Awakening the Fire

by Ally Shields

  “Six months ago. No longer.” He glanced at Andreas for confirmation.

  His employer nodded.

  With an inward sigh, Ari turned to Andreas. “You saw it too?” She hated including him in the conversation, especially so soon.

  “I did. Victor drew my attention to it.” His answer was to the point, no more.

  “Did she say who hit her?” Ari looked back at Victor.

  “She denied she’d been hit. But when the club closed that night, she asked me to walk her home.” Victor sipped his drink, set it down. “Her request wasn’t unusual. These girls aren’t shy,” he trailed off. “Almost said I was busy. Young girls aren’t my type.”

  Well, maybe. Ari decided she’d reserve judgment until she heard the rest of his story. They’d ended up together somehow.

  “I thought she was afraid to go home alone,” Victor continued. “So, I went with her. She spent most of the night talking about some loser named Wes. After that night, we kind of fell into a relationship.” He stopped then added, “And before you ask, yes, it became sexual.”

  Didn’t it always? So much for helping a young, vulnerable girl. She may not have been his type, but she was available. What predator can resist a willing victim?

  Victor went on to describe the intervening months of his friendship with Angela. It boiled down to two to three date nights a week, ending at her apartment. He had little idea what she did when they weren’t together.

  “We had no claims on each other. Sometimes I didn’t see her for a week or two.”

  “But didn’t she talk about her life? What she did? Where she went?”

  He shrugged, a stiff, calculated movement. “It wasn’t my business. I didn’t ask.”

  Hmm. Not much commitment in this relationship. She watched while Andreas refilled her coffee cup from the pot and mumbled a thank-you. “When did you last see her?”

  “Last Monday night. She came in around 8:00. Early for her.”

  “Alone?”

  Victor pursed his lips. “She was with another woman. Didn’t stay long. I thought she’d be back, but she never showed.”

  “The other woman, what did she look like? Did you know her?”

  He shook his head. “She might have been in once before. Brown hair, older than Angela.”

  Well, hell, that probably described thousands of women in Riverdale.

  Andreas leaned forward. “If I might interrupt…would it be helpful to know the woman was a werewolf?”

  “Well, yeah. Are you kidding? Are you sure?”

  Andreas frowned. “Certainly. I know a werewolf when I see one. I presume you would also like a description. Tall for a woman, nearly six foot. Dark brown hair that hung past her shoulders, athletic build, mid-thirties. Features a little too prominent for beauty, including the eyebrows. She was here a month earlier with a male wolf. Two or three inches shorter than the woman, bulky build, reddish-brown hair, middle-age.” Andreas smiled and leaned back again. “They were not locals.”

  Ari stared at him a moment. “Uh, good eye for detail. How do you know they weren’t local? Don’t tell me you know every wolf in town.”

  “By no means, but I recognize our customers. And I notice newcomers. They stand out, especially when their speech is heavily accented and sprinkled with French vocabulary. I was at the front door when they arrived.” He frowned in thought. “Might be European, but more likely Canadian.”

  Ari knew vampires had good recall, but you can’t remember something you didn’t notice in the first place. His observations were exceptional. She looked away, refusing to tell him how totally impressed she was. Instead, she spoke to Victor while she jotted the descriptions on a notepad. “Why didn’t you mention any of this?”

  “I guess I never noticed.”

  Really? Ari looked at him, but Victor sat stoically, awaiting her next question. She wasn’t sure she bought his explanation. But he was a vampire, and who knew why they did anything?

  “We’re almost done. Tell me where you were on Sunday night between 6:00 and 10:30.”

  “Working. Here, at the club. All evening.”

  Well, damn. That seemed rather solid. And easily checked. She looked at his boss for confirmation. For a brief moment, Andreas’s composure wavered. “You want to know where I was?”

  Ari hid a smile. “I wanted you to verify Victor’s statement, if you could. But if you’re offering your own alibi, fine. I’ll take it.”

