Large hands land on my shoulders, and Desmond’s deep voice sounds off directly in my ear. “Calvin, despite your omnipresent desire to be noble, there are times in life when you should allow people to alleviate their guilt through relatively harmless methods, such as buying you gifts. Food included.”
I pull away from Desmond’s far-too-close face. “Uh, guilt? What are you talking about?”
“Cal.” Ella sighs and leans against the wall. “We let you get kidnapped, tortured, and nearly murdered by werewolves. Nick almost had a complete breakdown; he started hyperventilating in his office after we found Liam’s body. Amy punched out a window and had to get twelve stitches. Desmond probably paced a noticeable dent in the floor of the task room. And I…um…”
Desmond throws in, “She may or may not have threatened to pull one of our detainee’s intestines out through his mouth.”
Cooper finishes, in a soft voice, “I cried myself to sleep two nights in a row.” His cheeks flush pink, and he looks anywhere but my immediate vicinity.
I try to think of something profound and endearing to say to these people who apparently care so much about me that they nearly drove themselves insane in my absence. Naturally, all I manage to produce is an awkward, “Oh…”
Ella punches me in the arm. Lightly. “Yes, Cal. Oh. We’re your friends, whether you like it or not, and we worry about your well-being.” She rustles the duffle bag thrown over my shoulder. “So take the gifts, Cooper’s food included, get some rest, and for god’s sake, stop acting like everything should pick up exactly where it left off before the Lombard attack. You need time to heal, physically and mentally, and we need time to put our nerves back together before we all end up on the same tiny sofa in a group psych session.”
Desmond points at my door. “We’ll come by to see you when there’s more downtime in the case. And we’ll even bring Chinese takeout. Until then…”
Cooper catches the unspoken cue and moves out of the way, dragging the apparently heavy grocery bag behind him. Ella then nudges me forward, and, with a repressed groan, I yank out my keys and unlock the door. It swings open to reveal the familiar one-bedroom I’ve lived in for the better part of three years. Narrow hallway. Reasonably sized living room. Decent kitchen, if not a tad short on counter space. And a bedroom fit for a Queen—because a King-size mattress leaves me with less walking space than the gap between economy-class seats on major airlines.
Everything in the apartment is as I left it.
Which is more than I can say for the rest of my life post-Wolf nabbing.
I step into the tiny foyer area and slide the duffle bag off my shoulder, setting it up against the rickety table where I keep my loose change bowl and a couple of faded, framed pictures from my college years. Then I whip around and raise my hands in a gesture meant to say, Satisfied now?
Ella and Desmond quickly glance from one end of the hallway to the other, like they’re worried another werewolf might come barreling out of the shadows the second they move beyond a five-foot radius of my person. But all they see is one of my elderly neighbors shuffling toward the laundry room with an empty clothes basket.
“Good enough, I guess,” Ella says, before she flicks Cooper’s arm and grins. “Take good care of Cal now, okay? Make sure he doesn’t stay up past his bedtime or eat too much sugar.”
Cooper giggles.
“Hey!” I frown. “You’re pushing it, Ella.”
“Aw,” Desmond says in a falsetto as he mimes pinching my cheeks, “look at him trying to act all mature. They grow up so fast.”
“Guys!”
Everybody bursts out laughing, except me. I stand there with a kindergarten-worthy pout plastered across my swollen face, bandaged arms crossed so hard they ache, until Cooper drags his groceries into the foyer and my teammates finally retreat toward the elevator, cackling like idiots all the way.
Grumbling, I shuffle into my living room and sink onto the couch. I grab the quilt draped over the back and bury myself in it, then mutter curses as it takes three tries to wrap my mummified fingers around the remote on the coffee table.
Cooper shuts—and locks—the door behind himself but doesn’t come join me in the living room. As I flip through the channels, searching for something not entirely boring to watch, I train my ears on the sounds of Cooper moving around my kitchen. The paper bag crumples loudly as he unloads the groceries and searches for the right places in my cabinets and fridge to store everything. Belatedly, I realize that I have no identifiable methodology for storing food—aka, I’m a damn slob in the kitchen—which Cooper must notice. I’m too afraid to look, but I swear to god it sounds like he takes everything out of my cabinets, throws half of it away, and then creates a brand new system of food storage, all in the time it takes me to settle on an episode of The Walking Dead.
