by Deanna Chase
I tried very hard not to wonder where he had come from just now. It made sense for him to fuel up before taking a long trip into the city. I wish I hadn’t known anything about it.
“Check under your seat.” He strapped in, skimmed his gaze over me to make sure I was settled, then merged into the light evening traffic.
I groped the floorboard until my fingers bumped a stiff edge. I was guessing a manila folder. After scooping it up, I cracked the thick file open across my lap and began skimming the front page.
“That’s everything we could find on the Richardsons. Maybe you’ll see something I missed.”
“I doubt that,” I murmured. I caught his pleased smile from the corner of my eye. Guys were so easy.
His fingers drummed the wheel. “You’ve got six hours to mull it over before we reach Dallas.”
My back ached thinking about it. “Explain again why we couldn’t fly?”
“On a scale of one to five,” he said with a dollop of sarcasm, “you and I are threat level fours.”
“That’s bogus.” I huffed. “We’re marshals. We’re the good guys.”
“We’re also predatory species who could do a lot of damage to the few hundred humans trapped with us in a tin can in the sky.” He sounded resigned. “It sucks for our kind, but them’s the breaks.”
I didn’t correct him. I didn’t have a kind. Like Mai said, Mac was unique. That made me one of a kind too.
“Huh.” I shifted my attention to the Richardson file. “Bethany was born in Hastings, Nebraska.” I grabbed my phone and accessed a map. “What are the odds that Hastings is spitting distance from Lebanon, Kansas?”
“It’s an hour drive,” he said without hesitation. “Spitting distance is out unless she’s part llama.”
Oh ha-ha. I hadn’t expected the location to be breaking news. He would have spotted the nearness to the conclave’s U.S. headquarters right off the bat.
“The missus is what—mid-forties?” I pocketed my cell then flipped to her picture and bio. “A very well-preserved forty-six.”
“You’re reaching,” he cautioned.
“There were riots in Lebanon during the mid-seventies when the first wave of trolls was granted the right to use the tether between realms to cross into the mortal realm and make their home here.”
“That’s circumstantial evidence at best,” he cautioned. “The conclave crushed the riots and spun the news coverage so humans thought a religious cult had imploded. Bethany was seven. I doubt she showed any undue interest in the news at that age. Nice catch, but you have to dig deeper.”
I arched an eyebrow.
Chuckles rumbled from his throat. “No offense meant.”
“None taken.” I smiled up at him. “I wouldn’t want to bark up the wrong tree.”
“I see what you did there,” he said dryly.
I smirked into the folder. “It’s okay when I do it.”
“Of course it is,” he said in his I know better than to argue with a woman voice.
High on smugness, I sank into reading the file, devouring the typed pages before asking Shaw to help me decipher some of his handwritten notes. By the time we reached Dallas and checked into our hotel room, yes, as in singular, I was exhausted. I was also an expert on one Bethany Marie Richardson.
Chapter Eight
Normally, I’m the opposite of a morning person. In fact, I have been known to growl at them on principle. Waking up to find Shaw standing half naked in the doorway to our bathroom with only his towel wrapped around his hips perked me up faster than an injection of double espresso to the heart.
I peeked at him from under my lashes, watching as he paced while brushing his teeth. His phone occupied his other hand. Furrows in his brow deepened the faster his thumb stroked the screen.
Shaw stopped with his back to me, giving me time to admire all the hard muscle packed onto his tall frame. Water pooled in my mouth. I wiped the back of my hand over my lips and faked a yawn.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
I checked the alarm clock and groaned. “It’s six o’clock.”
He crossed to the bathroom, spat and rinsed while I was trying to convince my bladder we could roll over and go back to sleep without me having to climb out of a comfy bed to make a pit stop first.
“The magistrates’ office emailed.” He raised his voice over the running faucet while he prepped to shave, which made my bladder situation worse. “The Richardsons have given their statements and been cleared to leave Odessa, provided they agree to make themselves available for future inquiries.”
I pushed upright and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “What does that mean for us?”