  Composed again, he didn’t hesitate. “Victor worked at the club that evening, observed by close to 300 guests. I can look up the exact numbers if you wish. He served as our maitre d’.” Andreas regarded her with a level gaze. “And while I do not believe I require an alibi, it is easy enough to provide. I was on the club stage most of the evening.”

  “I heard you were a singer,” Ari said.

  “Did you? Have you inquired about me?” He leaned forward, his lips parted in a smile.

  She wanted to bite her tongue. “No, of course, not. I just hear things.” Oh, so lame, even to her ears. Somehow he made Ari feel awkward, on the defensive, and that wasn’t a feeling she had often. Not in a long time.

  Breaking eye contact with Andreas, Ari caught Victor watching them with a little too much intensity. Like there was something to watch.

  She gave Victor a cool look. “We’re done, unless you have something to add.” She waited, but Victor sat stone-faced, unresponsive. Then it came to her, in one of those sudden flashes of insight over something that’s been under your nose all along. Angela didn’t want the love spell for Wes. She wanted to break through this icy barrier, to touch the cold heart of a vampire. Unexpected pity washed over Ari. Angela had deserved better.

  Knowing she wouldn’t like the answer, Ari asked anyway, “Don’t you feel something about Angela’s death?”

  Victor’s social face didn’t change, but his eyes flickered, then hardened. “What do you mean?”

  “Grief. Regret. I don’t know. Anything.”

  After a heavy moment, Victor eased his chair away from the table and rose. “I believe you said we were done. I have work to do.”

  Ari nodded with resignation. “Sure. Thanks for your time.”

  Victor left. Andreas and Ari remained seated. She wasn’t sure what kept her from standing up and heading out the door. Maybe nothing. Maybe catching her breath. She shifted uncomfortably, drained the coffee cup and set it down.

  Andreas was twisting his wineglass in his fingers. “You have much to learn, young witch. Not everyone is transparent, as you are. Do not bother to protest,” he added, as she parted her lips. “Whatever pops into your head is written across your face. And regardless of what you believe, vampires are not devoid of feelings.” His tone remained civil, but she sensed his disapproval. Or was it disappointment? “Victor saw your contempt for him, and it did you no credit.”

  A rush of anger flared and robbed Ari of words. This arrogant vampire had the audacity to criticize her for judging Victor, while he sat there smugly and did his own judging. At least she hadn’t been rude enough to tell Victor what she thought. And here she’d decided Andreas had a social side. She’d certainly been wrong about that. He had no right to speak to her this way, even though she had an awful feeling he might be justified. That realization was more than she wanted to deal with. She rose abruptly, mindful of the chair, and scowled down at him.

  “Good night, Mr. De Luca. I think we can agree it is past time I left.”

  “Allow me to accompany you to the door,” he offered, once again the impeccable club owner. He gracefully unfolded his long frame.

  “Don’t bother. I can find the way.” Ari turned toward the door.

  “As you like.”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Do you always talk like that?”

  He tilted his head, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “You mean, as if I have lived in another country, another century?”

  “Yeah, point taken.”

  * * *
<
br />   Ari sighed with relief when she stepped outside, away from Andreas’s unsettling presence and before she stuck her foot in her mouth again. She punched in Ryan’s number. When he answered on the first ring, she grinned. He must have stayed awake and waited for her call. She liked that in a partner. His familiar voice began to unknot the tension in her stomach.

  By the time she shared the information from the recent interview, Ari began to think things hadn’t gone too badly after all. She’d gotten the interview. She’d learned Angela was a groupie, that someone had given her a black eye, and that their victim had been hanging out with a werewolf. It was too bad that Victor had a solid alibi, but all in all, not a bad night’s work. She was still in one piece, wasn’t she? She had entered the vampires’ lair and escaped with only her ego bruised.

  Chapter Eight

  The Wesley Simpson who appeared at the police station the following morning wasn’t the same cocky guy who’d disrupted Ari’s class. Oh, it was the same face all right, but now his eyes darted around the room and nervous sweat streaked his temples. As Ari pictured Angela’s troubled face during his outburst at the shop, his current state of fear gave her secret satisfaction. Simpson ducked his head when he saw Ari. Too bad.

