City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set

by Clara Coulson

  Two persons of interest just slipped through my fingers in two minutes flat.

  And apparently a third is dead.

  The rain might be cold, but the shame burns white-hot.

  I can’t wait to tell my team about this abysmal performance. Ella’s going to be so…

  Newman, glasses askew, pine needles and bits of bark stuck in her tight black curls, steps through the brush beside me. She gasps when she spots me leaning against the tree, looking like I got hit by a truck. After waving over her shoulder to signal the others, she offers me a hand. “Think you can stand up long enough to get out of these godawful woods? We’ll load you up in the SUV and get you to the hospital, okay?”

  My lips move to answer, but my tongue flops around uselessly in my mouth, and all that emerges is gibberish. Fighting the urge to punch myself, I emphatically point in the direction owl man indicated.

  Newman scratches a spot of half-dried mud off her cheek, looking from me to where I’m pointing. “I don’t understand, Kinsey. Why do you want to go that way? We need to get you and the captain off the field.” Her frown deepens. “You have a head injury. You’re not thinking straight.”

  I shake my head and try words again. “Feldman,” I manage to slur out. “Feldman. Fifty meters. Dead.”

  Newman’s mouth slips open in surprise. “The perp’s dead? Did you kill him?”

  “No. Don’t know what happened. Need to see. Please.” I finally take her proffered hand. “Then we can leave.”

  “I’d prefer to get you medical attention ASAP, but if you insist…” She slings my arm around her neck and helps me stand. Thankfully, my legs are in better working order than my mouth.

  “Status report?” says Naomi as she cuts through the brush with Joe Adelman supporting her; the captain’s right leg is twisted at an awkward angle. They both stop short when they get a load of my condition, but luckily, Newman steps in before her captain can ask any questions.

  “Kinsey says we might have ourselves a dead perp off to the east. He wants to confirm before we drop out of the race. Permission, Captain?”

  Naomi’s eyes widen a fraction, but she clamps down on her emotions, analyzing the situation like a good captain should. “If Feldman is dead, we need to relay that information to Captain Riker immediately, so he can update mission directives for the entire operation. Lead the way, Kinsey—but make it quick. You look like you’re in bad shape, and I’m not feeling too spiffy either.”

  As a group, the four of us trek through the underbrush for the stated fifty meters. There, we find another clearing, this one larger than the last, rain beating down on the grass through the gap in the canopy. In this clearing, back against a tree, arms and legs splayed, anchored with what look like iron shackles pinned with nails, a massive, gaping X slashed across his torso, like a twisted vivisection, half his blood volume soaking the soil, the flesh of his face flayed clean off and tacked above him on the trunk, nothing but a cooling corpse in the rain—is Patrick Salisbury Feldman. Tortured. Killed. Left to rot.

  We linger there in muted shock, nothing but the downpour as our backdrop.

  Eventually, Joe Adelman whispers, “What on god’s green earth happened to that poor bastard?”

  Newman has no answer, but Naomi and I know exactly what to say.

  She begins, “Feldman became a liability because he exposed his identity to us…”

  I finish, “…so another rogue executed him to eliminate the security risk.”

  And that act right there, that singular act of depraved brutality, tells us everything we need to know about the Methuselah Group.

  Epilogue

  The verdict is finalized the following Saturday, while I’m moping on my couch.

  A conference call with my team comes to a close, and I’m left staring at the ceiling, huddled in a blanket, with HGTV blaring in the background as I evaluate my life choices. Because despite the fact that Feldman’s reign of terror is over, no more riddles, no more wards, no more innocent civilians at risk, in every other way, this case was a catastrophe.

  First, sixty-seven people died in the fall of the Wellington Center, and two hundred eighteen were injured, lives forever altered.

  Second, Commissioner Bollinger claims that, because it’s a matter of “legal” intelligence operations, we can’t step on Lucian Ardelean’s toes unless we launch a formal inquiry with the Vampire Parliament, meaning we can’t bring him in for questioning about the secret war, much less prosecute him for his murder spree two years ago.

