Outwit: Spellslingers Academy of Magic (Enforcer of the East Book 1)

by Annabel Chase

  “If anyone can fix him, the hobbit can,” Callan said.

  I glanced from Michael to Callan. “He’s a druid.”

  “And my feet are not particularly large,” Michael added.

  I had no idea what the size of his feet had to do with anything. “Do your friends still want to wake him up?”

  Callan’s gaze lingered on me. “Don’t you?”

  “Not at his expense,” I replied. I knew what he was implying—that if Ben regained consciousness, there was a good chance he could help us identify the killer.

  “The young man is strong. His chances of recovery are good,” Michael said.

  I stood over Ben and feelings of loss stirred within me. There was the faintest evidence of fuzz on his chin and under his nose. He was still on the verge of adulthood. My stomach clenched. I wouldn’t let this young man’s family lose him. There’d been enough death. It was only right for the powers-that-be to spare him. It was only when I glanced at the exposed parts of Ben’s body that I realized that the excess hair was gone. “He looks completely human now. No weird hair.”

  “He didn’t have the strange layer of hair or the broken bones,” Michael said.

  I stared at the helpless figure in the bed. “What do you mean?”

  “This young man did not partake in the potion,” Michael explained. “There was none in his body. I have no idea why. A question we can ask if he ever awakens.”

  “Wait, so the potion’s been confirmed?” Callan asked.

  “Yes, you can speak to Mona about the particulars,” Michael said.

  “And the potion killed the others?” I asked.

  The druid nodded. “But not this one. It’s his mind that seems to be the problem.” He placed a hand lightly on Ben’s forehead.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

  “The shock to his system has been rather great,” Michael explained. He pulled up a chair and sat at the top end of the bed. “Whatever happened to him, it seems his mind is having trouble accepting it.”

  “How can you tell?” I asked.

  “I probed it,” Michael said. “I did a little recon from the edges. I didn’t dare delve too deeply, though. It is far too easy to do more harm than good that way.”

  “What about his parents?” I asked. “I assume they’re human. What do they think happened?”

  “They believe what the other parents do. That their son went camping where someone attacked their campsite and now he’s in a coma,” Michael said.

  “As soon as we get whatever information we can from the humans, the League will take care of the families and friends, and the police,” Callan said.

  Take care of them? “What do you mean?”

  “Glamour them,” Michael replied. “I imagine this incident will become an attack by a wild animal.”

  “We have sweepers who handle that job,” Callan said. “They sweep up whatever magical mess is left behind.”

  “But not you?” I asked.

  “No, our job is to investigate.” Callan said.

  I surveyed the room with its magical instruments and lack of Terrene medical equipment. “Don’t his parents think this place is weird?”

  “The League glamours it for visitors,” Callan said. “Ben’s parents think he’s in the ICU of a regular hospital.”

  “And that the insurance company is fully covering it,” Michael added. “Very important to Terrene families in the United States.”

  “They must be so distraught,” I said, thinking of my own parents. I knew what it was like—the suffering. My heart cracked for Ben’s family.

  “He has a sister, too,” Michael said.

  My palms began to sweat. “Older or younger?”

  “Younger,” Michael replied, and I released the breath I was holding. Not that it mattered. The situation was difficult for everyone involved.

  “Is there any magic we can use to restore his mind?” I asked.

  “Sometimes we can erase a patient’s memory, if that’s the cause of the trauma,” Michael said. “In this case, you don’t want that to happen.”

  “Because we need Ben’s memories,” I finished for him.

  “Yes.” Michael stroked Ben’s slender arm. “He has good energy and he’s a fighter. I believe he’ll make it out of this.”

  The question was—when?

  “Why do we need to come to your office?” I asked. I wouldn’t have minded sitting with Ben a bit longer. I hated that he was so alone right now.

  “Because I have a job to do and that requires dropping by my office,” Callan explained. “You heard Michael. They identified a potion. We need that report.”