  Ryan didn’t give the suspect a chance to relax but started the interview immediately. The cop whipped through the standard questions and spent the next twenty minutes grilling the subdued boyfriend about his contact with Angela. Simpson stuttered and stammered his way through the two-year relationship.

  They’d dated regularly for the first year, then Angela’s behavior changed. She began to hang out with Otherworlders and disappeared for days. Unlike Victor, Simpson had demanded an explanation. She’d refused to give one and often covered her activities with lies. He began following her, and at least twice when she said she was spending the evening at home, he’d seen her cruising the vampire clubs.

  “Did you confront her about that?” Ryan asked.

  Simpson hesitated. “Not until I heard she was sleeping with one of the fang guys. I told her I was leaving. She bawled like a baby, like I was the one who’d done something wrong. She promised she’d end it. And I guess I wanted to believe her, so I stuck around. But lately, she didn’t seem to care what I thought.” Simpson squirmed in his chair. “So, yeah, we fought a lot. I hated her cheating.” He looked up again, his nose crinkled. “How could she do it with one of them?”

  “That’s pretty tough, Wes.” Ryan voice was non-judgmental. “It’s hard when your girl’s screwing around. Hard to keep things under control. When did the fights turn physical?”

  Simpson stiffened. “Never. I never hit her. Not once. Just a lot of yelling.”

  “She had a black eye.”

  “Yeah, I saw it, but I didn’t do it.” Simpson’s face flushed, agitated. “Figured that was a present from fang boy.”

  Fifteen minutes later Ari didn’t like Simpson any better, but she was convinced he wasn’t the killer. He didn’t have the stomach for it. And in some weird fashion, he had been more of a friend to Angela than anyone else. But that didn’t necessarily make him a nice guy.

  “So what was your problem when you came charging into Basil and Sage?” Ari asked.

  Simpson had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you were the Guardian. Just that you were a witch. A bad one, I thought.” He swallowed hard when Ari scowled. “Angie and me'd been fighting, about everything. But mostly how weird she'd been. When I saw a pamphlet on your class, I thought she was into the occult.”

  “You said she changed long before that.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know this was her first class. I figured she’d been going there every week for months.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’d eliminated all the other explanations.”

  “Like what?”

  “Drugs. I found some blue pills on her dresser. That Fantasy stuff. She gave me the old story about holding them for a friend. Yeah, like I believed that. I figured she’d been experimenting, but I never saw them again. And she never acted strung out, like she was using.”

  “Maybe she kept them hidden after that.” Ryan had been listening quietly until Simpson mentioned the drugs. Now he was on point.

  “I searched. Several times. Nothing.”

  What a creepy boyfriend, Ari thought. Follows her around, searches her apartment. She couldn’t decide whether he was a misguided friend or a stalker.

  “So go on,” Ryan encouraged. “You must have had other suspicions.”

  “Only one, really. This vamp dude, I thought he might of bespelled her. But she laughed when I asked. And those people act like zombies, don’t they? Or robots?” He glanced at Ari for confirmation. When she said nothing, he looked away. “Anyway, that’s when I found the candles and some crystals.”

  “That’s how you made the leap to black magic? Candles and crystals?” Ari’s voice rose.

  “Let’s go back to the drugs.” Ryan intervened to keep them on course. “Maybe you never saw drugs because Angela was quickly passing them on. A go-between. Did you see money? I haven’t heard anything about a job. How’d she pay her bills?”

  “I don’t know,” Simpson admitted. “She quit her waitress job almost a year ago.”

  The rest of the interview was pretty ho-hum. The morning of Ari’s class was the last time he admitted seeing Angela. On the night of her death, he said he went to a movie by himself and might still have the ticket stub at home. He’d look. Not much of an alibi, but Ari didn’t think it mattered. Given Angela’s injuries, he’d never been a likely suspect.

