing Grandma’s jewels any longer and went after the big bucks.”

  “Holy crap,” said Bryson. Inwardly, I was thinking pretty much the same thing.

  “So,” Fagin said. “You ready to admit that I belong here now?” He snapped open his phone and put in a call to his agency to collect the guns before I could say one way or the other.

  I didn’t put up a fuss. I was looking for something nonhuman that had ripped Manners apart, and I was inclined to think it probably wasn’t because of his gunrunning.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m willing to let you in on the investigation, on a cooperative basis. ‘Cooperative’ here means that I’m in charge.”

  He nodded. “I can live with that.”

  I cocked my eyebrow. “Coming from someone with an ego the size of Downtown, I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m not an egomaniac,” Fagin said. He leaned on a banquette upholstered in dusty blue velvet. “And I’m not adverse to a woman in
authority. I’m just an equal-opportunity asshole.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “Yep. It’s one of my more charming traits.”

  “Is your continued health and safety enough of a reason to knock it off?”

  He shook his head, ruffling those golden locks just a smidge. “No. But you yourself are, dollface.” He stuck out his hand. “You have my full cooperation.”

  “Good,” I said, not shaking. “And the Corley fire—we’re investigating that as an SCS crime. You’ll back off?”

  “As long as we’re sharing information, why not let me help you?” Fagin said. “ATF has resources that your department doesn’t. And there’s, you know, my continued presence and its associated cachet.”

  “The SCS needs this case,” I told him, in a bout of all-too-frequent honesty. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. It’s served to get me into a whole lot of trouble, but sometimes it works out in my favor, because the people I’m talking to are so stunned they let me grab the upper hand.

  “Did I say anything about taking credit?” said Fagin. “I don’t need some podunk arson case to make my career. It’s made, doll. I am the golden boy of the Nocturne City office.” He rubbed the back of his neck when I didn’t immediately swoon. “But it’s still an interesting fire and I want to help. Or is that more than your pride will allow?”

  He grinned again, showing his teeth. Daring me to go one more round.

  “You know something, you sell yourself short,” I told him. “You are the king of all the assholes I’ve ever met.”

  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, as I turned to walk away. We were done here. Manners was tagged and bagged, and Pete had all of his evidence for analysis. We’d find the killer—who- or whatever it was.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Fagin called. “You never answered my question.”

  I turned around, feeling the pink creep up my face. “What are you talking about?”

  “Dinner. You and me. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Fagin relaxed into that too-cool pose I was starting to recognize as his triumphant posture.