  A familiar woman rose from her chair and crossed the room to greet us. Her height was even more apparent in the League office with its ten-foot ceilings.

  “Good morning, Mona,” I said brightly. I’d kill her with kindness. Bryn said it was my superpower.

  “Nobody told me it was Show-n-Tell today,” Mona said. “I would’ve brought my Schnauzer. Everybody loves Mr. Wiggles.”

  “You named your dog Mr. Wiggles?” I asked.

  “That was my reaction when she told me,” Callan said.

  “Seems cruel,” I murmured.

  “Undignified,” Callan agreed.

  Mona’s lips curled into a malevolent smile. “Speaking of undignified, how are things with you two? Fighting over the soap yet?”

  “Thirty feet is more than ample to allow us to retain our dignity, as well as our modesty,” Callan said.

  Mona snorted. “Werewolf modesty. There’s an oxymoron.”

  Callan’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “We’re here to check the system for updates.”

  “You could’ve done that by phone,” Kendall said, appearing behind us.

  “I’d like a copy of the lab report,” Callan said. “I want to know more about this potion. Last time I checked, we don’t send confidential intel like that through a complex series of tubes.”

  “He means the internet,” Mona whispered. “He thinks it’s funny to give it complicated names.”

  “The lab report is on your desk,” Kendall said. “But I’ll save your eyesight and tell you what it says. The potion is unidentifiable.”

  I blinked. “They can’t identify a potion?”

  “They were able to identify the individual ingredients in the potion, but not their intended purpose,” Mona said. “It’s an unknown combination. We need to seek the help of outside consultants. We’ve got feelers out.”

  “What about the families of the victims?” Callan asked. “Any progress there?”

  Mona waved a file at us. “Kendall and I spoke to a couple of parents already. Their sons were meant to be on a camping trip for the weekend.”

  “All twelve of them?” Callan asked.

  “That seems to be the case,” Kendall said. “We haven’t spoken to all the parents yet, but one of the fathers mentioned twelve guys. He didn’t know all the names, though.”

  “And the fraternity connection?” Callan asked.

  “Confirmed,” Mona said. “One of the moms we spoke to said her son met the group a few times at the Spot before the camping trip. Everyone was looking forward to it.”

  “Which mom?” Callan asked.

  Mona opened the file and scanned for the name. “Bruce Milligan. His mom is Kelly. Widowed mom. Very tight with her son. She’s a wreck.”

  I could imagine.

  Callan groaned. “Are you sure it’s the Spot?”

  Mona suppressed a smile. “I could pretend it’s the Spotted Pig or a Spot of Tea, but that wouldn’t be very helpful.”

  I looked from Mona to Callan. “What’s the Spot?”

  “A bar,” Callan answered. He didn’t offer any more information than that.

  “I can go,” Mona said, “but you’re better equipped.”

  Callan cut a glance at Kendall. “You game?”

  “Would be, except Patrice asked me to join her crew for a stakeout tonight. They’re do
wn one and the target is an eight on the danger scale.”

  “Who’s out now—Lancaster?” Callan asked, and Kendall nodded.

  “He’s on paid leave for another week,” the werebear said. “He covered for me during my knee surgery so I owe him. If I’d known we were going to have a mass murder on our hands, though, I would’ve passed.”

  “Next time we’ll be sure to have the murderer give you a heads up,” Callan said.

  “Much appreciated,” Kendall said. “I’m heading out for coffee. Anybody want?”

  “There’s coffee here,” Mona said, tilting her head toward the kitchenette at the back of the office.

  “Real coffee, not sewage waste,” Kendall clarified.

  “I’m good,” Mona said, lifting her mug to her lips. “Mmm. Yummy sewage waste. Gets the blood pumping.”

  “How about you, little witch?” Kendall asked. “Need anything?”

  “I need to not be called little witch,” I replied.

  Callan stifled a laugh. “I’ll make sure we grab something while we’re out.”

