City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set

by Clara Coulson

  I don’t look back as I run into the street—because there are vehicles barreling at me from two directions, and I don’t want to get run over—but I hear the clang of metal trashcans toppling as Ella charges into the chase, and I guess Desmond mows some poor shopper down on the way out of the department store, because an unfamiliar voice shouts, “Hey!” and Desmond yells back a winded, half-assed apology.

  Barely skirting the grill of an oncoming utility truck, I reach the sidewalk three paces behind Reeves. With a peek over my shoulder, I see Amy getting cut off by the same truck, and she swears as she tries to round the back end of the vehicle and catch up to me. Ella and Desmond are farther back still, so it’s up to me to tackle the witch before she gets so far ahead that we end up in a cat-and-mouse game for the entire afternoon.

  Coattail whipping up behind me, I push my legs as fast as they can go, closing the distance between Reeves and me. Her speed is hindered by her work-appropriate pencil skirt, but she’s agile enough to cleanly leap over the prickly bush line and land on the other side without losing momentum. I follow her example, jumping extra high to make sure I don’t take a pointy leaf to the butt, but I stumble my landing on a patch of loose dirt and lose several feet of my gain. Damn it!

  As soon as she realizes she’s pulled away from me, Reeves slows for a split second to hike up her skirt, and doubles, no, triples, her previous speed, running faster than a freaking Olympic sprinter. Teal sparks fly out of her toes, like she’s striking metal with each step, her magic pumping inhuman strength into her legs and feet, to ensure the pathetic little Crow with his unenhanced physique can’t possibly match her.

  But, hey, there’s more than one way to tackle a witch.

  I skid to a stop, drop to my knees, aim my closed fist at the witch’s retreating back, charge my force ring, and yell, “Shoot!”

  Melissa Reeves might be an ICM-caliber practitioner, but she’s nothing compared to the magic-powered creatures I’ve fought in recent months, or even the seasoned agents I’ve been sparring with ever since Desmond gave me the green light to use my beggar rings in combat again. (Admittedly, I’m not that much better than before. I naturally suck at beggar magic, it seems. But, after three months of extra practice, I’m good enough.)

  The force wave blasts out of my ring, travels thirty feet across the park, a ripple in the air, and slams into Reeves’ lower back. She tumbles forward with a shriek, painfully bounces across the grass, again and again and again and again, and rolls to a stop on the opposite edge of the park, six feet from the sidewalk next to Norris Avenue.

  For a tense moment, I expect Reeves to hop back up and make another run for it, but the woman only curls into a ball and groans in muted agony. Her dirt-streaked body now sports an array of fresh, forming bruises and weeping, shallow cuts. Better yet, blood gushes like a broken hydrant from her nose, which is slightly misaligned. She must’ve kneed herself in the face during one of her uncontrolled flips.

  The witch’s shaking hands cup her nostrils to try and stop the flow, but it’s useless. Her expensive suit jacket and blouse are already stained an un-bleachable red. Completely ruined. (And her beehive hairdo, to my immense amusement, has been flattened. She won’t be sporting that ridiculous pouf again anytime soon.)

  That’s the least you deserve for running, lady.

  As I push myself back up and start to jog over to the fallen witch, I tap my mic. “Nailed her with a force blast, guys. She’s down.”

  “Cal!” Ella chastises. “This is a busy neighborhood. Someone could have seen you.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, “and someone could have also seen the witch running like the fucking Flash. She had sparks flying out of her feet, Ella. Sparks. At least my force blast was transparent.”

  Amy comes over the line. “He’s got you there, sister.”

  “I’m coming around the north side of the park now,” Desmond says, laughter in his voice. “In case she tries to slip you again.”

  Ella sighs. “I’m coming around from the south.”

  “And I’m right behind you, Kinsey,” says Amy.

  When I near the witch, I glance to my left, then to my right, spying Desmond’s hulking form darting past the trees on one side and Ella’s shorter but well-muscled frame dashing by a row of parked cars on the other. Amy’s steps are light but quick behind me, closing the distance swiftly so she can back me up in the arrest. By the time I’m slowing to a stop in front of the injured Reeves, we’ve almost got her surrounded.