About fifteen minutes into the episode, just as I’m starting to nod off while the zombies eat people for the third time in a row, Cooper pokes his head over the back of the couch. “Hey, Cal. You hungry? I know you’ve only had cafeteria food for the past few days, so…”
I haven’t really thought about my stomach much recently, but now that he mentions it, I realize I’m starving. McKinney gave me just enough sustenance to not die of thirst, and after my rescue, I spent half my time in the infirmary either drugged to high heaven or unconscious. It feels like I haven’t eaten a real meal in years.
I open my mouth to reply to Cooper, but my stomach answers for me with the loudest growl ever.
Cooper laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes. What do you want? I’ve got steak, spaghetti, pork chops, chicken…or, would you rather have something easier on the stomach? I can do soup.”
“No, I need something filling, man,” I mutter into my worn couch pillow. “Meat. Bread. Vegetables. The whole lot.” I peek up at his inquisitive face. “If, you know, you’re up for that.”
Cooper smiles down at me, blond hair falling over his eyes. “If there’s one thing you can count on, Cal, it’s that I’m up for cooking. Because it’s one of the main hobbies I use to control my anxiety. I spent all my off hours during your abduction baking cookies and brownies. I made so many I ran out of neighbors to feed, and I had to donate the rest to local churches for…” He clears his throat. “Anyway, a big, hearty meal it is.”
“Thanks, Coop.” I file away that new bit of info. Cooper plus cooking equals anxiety cure.
Maybe I should come up with a hobby of my own to manage my PTSD flashbacks.
I hear woodworking is fun.
“No problem.” He pats the top of the sofa. “You look a little sleepy. You want to take a nap? I’ll wake you up when dinner’s ready.”
“Sounds good to me.” I cut the volume down on the TV as a yawn works its way out of my throat. Donahue trying to kill me again may have been all the entertainment my battered body can handle today. I snuggle deeper into the blanket. “And Cooper…”
He stops on his way back to the kitchen. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
A long pause, and then:
“Anytime, Cal. And I mean that.”
Approximately forty minutes later, according to the info bar on the TV, I wake up to the smell of a home-cooked meal emanating from a kitchen where the microwave is usually the main source of nourishment. I’m comfortable wrapped in my quilt, and my heavy lids beg me to go back to sleep, for a little while longer—you know, like, ten hours. But I hear the telltale clacking of silverware and plates as the skinny kitchen table I bought at a yard sale is being set. Cooper must be nearly finished with cooking, which means he’ll be over any minute to shake me awake and entice me to the dark side known as overeating. So, with that in mind, I rub my tired eyes, stretch very carefully to avoid tugging any of my stitches, and sit up so I can—
Somebody knocks on the front door.
I freeze, fist clenched into the sofa fabric. Cooper, visible through my kitchen entryway, halts on his way to the table, a pot of something steaming in his oven-mitte
d hands. We trade nervous glances; anyone from DSI would have called ahead if they were coming over. Did Donahue somehow round back to my neighborhood on his flight from Stein’s, passing under the radar of the auxiliary teams out hunting for him? Or…?
The person knocks again, this time more insistently. And in a pattern. A pattern I recognize and that only one person could know—because we created that pattern in case we needed to be sure of who was on the other side of either of our doors.
I strip the quilt off my aching body, haul myself up with the aid of the couch, and stumble down the hall. Cooper mouths, What are you doing? And I dismiss his concern with a nonchalant hand wave, indicating that, this time at least, there’s no threat to our lives hiding behind my front door.
Reaching said door, I slide the bolt back and unlock the knob, then crack it open enough to poke my head out and greet the person in the hallway.
Erica the witch.
She glances up from her phone screen and examines my face, after which her eyebrows arc sharply. “Gods, Cal. If that swelling doesn’t go down soon, I’m going to have to start calling you formerly hot Crow.”
“Funny.” I open the door all the way, ushering her inside. “Didn’t know you’d be dropping by.”
