They all moved toward Mrs. Potts and in a pack, they reached her.
“Oh, my God,” Cait stuttered.
Chapter Eight
Three-A was lit like a movie set. Two halogen lamps lay on the floor, without their crumpled shades, which lay in the room beyond. What they illuminated was a vista from the depths of Hell.
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God.” He heard Dave whisper the words.
Two men sprawled on the floor. One lay just inside the door, as if he’d met death as it was leaving, its handiwork complete. The other lay beyond the first, his face mere inches from the other man’s heels.
Both were dressed in what had been dark suits. Their white shirts were torn open, their ties askew, but oddly intact. Blood and gore spilled onto the floor from vicious wounds. The white wall of the entry behind the men was a spray of still-dripping red.
That was bad, but the rest of the carnage stretched the imagination to madness.
Beyond them, a woman and another, older man were plastered to the far wall, impaled there by some sort of spears or rods. Their unmarked faces were twisted in horror, their naked torsos riddled with punctures and slashes. Every inch of the surrounding wall and floor were covered with blood.
“Great gods and guardians preserve us,” Aiden whispered. Hearing his own words broke his stasis and he moved forward.
The dark-suited woman spun to block him, her body braced in a defensive posture.
“We have to see if those men are alive,” he said, pointing to the men on the floor. He thought one of them might still be breathing.
“We have to get help. Yes, help. Help! Oh, God, the blood!” Dave gibbered wildly as he whipped out his cell phone. He must have dialed nine-one-one, but all he seemed to be able to say was, “Oh God, the blood!”
The security woman snatched the cell and crisply gave the address, identified herself as congressional security and requested Secret Service, and FBI notifications.
He and Cait moved in tandem toward the men who lay on the floor. Eviscerated they might be, but they could still be alive.
The security woman drew her weapon and motioned them back. White as a sheet, and visibly trembling, she nevertheless kept her voice level as she ordered them to stay put.
“No, not you, the bystanders,” she said to the 911 dispatcher. “Get me cops here now, dammit!” she snarled into Dave’s phone. She tossed it to Dave, who continued to regale the dispatcher with everything that came into his mind.
Pulling out her own phone, she hit a button.
“It’s Parkinson. We have an incident.”
Cait moved forward again.
“Stay back!” Parkinson pointed the gun at Cait’s belly. Pale and gulping, Parkinson held onto her officious manner. “It’s a crime scene.”
“They might still be alive,” Cait snapped, her voice a lash of sound as she moved back to comfort Mrs. Potts. “He’s right, you always check, a man down isn’t a man dead.”
Cait turned Mrs. Potts away from the hideous view, putting her arms around the still-shaking woman. With her face buried in Cait’s shoulder, Mrs. Potts sobbed in great wrenching gasps.
Looking unsteady, Parkinson nodded. She crouched to touch a finger to the first man’s throat, shook her head. Dead. She kept her cool as she continued to report to whoever she’d called. “Three dead, this address.”
Shifting slightly, she checked the second.
“Man down, man down!” She shouted the words. “We’ve got one alive. Get me EMS stat!!”
This time Aiden was the one to snatch the cell from Dave, who was still talking non-stop. “We need an ambulance on the double,” he barked. “One of the men is still alive.”
Cait pulled free of Mrs. Potts and, without a word, pushed the officious Parkinson aside. “Mr. Bayliss, get me some towels,” she ordered. “Hurry!”
He raced into his apartment, grabbed clean towels and was back within seconds. He passed them to Cait, who knelt next to the survivor and was applying pressure. Her hands were already a bright red blur against the man’s pristine shirt.
Meeting Aiden’s eyes, Cait looked fiercely pissed. Her features hardened as they took in the carnage.
Sirens screamed nearer. A rush of feet and a rattle of metal signaled the arrival of EMS, and the crackle of radios, the arrival of the police. The EMTs took over and Cait hurried out of their way.
“Aiden,” Cait whispered sharply, taking the towel he offered.