  Third, owl man’s identity is still a total unknown, and he’s impossible to locate as long as he’s in bird form, so he’s a dead end too.

  Fourth, both a professional and personal concern: Erica Milburn no longer has memories of assisting DSI, and we won’t be able to restore those memories and ask her for help again until the threat of Iron Delos subsides. And given what rumors have been emerging from the practitioner community lately—nighttime abductions by a secret police, grueling interrogations, etc.—that day could be very far in the future. In the interim, our casework will suffer.

  Fifth, after all that effort Cooper spent weeding out the mole, the destruction of our security footage ruined any chance we have of catching them. The security office confirmed all the relevant footage was permanently destroyed, so that asshole who stole the pen, sent the shapeshifter after Cooper, and nearly got my whole team killed on Primrose Avenue is still out there, ready to sabotage us again in the name of the Methuselah Group.

  Sixth, and last, because the Methuselah Group excels at tying up loose ends, we have no clue who Feldman’s co-conspirators were, and no evidence to point us in the right direction. Either Lucian is going to hunt them down and take revenge for the deaths of his colleagues from Europe, or Delos is going to weed them out and ship them off for punishment under ICM law. Regardless, DSI will never lay a hand on them, and they’ll never be brought to justice in a public court of law. So the city will officially place the blame on some terrorist cell that doesn’t exist, and the file on the Wellington Center will be rubberstamped and closed for good.

  I can’t help but think, over and over and over and over, that if I hadn’t so badly flubbed that final showdown, maybe the answers wouldn’t have slipped away. If I hadn’t flinched in the face of the unknown wizard. If I hadn’t squabbled with Lucian and allowed Feldman to escape. If I hadn’t let Feldman flee the locker room in the first place. If, if, if…

  So many chances. So many mistakes.

  Sometimes, I wish I could bury my head in the sand and—

  There’s a knock on my front door, not in a rhythm I recognize, but I know who it is regardless because there’s only one person stubborn enough to visit me while I’m in such a bad mood. I untangle myself from the blanket, slog into the foyer, unlock the door, and haul it open. To reveal none other than Cooper Lee.

  To my surprise, he hasn’t come bearing bags filled with home-cooked food. Which is what he’s done every day since Navarro sent me home. (Vampire blood or not, proclaimed the good doctor, you’re on medical leave until I say otherwise.) Instead, Cooper’s dressed up in a nice new coat and a warm, knitted hat, like he’s got somewhere important to be and is only dropping by for a minute or two.

  I hold the door open wide, ushering him in, but he steps into the foyer and goes no farther. I close the door behind him and say, “Where you heading, Cooper? Look like you have a busy day ahead.”

  “I do.” He taps the rim of his boot on the floor. “And so do you. Get cleaned up. We’re going to Spring Fest.”

  “I’m sorry. What now?”

  Cooper eyes me like he’s annoyed I didn’t immediately obey his command. “Spring Fest. You know, the yearly festival in the park on Monroe Street? Lots of carnival games, local vendors and artists, fair rides, etc.? Been an Aurora tradition since 1965? I know you’ve heard of it, Cal. I know you’ve gone before. And I know you’ve seen it on the news this week, because this year, they’re holding a hundred and one fu
ndraisers for the convention center restoration and disaster relief efforts. Don’t play dumb with me.”

  I lean against the door. “I’m not playing. I mean, yeah, I do know about Spring Fest and all, but what makes you think I want to go?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want,” he answers bluntly. “You owe me a favor for rudely leaving me on your couch while you ran off to fight a vampire, and I’m collecting that favor today. You’re taking me to Spring Fest, and you’re buying me lunch, and you’re winning me at least one carnival prize.”

  “Uh, hold on a second.” I chuckle. “That sounds less like a favor and more like a date.”

  Cooper gives me a steady look. “What? Am I being too oblique? That is the favor, Cal. You’re taking me on a date, and the date is Spring Fest. So shut up, go take a shower, get dressed, slap a smile on your mopey face, and escort me to that hunk a junk you call a truck. Because I’m not waiting all day for you to get your shit together. You stall much longer, and I’m dragging you out the door as you are.”