  If only almost was good enough.

  Without warning, Reeves vaults over onto her knees, reaches inside her jacket sleeve, and yanks out a knife from a hidden sheath.

  Then she throws it. At my face.

  I reflexively duck, and the blade flies over my head, skirting along the top of my hair before it soars off and embeds itself four inches into a tree some fifty-odd feet away. Four inches being the entire length of the blade.

  Unbalanced from the dodge, I try to regain my footing, but the witch surges forward and slams her palms into my chest. My feet leave the ground, and I fly back, crashing into Amy. Her significantly smaller body collapses under my weight, and we both crumple to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs and shouted cursing.

  By the time we manage to extricate ourselves from each other, Reeves is halfway across the street, heading toward a narrow alley between a hair salon and a used bookstore, and Desmond and Ella are struggling to change direction quick enough to keep up with her. After a brief glance to make sure I’m not dead, Amy tears up grass with her shoes and her fingernails as she hauls herself to her feet and rockets off after the witch, an infuriated growl swelling deep in her throat.

  I, on the other hand, stay on the grass, sluggish and dazed and winded from the blow to my chest. Breathless, I cough wetly into my hands, but to my immense relief, no blood spatters my gloves. Knife toss not withstanding, Reeves wasn’t aiming to kill me. She just wanted to slow me down. Which means, at the very least, she’s not a remorseless murderer like Marcus and—

  I only witness it by chance.

  I glance up from my gloves the instant before it happens. Reeves is in the middle of the right lane, running full speed for her chosen alley. Desmond and Ella are an equal distance behind her, two feet from the edge of the sidewalk, about to leap into the street in hot pursuit. Amy is only a few steps behind them, moving much, much faster than you’d suspect someone of her size could move. Everyone—except me—is consumed by the adrenaline of the chase.

  So no one—except me—sees it coming.

  The ice cream truck. Or, rather, the ice cream delivery truck. One of those bulky refrigerated numbers that the local companies use to distribute their products to all the grocery stores once or twice a week.

  I don’t know how heavy the truck is, or exactly how fast it’s going—but it’s a truck, and a truck moving any speed, really, is enough to crush a human being into a fine pulp. Even a human being who has enhanced her speed and strength with magic.

  Reeves spots the truck a moment too late, and raises her hands in a panic. Trying to summon a shield or cast another kind of protective spell. There’s a flash of teal, right against the grill of the truck, and the half-formed spell collapses on itself. And the truck hits the witch. And the witch disappears underneath the truck. And the truck’s brakes shriek as the desperate driver tries to prevent his vehicle from killing a pedestrian—to no avail.

  The truck skids to a stop twenty feet farther down the road.

  The witch is left in the middle of the lane, bloody and broken.

  There’s a period of time, maybe thirty seconds, where nobody, not me, not my teammates, not the truck driver, not any of the bystanders on Norris Avenue, can figure out how to react to the horrific event that just occurred right in front of our eyes.

  Then Nicholas Riker comes over the com and says, “Oh, for the love of god.” He doesn’t sound shocked. Only weary. “Will someone check that woman for vital signs, please? If she’s al
ive, call an ambulance. If she’s dead, call Schultz.” A heavy sigh filters into my earpiece. “I guess I’ll call Commissioner Bollinger while you’re busy and tell him the wonderful news. Another ICM death for him to report to the High Court.”

  The com feed goes quiet.

  Ella’s shoulders sag in defeat, and she trudges over to Reeves’ body. Stripping off her glove, she sinks to her knees and checks the woman’s neck for a pulse. About ten seconds pass before she removes her hand and shakes her head. “She’s gone,” she calls back to us without looking over her shoulder. She doesn’t want us to see her crestfallen expression.

  Ah, regret.

  I know that feeling.

  “Well, damn.” Desmond runs a hand over his shaved head. “I’ll call the medical examiner, I suppose.” He tugs his phone off its belt clip and scrolls through his contacts.

