by Lexi C. Foss
He scrolled through the other messages and Owen’s contacts. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he pocketed the phone anyway. Mateo might see something he couldn’t.
He walked into the bedroom to look around. It revealed more evidence of his long tenure in the city. The textbooks on his desk were for a journalism or political science degree program, if the titles were anything to go by. Not a lot of useful information, a notebook filled with scribbles and a laptop that was off. The bed was made, his bathroom clean and the television new.
The blonde was no longer in the living room when he returned. He found her sitting on the floor near the front door. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, but her gaze was clear. She eyed him warily. “What now?”
“You’re going to contact the authorities, which would be my cue to leave.” Except she was blocking the door. He could easily cloak himself in a room full of cops, but he preferred not to go through the trouble. He also had a liability sitting a few feet away to consider. She could see him. That complicated matters.
“I’m not calling the cops.” Quietly stated, but firm.
His brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“Because they’re useless.” The jaded response surprised him.
“How are you going to explain the text messages? Specifically the one time stamped thirty minutes ago?”
“I don’t know.” She shivered and tucked her chin into her knees. “I knocked and he didn’t answer?” So that was how she was handling her shock, by considering her practical options. Interesting.
“What about the message he sent you around six to make sure you were up?”
“That isn’t incriminating,” was her muffled reply.
“I beg to differ since he’s been dead for at least three hours.”
“What?” The color drained from her pale cheeks. “You’re saying someone texted me from his phone after they killed him? Why?”
“Best guess? To ensure he was found. It would only take a few glances at his message history to see who he talked to most. You.” Someone wanted her to find Owen. It explained the unlocked front doors of the building. That was an abnormality for a residential building in New York City, especially this close to the university. Someone wanted her to get in.
She used the wall to help her stand and leaned against it when her limbs failed to cooperate. “How did you know Owen?”
“I didn’t.” Not well anyway.
“Then why are you here?”
As if he would tell her that. He slid Owen’s phone from his pocket and showed it to her. “I’ll take care of the message history and the building cameras.” The doorman was dead, courtesy of Cain and Michael. The scent of fresh blood had been his first clue that he wasn’t the only Ichorian on the scene this morning.
She gave him a dubious look. “Why would you do that?”
Because I suspect you’re a fledgling, darling. A dangerous thing to be in New York City. He wasn’t sure what to do with her yet, but if she was tied up in a crime scene investigation, she would be difficult to get to. “We need to get out of here.”
Her eyebrows rose. “And go where?”
He smiled. There was the defiance he noticed earlier. “Home, darling. You need to work on those horrible acting skills before the cops show up. All those photos indicate a long friendship and I suspect you’ll be one of their first visits.”
She almost fell down, but his hand on her hip kept her upright against the wall. Why he helped her, he wasn’t sure.
“Not again.”
“Again?” Implying this wasn’t her first murder scene?
She shook her head as tears gathered behind those beautiful eyes. They didn’t have time for this. Either she played ball or he would be forced to leave her here for the authorities to find. He wasn’t worried about her mentioning him. Even if she realized who he was, no one would believe he was here. It would be her word over that of a renowned billionaire, and money talked. His reason for trying to help her was selfish. He wanted her easily accessible after he figured out what to do about her. The best way to do that was to get her away from here.
“Did anyone see you enter the building?”
She shook her head again. “No.”
“Did anyone know you were coming here?”
“My roommate knows I’m out, but I didn’t tell her where I was going.”
“Brilliant.” He let go of her. “We need to go before someone decides to tip off the cops.” It stood to reason that the person who wanted her to find the body might alert the authorities.
“You think I’m being set up?”
“No.” Fledgling or not, a woman her size could not take down a Hydraian alone. “I think someone wanted you here, though. Are you coming with me or not?” Issac’s hand was on the door. He wasn’t worried about leaving fingerprints. They would never match his identity. And the girl was a friend of the deceased. Any prints she left would be easily explained.
“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.” She pushed off the wall onto unsteady feet and followed him into the hallway.
He didn’t say anything until they got into the elevator. “Is Stas short for something?”
“What?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You heard me.”
“Why?”
There was no point in lying to her. “So I can find you later.”
The intelligence in her gaze surprised him. Most women in her situation would be shaking at the threat, but not her. She seemed to accept the challenge, as if she expected it all her life. How curious.
“Astasiya.”
“Astasiya,” he repeated. A rare name for what appeared to be a fascinating woman. She might be worth the effort after all. They walked through the empty lobby and outside. The warm June air suffocated him, but seemed to calm her. Her lids fell as she inhaled through her nose, no doubt trying to purge the pungent smell from upstairs. When she refocused on him, he could see the clarity in her eyes.