  Silence fills the space between us.

  I realize Cooper is serious.

  And I have no idea how to handle that.

  So I walk past him on automatic and follow all his demands. Take a quick shower, towel dry my hair, dress in the best-looking clean clothes in my closet (the choices are slim), shove on my boots, grab a coat from the rack, and return to the foyer to find Cooper in the same spot I left him fifteen minutes before. He gives me a look like he’s evaluating whether or not I’m presentable enough for him to associate with in public. Then he nods, reopens the door himself, and steps out into the hall.

  “Come on,” he says. “The main events started an hour ago. I want to get there before the afternoon crowds roll in.”

  I hesitate on the threshold of my door. “Look, Cooper, I’m not sure this is a good idea. I mean, you’re a great guy and all, and I like you a lot, but if you’re hoping for a serious commitment from me…”

  Whether or not a person stands close to you and risks getting shot by your enemies is their decision, not yours.

  The words die in my throat.

  And you need to respect what other people are willing to risk to be with you, not try to push them away because you believe you know what’s best for them.

  Cooper, already strolling down the hall, peers over his shoulder at me. “What were you saying?”

  I step over the threshold and close the door behind me. “Nothing. Let’s head out for our…date.”

  A piece of his falsely confident mask cracks, and a familiar shy smile peeks through. “Cool, yeah. Let’s go.”

  The drive to Monroe Street is rife with heavy traffic, but it’s a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, and for the first time all year, I feel like spring is actually on the horizon. Cooper hums along to a song on the radio as we turn at the intersection and fall in line with the rest of the vehicles heading to the festival. A traffic control officer points me in the direction of a side street, I turn again, and then a few more cops guide me into the lot of an independent grocery store, whose owners have kindly allowed festival goers to park for free.

  As I’m parking, a vague memory of an unfinished conversation pops into my head. I cut the engine and look to Cooper. “Say, what ever came of that Moscow research project?”

  Cooper stiffens slightly, uncomfortable, but then shakes it off. “Oh, I turned them down. It was an amazing opportunity, but it wasn’t for me.”

  “And you had every right to say no.” I poke his shoulder. “Don’t let people bully you into things you don’t want to do, okay? If they get pushy, you push back.”

  “Oh, hush. I’m supposed to be giving you the pep talks today, Mr. I want to brood on the couch for days on end.”

  “That’s not true. I would occasionally venture into the kitchen for sustenance.”

  He huffs. “Get out of the damn truck and take me on my date, you dolt.”

  “Yes, sir. Your wish is my command.”

  He punches me in the arm.

  I laugh.

  Spring Fest is more fun than I remember, although the last time I went, I was, admittedly, a certified moody teenager, so that probably impacted my experience. This time around, I find amusement in a succession of carnival games that I succeed at while Cooper miserably fails. Every time he loses, he drags me to a new booth, only for me to collect another cheap novelty prize while he’s left steaming and stomping his feet. Playfully, of course. Neither of us take it seriously.

  Until we come to a ring toss game where I (by accident, I swear) win the grand prize of a five-foot-tall teddy bear. When the guy at the booth hauls the huge bear onto the counter, Cooper and I gawp at it in utter amazement.

  “Well, Cooper,” I say, “there’s that big prize you wanted.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with that? It’s nearly the size of me!”

  “Cuddle with it when you’re lonely at night?”

  He scowls at me. “You’re carrying it.”

  And I do. All the way back to my truck, while Cooper runs off to get us some lunch (at my expense, as promised).

  While I’m cutting through the rows of fundraiser booths on my way to the picnic tables on the west end of the park, I spy a familiar name emblazoned on the banner hung from one of the white tents. THE WALLACE FUND, it reads. Manning the table is (surprise, surprise) my good pal Vincent Wallace, who I haven’t seen since that nasty interview in the DSI dungeon last week.