“What?” He too whispered, a hiss of sound underlying Dave’s ongoing monologue. He flicked a glance at the agent, who was distracted as she now barked orders into her own phone, pacing up and down the upper foyer.
Cait’s touch on his arm made his shields crackle with electric force. The surprise on Cait’s face would have been comical if the situation weren’t so grave. Goddamn it, he’d scanned her as null, but she’d reacted to his shield energy.
“Damp your…your…whatever that damn blue light is,” she hissed right back. “Shut it down. And get a blanket for Mrs. Potts.”
Chapter Nine
Utter astonishment sang within him even as he hustled back to his apartment to grab the Washington Nationals throw from his couch. With a mental twist, his shields, flickering pale blue and iridescent in his Othersight, disappeared as if they’d never been.
Fuck. He was a professional. A goddamn Adept Enforcer, and an extraordinarily gifted one at that.
Lot of good your gifts are doing the people of the city you were sent to protect. Caught with your pants down in your own building.
He ruthlessly cut off the mental self-flagellation. People were dead, inside his wards. He didn’t deserve to wallow.
She shouldn’t have seen anything more than a halo from the overhead lights. And the fact that she could see his shields proved what the evidence had been screaming and what he’d wanted so much to ignore.
Cait Brennan was Other.
She was a well-shielded, adept-level being, and if she wasn’t on the Council’s list, it was because she wasn’t Council trained or recognized. That made her a threat.
Possibly a high-power predator, and there was every reason to believe that, because Aiden hadn’t acted quickly enough, three people had died.
Just like in Atlanta.
He wrapped the blanket around Mrs. Potts, who seemed to be recovering somewhat from her shock.
“Get me direct line to Bethesda,” one of the EMS techs yelled into his shoulder mic, even as he continued to reel off medical stats, blood pressure, heart rate and more.
Pulling Cait next to him, Aiden whispered, “We need to talk. Immediately.”
The slap of feet running up the stairs stemmed her reply.
Four conservatively dressed men, more congressional security, he presumed, slid to a stop and froze at the sight of Parkinson, bloody and shaking, as well as the dead agent on the floor.
An older, heavy-set, aggressive man began shooting out orders and questions.
“Carter, call headquarters. Tamisheri, get me Bill During. Hale, get these people contained. Parkinson? Report.”
Hale moved forward, arms outstretched to herd Dave toward them. Aiden took it in, but he turned back to Cait and locked his gaze on hers. As his irritation mounted, he thought he saw a ripple in her features, an overlay of another woman with golden hair and emerald eyes. The vision woman.
Then it was gone.
More sirens screamed up outside, and a uniformed officer hurtled up the stairs, followed hard by two plainclothes officers, guns drawn. At the sight of the guns, Dave dropped to the floor to sit, still shaking, still babbling into his phone.
Seeing the obvious federal suits, the newcomers dropped the muzzles of their guns, and slowed, but when they caught sight of the blood and carnage, the weapons came right back up.
The second EMS tech glanced up. “Somebody bring us the goddamn back board.”
The officer and one plainclothes hurried to comply.
The first plainclothes officer stood
his ground, his weapon at the ready. “What’s going on here, gentlemen? We’re homicide. What the hell?”
“Chavez, Bureau,” the big man growled. “Set up a crime scene and secure these witnesses. Get your men to set up a perimeter.”
The officer’s jaw tightened. “My people? Paul,” he called to the other man who’d brought the backboard, who was now standing as far toward the stairs as possible, gulping and pale. “Call this in. We’re gonna need backup and some help with jurisdiction.”
With a grateful grunt, Paul jogged down the stairs and disappeared. Turning back, the detective eyed Chavez.
“You can’t block a homicide scene in my city, Mister Chavez. If you or your people—” he pointed at the female agent now slumped against the wall, her head on her knees, “—have contaminated the scene, there’ll be hell to pay. Understand?”
Chavez drew himself up. “Fuck you, Detective,” he snarled derisively. “A US Senator is in that room nailed to a wall. Literally. One of my men is dead on the floor and the other is dying.”
