City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set

by Clara Coulson

  After I get some rock music playing on low volume, I back out of Erica’s driveway. The looming towers of downtown Aurora’s big businesses greet my gaze in the distance, vague masses faintly visible through the thickening haze of an oncoming snowstorm. As I reach the last two-lane street in Erica’s neighborhood and sit at the turnoff onto the busy highway, the snowfall rolls over the entire city like a heavy, unraveling blanket. By the time I’m halfway to Jameson’s, just a few minutes later, I’m already navigating a virtual blizzard.

  But it’s not my first time driving through rough weather—that and 4-Wheel Drive works wonders. So I chug along down the snow-covered roads, the salt spread doing little to clear the asphalt. I pass a few cars whose drivers have given up, unwilling to brave the low visibility. I even spot a car spun out, sitting in the ditch. But the crash doesn’t look serious, maybe a few dents to the bumper, and the driver is out and about surveying the damage. I keep on going. Slow and steady wins the race.

  Until, that is, I see the man with yellow eyes.

  He’s standing in front of a high-end chocolate store along the stretch of Marlborough that houses the Lowland Shoppes, all the fancy-pants places that cater to Aurora’s “elite.” What makes the man stick out to me, even through the rippling veil of snow, isn’t that he’s just standing—there’s a bus stop a few feet from him, after all. Rather, it’s the fact that he’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt and ratty jeans. No coat. No scarf. No hat. Not even shoes. His bare feet are pressed against the snow-slicked sidewalk.

  Most people would be freezing in his situation. The temperature is in the single digits.

  And yet, he looks unaffected.

  He leans against a light pole, posture casual. Pedestrians pass by him all huddled in massive coats, hurrying along, and…don’t appear to notice him. He stands there like a statue, dark skin a stark contrast to the background of hazy white. And also a contrast to his yellow eyes, glowing bright, too bright, in the muted daylight.

  This man, surreal, does nothing as he loiters near the bus stop—except stare.

  At me.

  The déjà vu hits me like a sack of bricks.

  I’ve never had the déjà vu while driving before, and it’s so unexpected that I instinctively yank my mind away from it. Then I double over in my seat, on the cusp of vomiting, as nausea sends my breakfast creeping back the way it came. There’s a voice in my head that screams, HOLY SHIT, YOU’RE DRIVING! STOP THE FUCKING TRUCK, CAL! But I can’t do it. I physically can’t. I’ve screwed up, breaking Navarro’s touted “balance point,” and now I’m in for it.

  What is it?

  Probably death.

  My eyes screw themselves shut and refuse to open. My teeth clack together in between each round of gagging. My ears pop, like I’m taking off in a plane. And my heart starts to palpitate in time with my ragged breathing.

  For a moment, I’m pulled out of time and space. I float in a void between the here and now and the sharp edge of my own future. And I have the urge to reach out and touch it, to grasp at events I haven’t experienced, learn details human beings shouldn’t be able to gather ahead of time. It’s a terrible urge, as if my brain is overcorrecting for pulling too hard away from the déjà vu—and I have to ignore it. Because if I try to glimpse the future, I’ll pass out. And if I pass out, I’ll crash into a building going thirty-seven miles per hour and probably get impaled by something with a pointy end.

  I struggle to resist the all-encompassing compulsion. For three seconds. Five?

  And then the déjà vu surrenders and retreats to the nasty corner of my brain where the untouchable memories of my future sit and wait for time to pass.

  I spring up in my seat and regain control of the truck. Just in time to prevent a bumper-to-bumper collision with a large, white plumbing company van in front of me. I grip the wheel and pump the brakes, narrowly avoiding clipping the van as it turns right onto Ackerson Road. The van’s driver spots my faux pas and beeps the horn at me a couple times, probably yelling about stupid kids on their phones. But by then, I’m not even paying attention to him anymore.

  My eyes dart up to the rearview mirror, searching for anything I might have run over when I lost control. But my truck kept rolling forward, thank god, and didn’t threaten anyone on the sidewalks. And there don’t appear to have been any jaywalkers in my vicinity either. I don’t see any damaged public property. I don’t see any scared or angry people waving fists at me. I don’t…

  I don’t see the man with yellow eyes.