His gaze traveled from my sparkly coral toenails up my calves to my knees. “What?”
Flipping the sheet over my lap, I tried again. “What does that mean for us?”
He killed the faucet. “I couldn’t hear over the water.” After giving that lie a moment to stink up the room, he pulled the door almost closed. “They can drive the twenty minutes to Midland, catch a ten o’clock flight and touch down at the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport at a quarter after eleven.”
“Can we get a confirmation from the marshals in Odessa?” I wondered.
“Already made the call,” he yelled. “They’ll ring us if/when the Richardsons hop a plane.”
I nibbled my bottom lip. The ranch was swarming with marshals. I couldn’t think of one good reason for them to go back there. Escape to Mrs. Richardson’s second home was their best bet. Or at least hers.
Now that they had been cut loose in Odessa, the marshals could watch them and let us know which way they ran.
“We’ve got five hours.” I tossed the cover aside and shoved into the bathroom with him. “Sorry, but you’re the one who wanted to share.” Pushing him over the threshold, I slammed the door closed on his heels. Pounding on the door caught me with my sleep shirt halfway over my head. “What was that?” I cranked up the hot water until the shower became a dull roar and grinned evilly. “I can’t hear over the water.”
My pulse sprinted as I ducked under the steam. Not even a sneak peek of Shaw’s abs had given me this sort of rush. A shiver wracked me. I was in serious danger of falling in love with my job.
Mrs. Richardson’s apartment was located on the eighteenth floor of a skyscraper in downtown. A man with nondescript features wearing a sedate gray uniform held the door open for us on the street. I was mildly surprised he let us pass until I caught a whiff of spice on the air. The scent tightened my gut, but it also kept the doorman smiling. When the uniformed man behind a desk in the lobby noticed us, he jumped from his chair and chased us to the bank of elevators. Shaw dialed up his lure, hooking the poor guy so hard he shuffled back to his seat with a dopey grin on his face. He was waving his pinky at us as the elevator doors closed.
“Don’t say it,” Shaw muttered under his breath.
I fanned the residual fragrance away from my face. “Say what?”
He leaned against the wall, letting his head hit it with a thump. “Whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“Other than hoping we don’t plummet to our deaths in a freak accident, my mind is blank.”
“That’s comforting.” He straightened as a chime indicated we had reached our floor. “Ready?”
I gripped my satchel’s strap. “Yep.”
We had exited the lift together and paused to gain our bearings when it hit me. A sickly sweet scent. Decay. “There’s a body.” I inhaled again. “Definitely fae. Recent too. Coming from this way.”
I put my nose to use and followed the pungent aroma to apartment three-twenty-two.
“That’s the Richardsons’ apartment,” Shaw confirmed. “Stand back.”
He dug in his pocket until he produced a weathered brass skeleton key.
It had a vaguely familiar look, like I had seen one in a picture once. “Where did you get that?”
His smugness level shot off the charts.
“From a certain bean-tighe who no longer needed her all-key.”
“That’s Mable’s all-key?” Each bean-tighe was sent out in the world with one. A key that could open any door. So when they found their true home, they could enter without violating the building.
Shaw focused on the lock. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
“I thought it was a one-time-use deal?”
“It is, for them.” He lined the bulky key up to the sleek lock. “I’m not a bean-tighe. The key will work for me until I vow to remain inside the four walls of a building for life, which ain’t happening.”
“I’ll be sure to add one of those to my Christmas list.”
“Aren’t you a little old to believe in Santa Claus?”
“Have you seen Mable?”
“Point taken.”
Hovering at Shaw’s shoulder, I watched him press his elongated key into the slit on the knob. It shouldn’t have fit. Metal should have hit metal and called it a day. Instead, the lock gaped like one of those cartoon mouths and devoured the key. Shaw turned it, opened the door and then stood there for a good thirty seconds uttering threats involving hammers at the doorknob if it didn’t return his key.
Ptui. The lock spat out the key and its thin lips puckered into its previous shape.