  Amy, meanwhile, seems to be at a loss of what to do. She swipes the grass and dirt from our collision off her clothes and starts pacing awkwardly up and down four squares of the sidewalk, while muttering to herself in what I’m pretty sure is not the English language. Japanese, maybe. I think she grew up in a bilingual home.

  And as for me—well, I still can’t breathe. So I sit there and hack my lungs up as the consequences of the accident unravel across the neighborhood.

  Some bystander inevitably calls the cops. A patrol car shows up five or so minutes later. Two beat cops confront Ella and Desmond about Reeves’ body. The former claims jurisdiction over the accident, and directs the cops to contact the mayor’s office for further information, while the latter, backing up Ella with his imposing presence, has a quick chat with Natalie Schultz, instructing her to send somebody over to collect the witch’s corpse.

  The cops aren’t happy.

  My team’s not happy.

  The bawling truck driver’s not happy.

  The traumatized bystanders aren’t happy.

  And I’m not…paying attention.

  Because something odd has caught my eye.

  At the corner of Norris and Avery, standing in the shade of a closed café’s awning, is a man in a dark coat and a wide-brimmed hat. The hat is tipped down, hiding the man’s face in shadow, and the coat is buttoned all the way up to his neck, concealing whatever lies beneath. But what commands my attention, at first, is not his somewhat suspicious attire, as the only person in the area wearing all black besides the uniformed DSI detectives. What commands my attention, at first, is his behavior.

  Out of every single bystander on Norris Avenue, every angry driver, now stuck in backed-up traffic, every horrified pedestrian, now inching closer to Reeves’ body in morbid curiosity, every DSI agent, now bummed at our mission’s failure, every cop, now disgusted by DSI usurping their jurisdiction yet again—out of everyone, the man in the dark coat and wide-brimmed hat is the only person on the street who looks entirely…nonchalant.

  Déjà vu whispers through the back of my mind.

  Without my consent, my legs heave me up, and my feet turn to march me off toward the mysterious man at the end of the street. And—

  A bird soars over my head, close, too close, its shadow engulfing me, its massive wings flapping so loudly the sound drowns out the whole wide world. I yelp and cover my face, afraid I’m about to be pecked to death. But then the flapping fades into the distance, and the shadow peels away from me. By the time I peer up at the light blue sky, there’s nothing but a few wispy clouds crawling lazily above me. Nothing but the clouds, and a single brown feather floating toward the earth.

  On impulse, I hold out my hand. The feather lands on my palm.

  I stare at it, baffled.

  Okay, what the hell was that? It was almost like something tried to stop me…

  To stop me.

  My déjà vu is gone. No nausea. No dizziness. No “tug” to pull me to its desired destination. Just gone. Like magic.

  Frantic, I look to the end of the street again, to the café, where the mystery man was observing the scene of the accident mere seconds ago. He’s not there anymore.

  I close my fingers tightly around the feather and search the scraggly, leafless trees in the park for a sign, any sign, of what I suspect just happened—and there it is. On the western edge of the park, there’s a skinny tree with a freshly broken branch, the limb splintered near the base. As if a very large bird was perched in the middle, then suddenly took off with punishing force, snapping the wood clean through.

  A very large bird.

  Like an owl.

  Four Weeks Later

  Chapter One

  The morning the convention center collapses without warning, I’m knee-deep in mud in a forest-turned-swamp, chasing a duo of bickering werewolves who wrecked a bar the night before during a fistfight spurred by a monumental helping of crappy beer.

  And if this sounds like a ridiculous mission to assign to an elite detective team, that’s because it is. We’re being punished by Commissioner Bollinger for mucking up that Reeves arrest last month. Even though Reeves technically ran out in front of that ice cream truck of her own volition, and would still be alive if she hadn’t decided a little bit of jail time for helping Marcus track down the Ammit summoning instructions—we found messages about that on her phone, afterward—was worse than being a fugitive from the law indefinitely.

  Honestly, what an idiot.

  Though I do feel bad that she got run over by a truck. As does the rest of my team.