“I texted you about half an hour ago.” She adjusts her large purse on her shoulder and slips into my apartment, shedding her shoes on my welcome mat so the dirty snow in the treads won’t stain the floor. “Did you not get it?”
I close the door securely behind her and check the locks three times before I turn around. “Nope, didn’t see it. McKinney destroyed my phone. I got a replacement from the office, but it was fresh out of the box, so it has three thousand updates to grind through before it actually becomes useable. The office software is so bloated.”
“Ah, I get that.” She exits the browser window on her phone, but not before I catch a headline from a news article: Brutal Brawl at Stein’s! Five Arrested in Grocery Store Showdown.
“Reading up on current events, I see.”
She waves her phone at me. “Were you there?”
“Yup. Almost got killed. Again.”
“Sounds like you need a vacation, hot Crow.” She shoves her phone in her purse, then unbuttons her long green coat. “Or maybe a nice massage?” Her eyebrows wiggle in a suggestive way I’ve become well acquainted with over the past two months.
“Sorry,” I reply. “Don’t think that’s in the cards this time. Too many injuries with the word broken in the name.” I point my thumb at the door. “So if that’s the only thing you came for, you might want to reconsider your visit.”
“If only all my trips were for pleasure only.” She fakes a pleasant sigh and hangs her coat on the rack, along with her scarf and earmuffs. “Alas, this trip is strictly business. Since you got grabbed by the Wolves, I haven’t been getting steady updates from DSI.”
A blond head pokes out of the kitchen.
“Uh,” I say, “about that, Erica…”
“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Riker was totally uncommunicative during the time you were missing. Told me off when I called and then wouldn’t answer any of my texts. I understand he was worried, but the Jameson case didn’t grind to a halt just because his subordinate got kidnapped. As soon as Ambrose showed up…Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Erica,” I say, peeking through the fingers I’ve slapped over my face, “you remember Cooper Lee, right?”
Erica whirls around to find Cooper half in, half out of the kitchen, still donning an apron I’m pretty sure is not mine. (Where the hell did he find that?) Witch and archivist stare at each other for one of those long, silent, awkward moments that make you want to melt into the wall. Erica’s left hand twitches like she wants to smack herself—she didn’t consider I might have company because I never do—while Cooper glues a plastic smile to his face because he’s never spoken a single word to this woman, despite the fact he knows I’m sleeping with her.
To my surprise, however, it’s Cooper who breaks the silence.
“So…should I set another place at the table?”
“Huh?” Erica looks from him to me. “What am I missing?”
“We were about to have dinner,” I say. “Cooper wants to know if you’d like to stay and eat with us.”
“Oh.” She uncomfortably scratches at her cheek. “Well, I haven’t eaten yet, so why the hell not? What are we having?”
Cooper unties the apron and tugs it off. “Steak, potatoes, string beans, homemade biscuits, and baked cinnamon apples.”
I peer around Erica’s shoulder at Cooper. “Dude, how did you make all that in less than an hour?”
Cooper flashes me a knowing smile. “Maybe it was magic.”
Erica laughs. “Sounds great. And while we’re chowing down, how about I fill you in on my end of the Jameson case?”
Cooper sends me an inquisitive glance.
I reply to him, “Erica passes DSI intel about the ICM, via me. It’s a secret, though, so keep it hush-hush.”
Cooper digests that information. “So, is the relationship a cover, or…?”
Erica claps Cooper on the back as she passes into the kitchen. “Not quite, archivist.”
“Okay,” Cooper mutters. “And your team is all right with this, Cal? Seems a little dangerous, since the ICM can get so nasty.” He bites his lip and turns to Erica. “No offense.”
“Not offended.” She waves off his concern as she grabs a third plate from my open cabinet and then heads to the table. “If I thought the ICM was all rainbows and unicorns, I wouldn’t be playing the mole role in the first place.”
The mole.
There’s one in DSI, I suddenly remember, along with the fact I suspected it might be Liam.
And there’s a whole new bucket of shame for me to dunk my head in. Just what I needed.