“This is all very Alice in Wonderland.” I trailed him into the white-on-white living space. “Well, if she skinned the White Rabbit for her couch.” There were matching ivory chairs too. “I guess those were his cousins?”
Shaw locked the door behind us. “According to their website, all one-bedroom floor plans have a home office or office nook.”
“You take the office.” I sniffed out the foul scent trail. “I’ll take the bedroom and work my way out.”
“Wear these.” He tossed me latex gloves. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”
I snapped them on, and the cool tingles of an activated spell swept over my hands.
A king-size bed sat catty-corner opposite me. The bedroom was painted white, but the comforter was crimson. Small black velvet bird appliques swarmed in the center. I’m not much for art. I’ll confess the deeper meaning of the twisted comforter was lost on me. Maybe death to all swallows?
Speaking of death… The faint essence of decay lingering in the hall shrouded this room. It smelled ground into the accent rugs, and no amount of plug-in air freshener could mask it from a nose as keen as mine. I followed the sharpest whiff of odor straight to the bed and ripped back the covers. The center of the bed, where the sheets should have been white, was a rusty-brown color and crusted with dried blood.
“Shaw,” I called.
He padded down the hall, stopping when his shoulder brushed mine. “Is this what you smelled?”
Easing around the side of the bed, I lowered my face six inches above the mattress and inhaled. I straightened slowly, processing the puzzling information. “No. It’s not. Someone—or something—else was in here.” I gestured toward the stains. “This is old, faint. Human. What I smelled in the hall, and in here, it’s hard to describe. The stench has seeped into the walls from constant contact with whatever it is.”
His gaze bounced from the en suite bathroom to the closet. “Do you think it’s still here?”
“Unless it’s hiding in the walls…” which, I’ll admit, was a possibility with fae, “…no.”
“Then keep searching.” He cleared the bathroom and closet. “We’ll set a perimeter spell when we leave. I want to monitor the foot traffic in and out of this place for the next forty-eight hours.” His gaze swept around the room. “Call if you find anything else.”
“Will do.” I tugged the mattress off the box spring then stood it against the wall. Stains covered the base and, when I shuffled it aside, more blood had congealed in a puddle on the hardwood floor.
I read once the human body contained five and a half liters of blood.
I bet every ounce of it had spilled here.
Nothing worth noting in or under the bedframe. I kicked aside the crimson area rug and examined the contents of Mrs. Richardson’s closet. More shoes than a Payless, but no secret compartments, odd stains or odors.
The bathroom proved less interesting. Jars and tubes filled each drawer, the labels all printed in French. I collected a few hairs from her brush and bagged her razor. Her nail clippers also got tagged. Nothing unusual so far. Okay, so the freaky stuff only happened in the bed. Didn’t it always?
Reentering the bedroom, I noticed two things. The box spring sat on the bedframe as though I had never moved it, and the mattress no longer leaned against the wall but now stood in front of the door.
A blast of cold air shot down my neck, stirring the ripe scent of rot around the room. This was it, the stench from the hallway. I turned a slow circle, coughing as the stench worsened. “Shaw?”
No response.
Okay then.
Keeping it casual, I walked to the mattress and gripped the fabric handles sewn into the sides. It wouldn’t budge. I jerked harder. No dice. I threw my weight into tugging it aside when pain stung my hand. I stumbled back, dripping blood from a nasty bite mark swelling across the top of my hand.
So much for the cut-resistant gloves.
A bite like this should have healed a second after the teeth let go, but it wasn’t mending. It was festering as I watched. Ick.
“Come out with your hands up,” I snapped.
Gray mist drifted from behind the mattress and settled across the floor. As the smoke-like twists uncurled, a slender creature no more than two feet high at the shoulder solidified with massive teeth on display. It wore a tailored crimson half vest trimmed with white fur. Factor in the pointy ears and it reminded me of an elf. Not North Pole stock, either. More like Krampus’s child-whipping helpers.
Huh. Maybe Shaw was on to something with the Christmas-fascination thing.