  But apparently our guilt isn’t punishment enough.

  So instead of sending us to investigate the apparent murder-by-magic on Tillman Street yesterday evening, Bollinger assigned the newly minted Captain Sing to that case and booted our asses out to the sticks to handle a minor public disturbance matter.

  And that’s how, after a long, early morning of interviewing a bartender, twelve hungover patrons, and one prostitute who was…well, “busy” in a truck outside the bar at the time of the disturbance, I find myself trudging through sticky, cold, foul-smelling mud in the middle of some random Michigan woods. With two nude male werewolves about twenty feet ahead of me, scrambling to climb a rocky hill so they can shift into animal form without being swallowed by the earth.

  There’s mud in my boots. There’s mud in my pants. There’s mud in every nook and cranny of my person it does not belong in. And I’m not happy about it.

  But at least I’m not Desmond, who fell face first into the mud about forty feet back, and who Amy and Ella are apparently trying to free from its gross, mucky grip, judging by the panicked shouts echoing through the trees from somewhere behind me. And at least I’m not Riker either; he’s probably still at the bar, taking statements and being propositioned by a worryingly cheap prostitute.

  Long story short, Team Riker’s having a bad day. A day I hope ends very soon.

  Anyway, back to the naked assholes.

  Regis Hartman and his cousin, Paul, who trashed a bar, fled the bar, transformed into giant wolves, and destroyed the parking lot full of cars outside the bar, clamber up the side of a low hill in an attempt to free themselves from the mud-swamp. Regis, the older of the two, kicks Paul in the face on his way up—maybe accidentally, maybe not—and Paul responds by grabbing Regis’ foot and using his Wolf strength to yank the man off the hill and back into the mud. Regis yells a string of swears at Paul, so nasty that his entire sentence would get bleeped out on a reality TV show.

  Gee, I can’t imagine why these two got into a fight last night.

  Nevertheless, I use their senseless bickering as an opportunity to play catch-up. With a tree as leverage, I haul myself out of the swamp on the far side of the same little hill, the mud making a heinous suction noise as it tries to hold onto my right boot. Thankfully, my tightly tied laces keep the boot on my foot, and I pull free from the muck with a loud squelch and stumble up onto the hillside.

  Paul and Regis, about ten feet ahead of me now, spot me coming, and redouble their efforts to escape. If they manage to go Wolf before I reach them, they w
ill escape, because my two weak human legs won’t be able to match speed with their powerful, furry four. A lesson I learned quite well when I escaped from McKinney’s torture shack last year. Wolves fast. Humans slow. Wolves strong. Humans weak.

  But, hey, I still won that battle.

  Just like I’m going to win this ludicrous pursuit.

  As Paul drags himself out of the mud and crawls a few feet up the incline to give himself room to transform, I sprint toward him, my mud-filled boots squeaking every step of the way. Regis, still stuck in the swamp, rears up to try and wrench my feet out from underneath me, but his aim is off, and I evade his grasp. Then I lunge for Paul’s chest, a manic cry in my throat, and tackle the Wolf man with all my strength, launching him back first into the trunk of a thick pine tree.

  The air rushes out of his lungs in a strangled gasp, and his eyes roll back in his head as he nearly faints. But I don’t slack up. Before his butt even sinks to the ground, I grab his arm, tug him forward, swing him around, and, with my knee jammed into his lower back, slam him onto the rocky hillside face down. Next, I rip my cuffs off my tool belt and bind the werewolf’s wrists.

  “Paul Hartman,” I spit, “you are under arrest for destruction of private property, assault and battery, and creating a public disturbance.” I grimace at the taste of mud on my tongue, from where it spattered across my face during the chase. “You will be transported to the local jail for holding, and you will stay there, without incident, supernatural or otherwise, until such time as your bail is posted. During this holding period, you may request a lawyer, from a private firm of your choice, or provided by the Michigan Lycanthrope Criminal and Civil Attorneys Office.” I bend closer to the wheezing man’s face, his nose still pressed against the rock-strewn earth. “Do you understand, buddy?”