  Kendall pointed a finger at Callan. “She’s your responsibility, Callan. I don’t care how sassy she is. You can’t kill her.”

  Good to know.

  Mona pulled a vial of green liquid from her pocket. “The lab sent over a couple of these. It’s the potion extracted from the victims. Highly potent so don’t open the vial unless you’ve got protection.”

  Callan took the vial and slid it into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can find out from Angus.”

  Mona showed us her perfectly square teeth. “See? I knew you were the right guy to send to the Spot.”

  Callan’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “So if I break his jukebox with the head of a minotaur, I don’t have to go back?”

  Mona huffed. “It was one time and it was self-defense. It’s not my fault Angus didn’t see it that way.”

  “We’ve got time to kill between now and the Spot,” Callan said. “Why don’t you give me one of the victim’s files? We’ll interview the parents.”

  Mona’s gaze lingered on me. “You’re going to bring the witch?”

  Callan shrugged. “I don’t see a choice, do you?”

  Mona aimed the file at me before handing it to Callan. “Sit politely next to Callan and don’t say a word. We can’t risk this entire investigation because your friend felt impulsive.”

  I huffed for good measure. “I have no intention of jeopardizing this investigation. I want the killer brought to justice the same as you.”

  Callan opened the file. “Warren Jenkins.”

  “One of the graduates,” Mona said. “Kendall and I will go see Patrick McMullen’s parents. He’s next on the list.”

  “I’ll check in later,” Callan said.

  Mona smirked. “Yes, call me from your dorm room, Prefect.”

  He made an obscene gesture in response before steering me out of the office.

  Warren Jenkins’ parents lived in an upper middle class enclave. There seemed to be a Mercedes and Lexus in every driveway.

  “Honeycomb Drive is a sweet name,” Callan mused. “Can’t blame the guy for hanging around and living in the basement.”

  “He probably had everything he could possibly want already,” I said. “No incentive to move out.”

  Callan parked in the driveway. “I love a good basketball hoop,” he said. “Although it seems unfair given Warren’s short stature. The file says he was only five foot four.”

  “Basketball is only for tall people?”

  “They’re generally better at it,” Callan said. He strode up the walkway to the front door and hustled to keep pace with him.

  “Do you tell them you’re a cop?” I asked. He couldn’t identify himself as an investigator for the League. Humans wouldn’t—couldn’t know what that was.

  “I usually say I’m a private investigator,” he replied.

  “Who hired you?”

  “One of the other boys’ parents,” he said. “Names are confidential.”

  “A handy lie.”

  Callan’s expression was grim. “Whatever it takes to solve the case.” He rang the bell and shoved his hands in his pockets. Lyle Jenkins opened the door and his wife stood in the entryway behind him, talking on the phone. She cut off the conversation when she saw us and waved us inside.

  “You’re the private investigators, aren’t you?” Cecily Jenkins said. “I was just on the phone with Bruce’s mom and she said people had been round to see them.”

  The first thing that struck me about Lyle and Cecily Jenkins was their height. Warren’s parents were both taller than average. Mona would’ve felt right at home here.

  “Come in,” Lyle said, ushering us inside. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Callan said. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. We know you must be reeling from the news.”

  Cecily pressed her lips together and I could tell she was trying to hold back her emotions. “It’s been so hard. Warren was our only child.” She strangled a cry and her husband planted a comforting kiss on her forehead.

  They insisted we sit down in the living room where an entire wall was devoted to Warren. Cecily caught me looking at the framed photos from my place on the sofa.

  “His friends referred to it as the shrine,” she said with a vague smile. “Warren didn’t mind, though. It made him feel loved.”

  “He didn’t have the easiest childhood,” Lyle said. He sat in the recliner adjacent to the sofa. “We did everything we could to make sure he knew how special he was.”

  Warren in a place called Disney. Warren dressed as an astronaut. Warren playing a piano. Warren in a cap and gown.