“Not if I can help it,” the EMT tech snapped.
“Clear a fucking path,” the larger EMT barked. Cops and agents scrambled and even Chavez stepped back for them. The backboard cradled between them, with one end supported by the hovering Agent Hale, they rushed away, barely pausing at the stairs as they hefted the board down the incline.
Wheels rattled and shouts of “Get out of the damn way!” rang through the lobby. Then they were gone.
“I’m in charge here. I’m containing the scene,” Chavez leapt into the breach. “My senator, my jurisdiction. Back on down.”
The detective didn’t move.
“Bullshit to that, Chavez. You’re on my beat.”
Voices raised, the two men went at it. Backed against the wall, Aiden, Cait and Mrs. Potts were edging toward Aiden’s door when a voice from the lobby rang out.
“Break it up, you fuckin’ idiots. This is a crime scene, not fight club.” A few seconds later, a man came up the stairs.
“What?” the newcomer growled. “You want the fuckin’ Channel Four and The Washington Post down here along with the rest of the damn building?”
Aiden suppressed a groan. The man stomping up the stairs was a cop he knew. Relief and irritation hit him in equal measure. Lt. Tyrone McNamera, familiarly known as Tank, was one of Washington’s top cops and a welcome sight.
And a pain in Aiden’s ass.
Tank was followed by four more uniforms and the detective who’d gone to make the call.
Tank would cut through the bullshit and get things organized, which was good. The bad news was there was no way Aiden could get around him. Tank knew him. And Tank had a good idea of who and what Aiden was.
This whole thing was screwed. Sideways.
Tank’s arrival had come none too soon, as there were people coming out of the elevator down in the main lobby. He recognized their voices. He heard Mr. Zahelli, a nosy old codger from three, asking what the devil was going on, and various comments from others along that same line.
A curt twist of the head from Tank sent three of the uniforms down to block access. Tank glanced over at him and Aiden saw him wince. He heard a muttered, “Aw, hell.”
“You, Herman, take these people inside that apartment.” He gestured toward Aiden’s place and indicated Aiden, Cait and Mrs. Potts. “Martin, get that guy up and in there too.” He pointed at Dave.
Herman moved to comply, helping the guard to stand.
“I think I’m going to pass out,” Dave moaned.
“Bring him in here, on the couch,” Aiden ordered.
Taking charge, Aiden motioned Cait in and held the door for the officer to follow. He strode to the living room, kicking his robe under the sofa as he went. Shoving the newspaper and a book off onto the floor, he helped get Dave settled.
As nonchalantly as he could, he closed the door to his workroom, snuffing the still-burning candles with a muttered spell and a thought of release. When he turned back, he saw Cait’s face and let loose with a string of silent curses.
She’d seen or felt something when he put out the candles.
He motioned for her to sit, but spoke to her as if they were strangers. “Can I get you some water, Miss…”
“Doctor. Doctor Brennan. Cait Brennan.” In spite of the events, her voice was firm, eyes clear. She recognized the ploy and was playing along. Thank the good gods. “And yes, please. I’d love some water.” She had her hands folded in the bloody towel. “Would you mind if I washed up?”
“Not at all. Here, let me take that,” he said, getting a trash bag for the bloody towel. “The bathroom is there, in the hall.”
“Detective? Anything for you? Mrs. Potts?” He had to get to the kitchen for a moment, clear his thoughts, check his shields. What had gotten through? How could that butchery have happened inside the shields but still have been screened from him?
Cait Brennan was shielded. Better than anybody he’d ever encountered.
And she’d been wet from a shower. Was she washing off the blood?
“Nothing for me,” the detective said. “Come right back. I need to get your name and your statement.”
Mrs. Potts made a strangled negative, shaking her head, so Aiden moved around the corner. He got glasses, dispensed ice, as questions roiled in his mind.
Cait Brennan was Other. But what, exactly, was she? Could she be strong enough to lift the hefty Midwestern senator up five feet on the wall and impale him, all while maintaining the tightest of shields?