  Simpson left, and Ryan leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Well, that was a waste of time. At least as far as identifying a decent suspect. The drug bit was interesting, but I’m not sure it’s helpful. I’ll follow up with the narcotics squad. But it looks to me like we’re out of suspects.”

  Ari looked at him and shrugged. They’d have to start over, somehow develop new suspects. A knock on the door was a welcome interruption.

  A harried-looking, twenty-something male, one of the couriers employed by the city, popped in long enough to drop a packet on Ryan’s desk, the lab results from the crime scene. Ryan read the report aloud without much enthusiasm. As expected, it was unremarkable, until he reached the last item of evidence: twenty-six canine hairs.

  Ari sat up straighter. Dog or werewolf? Angela didn’t own a dog. And given Andreas’s description of the woman at the club, werewolves suddenly seemed a real possibility. She knew DNA tests wouldn’t hold the answer. Wolf and dog hairs were too similar to be distinguished without the follicles: an interesting fact Ari’s forensics instructor would be surprised she remembered. He’d always complained her frequent looks out the window meant she wasn’t paying attention.

  “It doesn’t have to be a wolf,” she cautioned. “Maybe our victim had a dog in the past. Or she has a friend with a dog. Simpson would know.”

  Ryan made the call. Before he disconnected, he’d already given her the thumbs-up. “No dog. Not allowed in the building. I think we have a solid lead. Now what the hell do we do with it? How do we find a werewolf, Ari?”

  “Let me work on that while you follow the drugs.”

  “Works for me. This Fantasy has been popping up all over the city. Heard it creates the illusion of anything you desire. Kind of like an internal virtual reality. Want to experience being a rock star? Want to know what it’s like to date Angelina Jolie? You got it. Anything you can imagine.”

  “Angelina Jolie? Is she what you’d want?” Ari teased. “Your dream date?”

  “What sane guy would turn her down? Hey, if I was into the drug scene, it might tempt me.”

  Ari laughed. “You’re full of surprises. Just think of all those other secret fantasies out there. That translates into cash for the dealers, uber profits. Maybe Angela got in over her head. Or she ripped off a supplier.”

  “That’d get her killed, all right. I’ll dig around. In the meantime,” Ryan said, gett
ing to his feet, “let’s search her apartment again. Before we release the scene, I’d like another shot at finding drugs or drug money. Maybe we missed something.”

  * * *

  They’d been in Angela’s stuffy apartment for almost an hour with little to show for their efforts except a lot of dust bunnies under the bed.

  “She sure had a bunch of face junk.” Ryan was going through Angela’s vanity. “What does this contraption do?” He held up an eyelash curler for Ari’s inspection.

  She pantomimed its use. “Don’t you have sisters?”

  “Nope. Three brothers. None of this girlie paraphernalia.”

  “More used to jock straps and smelly socks, huh? And Playboy mags under the mattress.”

  “What makes you think they’re under the mattress?”

  “Younger brother. You think sisters don’t know these things?” Ari opened another drawer. “She liked expensive lingerie.” She held up a red, lacy gown, tucked it back in, and gave the drawer a shove. It stuck. She yanked it out, and tried again. And again it stuck. This time she took the drawer out and looked in the back. Something was hanging from the top.

  “Now what’s this?” she said, catching Ryan’s attention. She reached in, pulled off two strips of masking tape, and retrieved a solid bundle. No lacy stuff this time. It was a roll of hundred dollar bills.

  Ryan counted twelve hundred. Quite a stash for a girl to keep in her undies drawer, but if she was selling drugs, shouldn’t there be more? Thousands more. And where were the drugs?

  As they talked it over, their elation faded. Finding the roll of cash hadn’t gotten them any closer to a suspect. It raised more unanswered questions. Without anybody left to question, where did they go for the answers?

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday morning broke gray and cloudy, foreshadowing the storm about to crack open over their heads. Ari’s first thought was to roll over and catch another hour. But Great-Gran’s words to a sleepy child still played in her head, “Late in bed, early dead.” Not exactly a suitable childhood rhyme, unless you were a Guardian in training.