  He’s gone.

  Rattled, I pull the truck into the nearest stop-off, the empty parking lot of an Arby’s. Foot firmly on the brake, I finally release my death grip on the wheel. I lean my head back against the seat and observe my shaking hands, fingers twitching like I’ve been shocked by a taser. My heartbeat still runs too fast in my chest, the organ pumping hard underneath my ribcage. I can hear the sound drumming in my ears, so loud it drowns out the growling chorus of rush hour.

  I’m not sure exactly how long I sit there, trying to regain my composure—but I do know it’s too long. Because, as I’m about to pull out of the parking lot again, my phone buzzes at me from where I dropped it in the passenger seat.

  When I pick it up with my somewhat steadier hand, I find that Ella Dean has texted me, asking where the heck I am. The rest of Elite Team Riker has already gathered at Jameson’s, apparently. I’m the odd man out. The new guy, Cal Kinsey, smart and skilled and driven, assigned to an elite team right out of the academy…and late for a very important case.

  Always a good impression to make.

  I respond to Ella’s text, promising to be there soon. I don’t give a reason for my lateness. I mean, what reason could I give that wouldn’t make me look like an idiot? When this déjà vu crap started, Riker didn’t put me on desk duty because I swore up and down I would thoroughly monitor my performance and remove myself from the field if the effects of my “ability” became too much to handle at any time. On top of that, I agreed to voluntarily step down from any planned combat scenarios until a) I gain full control over the déjà vu, b) Navarro figures out a way to prevent the physical side effects, or c) the “power” goes away on its own.

  With those assurances in mind, the fact that I let the déjà vu surprise me to the point where I nearly crashed my truck during rush hour?

  Bad.

  Very bad.

  If Riker and Ella find out about that, I’ll be off the Jameson case. Period.

  And that’s…not acceptable.

  I spent far too much time sitting on a bench after Mac’s death.

  I don’t care if I have to perform brain surgery on myself, in my bathroom, with an icepick, or fuck myself up with a witch’s potion made from a bunch of poisonous junk in Erica’s shop. I will not allow déjà vu, of all things, to put me out of commission, especially not when three people in this city have just been murdered by magic. Too many innocents have died at my feet for me to sit back and do nothing while this city suffers in the grip of the things that go bump in the night.

  No, sir. Cal Kinsey will find a way to persevere.

  Sitting at the exit to the Arby’s parking lot, waiting for traffic to clear, I idly glance back the way I came. A huge mistake. Because in the thickening snow coating the asphalt, I now notice the tracks where my truck had started to drift to the left, into oncoming traffic, a moment before I snapped out of the episode and righted myself.

  I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white and press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Hot tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. But I don’t let them fall. I don’t deserve to cry. Not here.

  My gaze ticks up to the rearview mirror again, and I cuss out the weary moron staring back. Last month, I had the gall to make fun of Wilcox for being so pathetically proud—and now look at the dumb Crow in his beat-up pickup truck, sitting in the parking lot of an Arby’s with fat tears in his eyes. I’m no better than that mousy little bastard. In fact, I’m wo
rse.

  Wilcox isn’t a threat to Aurora.

  But here I am, at risk of becoming a danger to the people I’ve sworn to protect.

  I’d rather be in prison than let that happen.

  I’d rather be dead.

  With the taste of copper on my tongue, I make myself a brand new vow:

  If I ever let the déjà vu distract me at a crucial time again, even if it’s only for a fraction of a second, I will remove myself from DSI field duty until such time as the issue is resolved for good. Even it takes months. Even if it takes years.

  Come hell or high water, I won’t risk innocent people in my quest to protect innocent people. And if that means I have to give up my career and sit on the bench forever, while everyone but me saves the day—I take a deep breath—then so be it.

  And if that’s not the motivation I need to beat the déjà vu into submission, nothing is.