If she was powerful enough to shield so cleanly against Aiden’s probes, maybe she didn’t need physical strength.
He hated it, but he had to face the truth. It wasn’t a big leap from that kind of shielding skill to murder.
She’d been in the shower. Would the timeline have worked?
It would have been tight.
Her actions had already proven she wasn’t on the up and up. Was she a rogue adept?
Bloody fucking hell. Maybe she wasn’t Other. He’d known her shields were adept level, but why had it just now occurred to him that it might be much simpler than Other—that he might be dealing with another magical human, another adept?
Why hadn’t he thought of that immediately?
And if she was strong enough to do that, what was she going to do with the death energy gained from the murders?
The images of the dead curdled his gut. He was going to need something stronger than water.
He walked back into the living room. As he handed Cait her glass, their hands brushed. He got a fiery shock, and the water in the glass bubbled with the force of their energy.
Double fuck. This sort of thing didn’t happen in DC.
It IS happening, Bayliss. Get the hell over it and deal.
Nothing about her said, “Hi, I’m Evil and I’m going to screw up your day, actually, your life.”
Nothing screamed murderer. Logic said she couldn’t have killed three people–probably four–gotten back into her condo, showered, and come out at the same time as the bodies were discovered. However, magic wasn’t always logical, as he well knew.
And she knew something. It was there, in her eyes.
Walking to the cabinet by the TV, he pulled out the Scotch and poured a shot. “Anyone else?”
“I could use one,” Cait murmured, meeting his gaze. “And I think Mrs. Potts should have something. Maybe brandy if you have it.”
He poured more amber liquid into another glass and passed it to Cait. This time he made sure he didn’t come into contact with her fingers. Her lips quirked. She knew he’d deliberately avoided the touch. Splashing brandy into a snifter, he knelt to wrap Mrs. Potts’s shaking fingers around the glass, helping her to sip.
“There now,” he soothed. “That’ll help.”
“Ahem,” the detective started. “If I could get your names?” His notebook was out and pen poised. He turned to look at Aiden. “Sir?”
“Aiden Bayliss. I live here.”
He gestured to indicate the condo.
The detective turned to Cait. “And you Miss…uh, Doctor?”
Cait’s smile was wobbly, and something twisted in Aiden’s gut. That dimple was killer. But was Cait?
Aiden clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ached. It was hard to reconcile, but he was deeply afraid he already knew the answer.
“Dr. Cait Brennan,” she said. “I’m a geologist. I’m across the hall. Just got back from Turkey a few days ago.”
“So, you don’t know your neighbors, Dr. Brennan?” The detective’s eyes were sharp, his gaze fixed on hers.
Aiden saw irritation flash, but it didn’t ring in her voice. “No, detective…” She paused, evidently waiting for him to supply his name.
“Herman, Ma’am. Detective Herman.”
Cait nodded. “Dave,” she said, and tilted her head toward the moaning security guard, “indicated that Three-A wasn’t used very often.” Her swallow was audible. “The first I knew of any problem tonight was when Mrs. Potts started screaming.”
“Mrs. Potts lives in Two-A,” Aiden supplied.
Detective Herman’s voice took on a gentler note as he addressed the older woman. “Mrs. Potts, how did you happen to be out in the hall? Can you tell me what happened?”
“I…I was coming in from my bridge night,” she wavered, her voice frail and papery. “I heard a noise as I was coming up the stairs, but I was looking down, minding my step.”
“What noise did you hear?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure. It was scratchy and scrabbly, like dog claws on the floor.” She looked up at the detective. “No one on this floor has a pet, so I was afraid one was loose. I looked up, just as I got to the top of the stairs.” She began to shake and Cait put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders.
“Have another sip of brandy,” Aiden urged. “It’ll help.”
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, sipping dutifully. A grimace of distaste crossed her features. “I do hate brandy.”
“Go on when you can,” the detective prompted.
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