  “Warren was adopted when he was nine months old,” Cecily explained. “We’d always intended to keep it a secret.”

  “Until he turned eight and started telling us about his visions,” Lyle added.

  “Visions?” Callan asked, exchanging a glance with me.

  “He’d claim to see monsters,” Lyle said with an apologetic laugh. “Vampires and werewolves. You know, the stuff of lore.”

  So Warren had the Sight.

  “He struggled to make friends,” Cecily said. “Inevitably, he’d point out a creature and frighten whichever boy or girl he was trying to befriend. The parents would be furious and that would be the end of that friendship.”

  “We tried sports, too,” Lyle said. “Cecily and I were both athletes and we encouraged Warren to try.”

  Cecily pursed her lips. “He wasn’t the most coordinated child.”

  “And he would get real frustrated that Cecily and I didn’t share his struggle,” his father said. “He didn’t like feeling inferior.”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “Poor Warren. May he make many friends in Heaven.”

  “He seemed to have friends in his fraternity,” I said.

  “That group was a godsend,” Lyle said. “He was miserable in college until he joined the frat his sophomore year. Changed his life.”

  “Of course it wasn’t the cool frat, but a group of misfits is better than one misfit all by himself.” Cecily used air quotes to accentuate the word ‘cool.’

  I didn’t really understand the distinction. Friends were friends as far as I was concerned. The rest was white noise.

  “Would you describe him as unhappy?” I asked.

  Cecily appeared thoughtful. “Not exactly. Just perpetually frustrated. He didn’t land the job he wanted.”

  “Or the girl he wanted,” Lyle said pointedly. “Let’s not forget about Jennifer.”

  Cecily rolled her eyes. “How can I forget? Such drama.”

  “Who’s Jennifer?” I asked.

  “A young woman he went to college with,” Cecily explained. “Warren had a crush on her for years, but he never worked up the nerve to ask her out.”

  “He’d finally decided it was time when one of his fraternity brothers announced that he and Jennifer were an item,” Lyle said.
<
br />   “It was hard for Warren,” Cecily said. “Dan seemed to live a charmed life. He was tall, handsome, fun to be around—everything Warren aspired to be.”

  “So Warren must’ve been pretty upset with Dan,” I said.

  “More upset with himself for waiting so long,” Cecily said. “He’d missed his chance and he knew it.”

  I began to feel sorry for Warren. Nothing ever seemed to pan out for him.

  “Did you notice a change in his demeanor after that?” Callan asked. “Was he depressed? Maybe suicidal?”

  Lyle jumped in immediately to reject the idea. “Absolutely not. Warren was a fighter.”

  I noticed Cecily’s hands braided into a ball in her lap. “Mrs. Jenkins? Do you share your husband’s view?”

  Cecily hesitated. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s difficult to say what goes on in a person’s mind.”

  “Cecily!” her husband exclaimed. “There’s no way our son took part in some kind of mass suicide. It’s impossible. Dan is one of the dead, for God’s sake. He certainly had everything to live for.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest he took his life,” I said gently. “I’m only wondering whether Warren might have sought out methods to ease his suffering.”

  Cecily lowered her voice. “Like drugs?”

  “Maybe,” I replied.

  Cecily kept her gaze pinned on the floor. She knew something. Callan must’ve noticed the same thing because he said, “Mrs. Jenkins, can you think of any other behavioral changes? New habits?”

  She bit her lip, clearly struggling with her admission. “He asked me to unseal the records so that he could find his biological parents.”

  Lyle nearly blasted out my eardrums. “What?”

  Cecily couldn’t bring herself to look at her husband. “He asked me not to tell you.”

  “Why?” he thundered.

  “Because he knew you’d be upset and he didn’t want that.” Cecily faced us. “Lyle had a heart attack two years ago and Warren went out of his way not to agitate him. He knew asking about his biological family would cause Lyle undue stress.”