  Chapter Three

  The Jameson Corner Bar and Grill sits at the intersection of Old Saint and Elmore, nestled among two rows of buildings that might be called “historical.” Built at the turn of the century, the bar and grill was originally just a bar, then a hotel, then an abandoned husk after World War II that was eventually bought by the Jameson family in the sixties. From there, it was transformed into one of Aurora’s most well-regarded establishments. Between the great food, the live entertainment, the private lounges, the sports bar, and the billiard room, there likely isn’t a single person in the city who hasn’t been drawn through the dark-washed double doors for at least one night.

  I used to frequent Jameson’s before I went off to Stanford. Since I returned, joined the police department, quit the police department, and then joined DSI, I really haven’t felt inclined to head to my old haunts again on any kind of regular basis. Especially because the last time I was at Jameson’s was the day after I graduated from the police academy, and also the day I first met Mac. The man who would be my senior partner. And the man who would die in Gloston Square a few short months later while I did nothing but cower in the shadow of a psychotic vampire.

  As I turn onto Old Saint, the sour taste of the déjà vu episode still fresh in my mind—not to mention the freaky yellow-eyed guy who knew my face—I realize that finding a parking spot near Jameson’s will be even more of a task than usual. There are two blocks cordoned off in each direction, police tape securing the perimeter. Media vans are parked crooked in every available street-side spot for another block farther. The front of the building is completely obstructed, double doors half hidden by an array of police vehicles with flashing lights and the occasional DSI SUV tucked discreetly in between them. There isn’t a single clear patch of road in the vicinity for me to stow my truck.

  Groaning, I make a left onto Streisand Road, turning away from the massive crowd at Jameson’s. I drive for another hundred feet or so before I finally reach a line of empty spaces next to a hair salon that went out of business last year. My truck growls to a stop as I pull into the nearest space and judders hard when I cut the engine. I sit there for a second in the silence, watching the snowflakes flutter across the windshield, and smack my cheeks a couple times, repeating, Composure, Cal, composure, until the lingering tremors from my episode subside.

  Then I pop the door and step out into the blizzard.

  The wind whips at my cheeks, peeling the heat off my skin. As soon as I force the door closed behind me and lock the vehicle, I shuffle quickly over to the sidewalk. Hugging the brick exteriors of the shops to ward off the harsh air, I trudge back up Streisand until I reach the intersection onto Old Saint. Tentatively, I peek around the edge of a closed antique store.

  Somehow, even more people have arrived on scene in the few minutes it took me to park. Reporters decked out in huge puffy coats, mics held close to their faces, are speaking excitedly into the cameras, blathering about whatever rumors have emerged from the doorway of the bar and grill. They’re all crowded up tightly around the perimeter tape, some of them challenging the uniformed cops by nudging the tape a few inches backward, enough to let their cameramen get a slightly closer shot than their competitors.

  However, the uniforms don’t seem to give a crap about their antics. Most of them aren’t even paying attention to the media. Which is strange. They usually bark out commands for the press to Step the hell back whenever someone slides a single shoe over the tape line. But today, judging by the way they keep glancing back at Jameson’s, all they care about is the deadly crime scene hidden inside.

  That or its implications.

  I’m not sure which is worse. Yet.

  After I check my belt to ensure my DSI badge is in place, I tug my collar up as high as it can go and march off toward the bar and grill. My boots crunch hard on the snow, but the sound is muffled by the wind, so none of the reporters notice me until I’m right up on them, heading for the tiniest gap in their sardine-tin-like mass. It’s a male reporter who spots me first, his eyes quickly flicking my way to decode the dark shape emerging from the sheet of whirling white. For a second, he doesn’t appear to realize what he’s seeing—and then his face lights up like he won a jackpot. He turns my way and shoves the mic in my face.

  “Sir, are you a DSI agent?” His smile is plastic and painful. “Do you have any information on the murders you can share? Do you—?”

  Someone reaches over the man’s shoulder, grabs his wrist, and forces the mic away from me. I follow the arm to a uniformed cop standing behind the reporter. In the snow, I don’t recognize the guy at first, but when I maneuver around the overeager reporter and stop at the yellow tape, I find myself staring into a face that looks marginally friendlier than it did when I investigated Jason Franks’ dorm room.