  I’m of two minds. I don’t really want to talk to Wallace, but he’s the local Wolf rep, and if I completely sever our working relationship, it’ll only hamper DSI in the long run.

  So I make a detour and waltz over to Wallace’s booth. The fancy papers in plastic holders strewn across the table proclaim that every dollar donated will be used in the reconstruction efforts for the Wellington Wallace Convention Center, which will begin sometime this fall or winter, after the cleanup of the disaster zone is complete. I don’t think Wallace is enough of an ass to lie about that sort of charity and hoard the money for himself, especially since his namesake is on the building, so I pull out my wallet as I sidle up to the table and pluck out a hundred-dollar bill.

  Wallace glances up from his phone and jumps, startled. “Oh, Kinsey. I didn’t expect to see you…”

  I drop the bill in a glass donation jar. “Paying my dues, Wallace. For the good of the community, you know?”

  He winces. “Of course. I understand.”

  I almost walk away there and then, but something in Wallace’s posture suggests he has more to say. So I wait. Let him sweat it out. Until he finally breaks after two minutes of awkward silence.

  “Look, Kinsey, about what happened last week,” he says in a low, meek tone. “I’m sorry about all that subterfuge. I shouldn’t have treated you like that, not as a politician maintaining a professional relationship with DSI, and not as a person deserving of any respect. I was wrong, and while I don’t expect you to accept my apology in any way, shape, or form, I want you to know that if you have business concerning the werewolf community in the future, I will do my duty, as charged by the Lycanthrope Congress, and assist you according to our laws, as I always have in the past.”

  “Hm.” I weigh that apology carefully before I reply. “Well, thanks for being responsible enough to admit your shortcomings, Wallace. I’m sure there are some in the Congress, or perhaps above, who would prefer you give us the cold shoulder from now on.”

  Wallace casts his gaze at the tabletop. “You’re not wrong, unfortunately. But I—”

  His head snaps up, a growl in his throat, an inhuman glint in his eye.

  I reflexively reach for a gun I’m not wearing, only to elbow somebody standing behind me. Someone who wasn’t behind me a second ago.

  A hand stretches across my back and grasps my right arm, preventing me from making an escape, and a few inches from my face (too close, way too close), that smooth voice I loathe so much chuckles in amusement.

  Luc
ian Ardelean says to Wallace, “Don’t be so jumpy, Wolf. I’m not here to pick a fight. Just enjoying the lovely day like everybody else.”

  “What happened to vampires hiding from the sun?” Wallace snarls.

  Lucian snorts. “That old myth? Come on, you know better. We only burn a little more easily. Sunscreen takes care of that.”

  “You don’t burn easily enough for my taste.” Wallace grips his phone so hard the plastic case cracks under his werewolf strength. “Now get out of my sight, or so help me…”

  I can feel Lucian roll his eyes before he says, “Oh, pull that stick out of your ass, Wallace.” He reaches into his front coat pocket and produces a huge wad of cash, ten thousand dollars at least, which he tosses into the donation jar on top of my previous contribution. “In memory of your unfortunate spies who lost their lives trying to spy on my spies, please accept my generous donation to your recovery efforts.”

  Lucian tilts his head closer to my ear. “And as for you, Cal Kinsey…”

  He takes a deep breath, as if preparing to say something profound, groundbreaking, world-changing.

  “Pity about Feldman, eh?” Lucian releases my arm, pats my back like an old friend giving condolences, and tips his hat to me. “Better luck next time, kid. Better luck next time.” And then he strides off, directly into a crowd of vulnerable high school students, for the express reason, I assume, of preventing me from tackling him to the ground and punching out all his teeth.

  Damn him, I curse to myself. Damn him to the Etruscan Underworld, where Vanth will behead his conceited, piece-of-shit—

  “Uh, Kinsey?” Wallace whispers. “You all right? You’re turning purple.”

  Shaking myself out of the fury, I say, “I hate him. I hate him so much. He’s such a dick!”

  “Number one rule of the supernatural, Kinsey,” replies the Wolf in sympathy, “all vampires are dicks.”