I shake it off for now and say, “Cooper, actually, no one but Riker knows about Erica being a spy. He was her DSI contact before I came into the picture. He let me take over his role since Erica and I, well, you know, the whole…”
“Fuck buddy thing,” Erica says. She pulls out a chair and seats herself, grinning.
Cooper’s cheeks redden, and he retreats to the stove to grab another pot. “Well, that sounds interesting. But Cal, you do realize Ella is going to be pissed when—not if, when—she finds out about this, right? And you know she has no problem smacking down Riker when he does dangerous things, so with you…”
“Yes, I’m aware of the epic shit storm she will eventually bring down on my head. Punishment accepted in advance.” I pick the chair across from Erica and finally take a good, hard look at the food I honestly think Cooper may have pulled from a different dimension hiding in the back of my hallway closet. Because hot damn, I have eaten five-star restaurant meals that don’t look as good as the perfectly cooked steak dinner and delicious apple dessert sitting on the table in front of me. What kind of sorcery…?
Erica, eyes on the pots and pans, appears to be thinking the same thing.
Cooper places the last pot—the mashed potatoes—on an old potholder in the center of the dinner arrangement and then sits at the head of the table. “Well, Cal, as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I think I do,” I reply, reaching for a hot, fresh biscuit, “but I’m sure we all know how accurate my intuition is.”
“Luckily, mine’s a lot better than yours,” says Erica the witch, as she pours herself a rather large glass of wine. “So butter your biscuits and slice your steaks, gentlemen, because I have got the most infuriating story to tell the two of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Erica Milburn’s tale of two assholes can be summed up in five sentences.
One: Shortly after he was dismissed from the Jameson crime scene, Aurora ICM leader Allen Marcus convened a meeting of six wizards and four witches in the basement of his house, which is apparently where he usually holds semisecret meetings because he’s a paranoid fuck who thinks DSI
will bug public meeting places if he books them on any regular basis.
Two: During this meeting, Marcus revealed he has a mole in DSI, feeding him important intel about our cases, and that this mole revealed the third victim at the bar and grill was a werewolf.
Three: Marcus refused to allow anyone near Wizard Halliburton’s home, until Wizard Ambrose arrived in Aurora, under the faulty reasoning that Halliburton’s house could be booby-trapped with dangerous wards—and it was during this unreasonable wait for Ambrose to show that I was kidnapped by McKinney’s crew.
Four: After Wizard Ambrose finally ambled into Aurora, he accompanied Erica, Marcus, and two other ICM members to Halliburton’s house, where they—surprise, surprise—broke down his wards with minimal effort and entered without incurring a single injury.
Five: Ambrose and Marcus quickly concluded that there was no evidence related to the Jameson case inside Halliburton’s house, which they reported to DSI and the mayor’s office, but, after thoroughly examining the house, Erica realized something quite obvious that Marcus and Ambrose pointedly ignored: Halliburton’s publicly listed address was a decoy house, and he clearly hadn’t lived there in some time, if ever.
Shoveling a wad of potatoes into my mouth, I say, “If Halliburton was truly hiding his underground activities in a second secret house, then maybe McKinney’s paranoia wasn’t quite as unfounded as I thought.” At Erica’s questioning glance, I fill her in on DSI’s side of the case so far, including everything that happened (sans a few explicit details) during my captivity in the torture shack. Inadvertently, I also fill Cooper in, but I know he’s got more than enough discretion to refrain from spilling the beans to anyone who shouldn’t know.
When I finish my second retelling—I don’t cry this time, thank god—I ask, “Do you think it’s possible there’s a coalition of ICM practitioners in Aurora who used Halliburton as their spokesperson, the same way Martinez was McKinney’s proxy?”
Erica sets her fork down and rests her chin on her hands. “Hm, it’s not impossible. But to think that any significant number of wizards and witches would risk expulsion from the ICM by engaging in banned summoning practices is a hard pill to swallow. Most practitioners I know are more into self-preservation than anything else. Although…” She takes a sip of her wine. “If this all-important summoning was part of a plot to ensure that much-touted self-preservation, then maybe a number of practitioners could be persuaded to contribute.”
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