  Officer Ringer.

  Ringer tips his hat to me and side-eyes the reporter, daring him to raise the mic again. The reporter backs off, and Ringer releases his arm. The officer then lifts the perimeter tape to let me pass. “If it isn’t my favorite Kook,” he mutters. “Running a bit late, aren’t you?”

  “My truck doesn’t like the snow, apparently.” I shrug. “I skidded off into the ditch back at Arby’s.”

  Ringer snorts. “Whatever, kid.” He nods toward Jameson’s. “Get on in there. It’s a real doozy this time.”

  I duck under the tape. “And you don’t mind the Kooks being there, contaminating the crime scene?”

  Ringer drops the tape and sighs. “Kid, I wouldn’t care if the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security showed up this time. We need all the help we can get.” He removes his hat to wipe off the accumulation of snowflakes. “It’s a goddamn mess in there. Worst I’ve ever seen. Watch your step.” With that, he shifts his concentration back to the flock of reporters still jabbering for the morning news.

  I suppress a shiver and continue on.

  The double doors of Jameson’s entrance, partially open, beckon me to enter. The last time I was here, the night I met Mac at the post-grad party, the entryway was inviting. Warm, orange light spilled out through the thick, arched windows at the top of each door. The bell on the doorframe jingled not only from coming or going, but also from the heavy steps of tipsy people dancing to outdated jukebox music. You could smell fresh food all the time, ten feet from the entrance. French fries, pizza, burgers, hotdogs, and even seafood, a specialty of the chef who’d worked there for over a decade.

  Jameson’s is popular for a reason—it’s that one place in town where anybody can go for a bit of fun and relaxation whenever they need it.

  At least, it was.

  I ascend the old, snow-covered steps, push one door open in utter silence, and walk inside.

  What greets me is neither warm nor inviting:

  The quick, solemn glances of crime scene techs, scouring the main bar and seating area for clues. Dusting over the tables and chairs and countertops, like they’ll be able to find the one fingerprint in a thousand that’ll crack the case. Snapping photos of the empty stage, where a band probably played last night, the wooden boards scratched and den
ted from years of dragging instruments to and fro. Picking up detritus with tweezers, dyed strands of hair, a fingernail fragment, an old candy wrapper discarded in a corner. As if any of those things will uncover the truth behind a violent, supernatural murder.

  But it’s their job, and they do it well. So I say nothing.

  There’s a long, awkward moment as I stand in the entryway, the door swinging shut behind me, buffeted by the wind, where I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to go or what I’m supposed to do. The actual crime scene isn’t visible from the doorway, and I don’t hear the chatter of detectives, or smell anything that screams decay. The crime scene must be on another floor, up in the lounges, maybe, or perhaps the sports bar, or, if we’re being cliché, maybe in the gloomy basement where they store all the—

  Ella Dean emerges from the darkness behind the unlit bar on my right and clears her throat in the most admonishing way possible. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence at last.” She shuffles over to the opening in the side of the bar. “Thought we’d be out of here before your lazy butt even arrived.”

  I open my mouth to spout out an excuse for my tardiness, but all that pops into my head is the yellow-eyed guy. Who has nothing to do with this murder investigation—and let’s face it, is probably just some supernatural drifter with no real significance in my life. I snap my jaw shut, hard, and then murmur, “Sorry, Ella.”

  Even in the dimness, I can see the suspicion run across her face like an electric wave. She shakes her head, banishing whatever she wants to ask me—or more likely, storing it away for a proper interrogation later—and motions for me to follow her toward what I realize is a narrow doorway, tucked in between a row of beer taps and a rack of glasses. “Bodies are down here. Crime scene’s wrapping up their initial sweep now, so we’ll be moving the bodies in about fifteen, twenty minutes. I’d like you to take a look at them, preferably before we unroll the body bags. You displayed some solid intuition when it came to Franks. I’d like to see it in action.” She backtracks to the door, resting her arm on the frame as she eyes me with a combination of annoyance and doubt. “If that’s all right with you.”