“I will do no such thing.” The creature straightened his vest. “This is my home.”
Uh-oh. House spirits were crazy territorial and—all-key or no all-key—we had trespassed. “What are you?”
“A boggart.” He sniffed. “I hope that wet-dog scent washes out.”
My jaw clenched. “Listen here, buddy—”
“I am not your buddy.” He flicked his wrist, and mist crawled across the ground and slithered up my torso. It trapped my legs and clutched my shoulders. Another flick and his rancid fog slung me across the room. My head bounced off the wall. “I must ask you to leave before the mistress arrives.”
I pushed upright, wincing as I put weight on my sore hand. “Mistress?”
A boggart could infest a house and terrorize the owners like this one was gunning for me, creating what humans considered a haunting. But the one word said it all, didn’t it? Mistress. She owned him.
So much for the Richardsons being uninitiated.
The spirit pinched his lips together.
I braced on the wall until I got my feet under me. “We haven’t been formally introduced.” I showed him my left palm, let him wonder at the soft light pooling on the glossy oak floorboards between us as I gathered power in my hand. “I’m Marshal Thackeray with the Southwestern Conclave’s Special Operations Division.” His hands went to his vest, smoothing the fabric while he ignored me. “Your mistress is under investigation for poaching.” I tagged the bloody bed with my gaze. “And the list is growing.”
Hammering at the bedroom door sent relief coursing through me. My hand was a last resort. My power didn’t come with an off switch. Every time magic pulsed through my runes, it meant kill or be killed. Right now I was lit up, glowing, and I wasn’t sure I could diffuse the energy without feeding.
“Thierry,” Shaw called. “Are you all right in there?”
“I’m fine.” I jerked my head at the boggart. “Step away from the door so my partner can enter.”
“What is that smell? Dirt and oranges?” The spirit sniffed. “What is he?”
Species was up to Shaw to discl
ose or not. “A conclave marshal, just like me.”
Beady eyes darted to my hand then to the air vent overhead. “That is not an answer.”
I snorted. “And here you’ve been so forthcoming.”
The boggart straightened his shoulders. “I will speak to you only with my mistress present.”
Great, he had just pulled the boggart equivalent of asking for a lawyer. Before I could bluff him into a corner, he turned to vapor and drifted into the vent. At least the stink dissipated once the twerp went airborne.
“The door’s locked.” The wood muffled Shaw’s voice. “Do I need to open it or can you?”
“Give me a minute.” I shouldered aside the mattress and twisted the lock with my right hand. “I was just wrapping up an interview with the help.” When he glanced around the empty room, I said, “Mrs. Richardson enslaved a boggart.”
He brushed past me on his way inside the bedroom. “So the Richardsons are initiated after all.”
“Bethany is at least. With their separate living situation, I’m not sure how much the husband knows about what his wife is up to.” I circled him. “Also? We have a tiny problem.”
He frowned at my hand, at the shine encasing it. “Turn it off.”
“You know it’s not that easy.” I flexed my fingers. “It’s all charged up with nowhere to go.”
“No one said it was easy. Learning to use my lure was a pain in the ass, but I did it and you will too.” He stepped closer. “Slow your breathing. Shake off the residual energy. Release it into the air.”
I shut my eyes, focused on each inhale and exhale. Power fizzled in my palm.
“That’s it,” he soothed. “Relax. Let it go.”
His nearness, the soft rumble of his voice, distracted me.
“I can’t.” Magical residue clung to my skin, softly lighting my runes. “It won’t release.”
“Do you want me to help?” His voice lowered.
I was afraid to open my eyes as I breathed, “Yes.”
His coarse, thick fingers threaded with those on my left hand. My eyes popped open on a gasp when Shaw’s lips brushed mine. His taste was warmth and comfort, and it lulled me deeper into his embrace. I was floating when the first tugs registered. My palm stung, the skin burning. From the corner of my eye, I watched as my runes flared brighter before another long draw through my hand extinguished the light. I broke away from Shaw.