“What’s your name?”
He almost smiled. His glamour didn’t work on her and she still didn’t recognize him. Fascinating. He rather liked the anonymity. It was a rare gift, one that might persuade him to keep her alive. “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll see me again soon.” He started towards his car before thinking better of it. “Oh, and Astasiya? Mention me to anyone and you’ll regret it.”
He left her on the sidewalk, her escalating pulse a sweet rhythm on the too quiet street. He hoped she did mention him. Teaching this one a lesson would be enjoyable.
He selected a contact from his phone once he was out of her hearing range. Mateo answered on the first ring. “Yes, Sire?”
“I need you to run a background profile.”
Mateo had a proclivity for information technology. It was one of the many reasons he gifted the man immortality a few decades back. “Of course, Sire. Name?”
“I only have a first name. Astasiya.” He mentioned Owen’s death and his respective address. Her full contact information would no doubt be listed in the future crime report once they realized her connection to the victim. “I want everything you can find on her by Monday.” That should give him enough time to review all of the details before meeting with Lucian. “Also, I need you to phone in an anonymous tip to the authorities.”
2
Caught in the Act
There was no funeral. Owen didn’t have any family to speak of, so the university held a remembrance service Thursday morning instead. Stas was standing just inside the Kimmel Center, dressed in mourning attire and wishing she was anywhere else.
“You ready, Stas?” Lizzie Watkins was standing beside her in a black dress and strappy heels. It popped against her creamy skin, something all the males walking by seemed to notice.
“Not really.” There were cops everywhere. She lived in constant fear all week that they were going to arrest her for obstruction of justice or something worse. So far, nothing. When they stopped by Sunday with the news of her friend’s death, all they asked was if she knew a
nyone who would want to hurt him. They didn’t even tell her how he died, just that it wasn’t pleasant. An understatement that she didn’t bother correcting.
“Just say the word and we’re out of here.” Her best friend was loyal to a fault.
“Thanks, Liz.” She followed Lizzie through the doors towards the service.
Various reporters were standing around, interviewing students about their tragic loss. The media wasn’t aware of the graphic way he was killed, something the cops seemed to be keeping quiet about. She was thankful for that tiny miracle. The way he died was not something she needed any help remembering.
She wiped her clammy palms against her black skirt and worked to calm herself down. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.
They walked into the auditorium just as the Dean of the College of Political Science took the podium for his opening comments. Behind him was a screen projecting a photo of Owen. He looked comically pensive with a pair of glasses perched on the edge of his crooked nose. His milk chocolate eyes were alight with mischief.
Her lips pulled up into a grim smile. “I took that picture.” The University must have found it on social media because she didn’t send them any photos.
“I know.” Lizzie toyed with a long auburn strand that fell loose from her elegant bun. Her lips quirked upward when the projector switched to another photo Stas had taken. This one was from their freshman year at Columbia. He was standing proud with a foot up on the desk, hands on his hips, expression victorious. If the university knew what inappropriate remark he’d just made before taking that photo, they wouldn’t have chosen it.
Lizzie’s big brown eyes were laughing as she shook her head. “I can’t believe they used that picture.”
She could. It captured his personality. “That was like a week after we met him.” Almost seven years ago. To know someone like him for such a short time seemed unfair.
Lizzie sobered. “Yeah, during freshman psych.”
Stas attempted to listen to the dean for a few minutes, but she was too distracted by the pictures and the memories they evoked. It was what Owen would have wanted from his memorial. He was a man who lived in the moment and enjoyed everything with a smile. He was friendly, loving, and just a great guy. He was also a bit of man-whore, but that was all part of his living life to the fullest charm. He didn’t believe in brooding over the negative.
He would pinch her now for dwelling on his murder, but it couldn’t be helped. For years she feared the supernatural. Nightmares haunted her nights and secrets cursed her days. She was always looking over her shoulder, waiting for the monsters to come after her the way they did her parents. But they never did. Over time, she grew complacent and started to question the accuracy of her childhood memories. Owen’s death served as a stark reminder that they were all too real.
The way he died was too familiar, and the involvement of the paranormal too coincidental. Whatever killed him came from the same world that murdered her parents in front of her all those years ago. Only now she couldn’t run and hide like she did when she was a child because this time someone was aware of what she knew. And he was coming for her.
“That was a nice speech,” Lizzie said, applauding.
She nodded even though she wasn’t listening.
There were a lot of students gathered around them. She recognized maybe a tenth of them as people who knew Owen, though more than half of them were crying. He was popular and well loved by the student body, but some of these supposed friends were at best mere acquaintances. They were also more interested in posing for media photos than paying attention to the ceremony.
Another speaker took the podium, followed by students who claimed close relationships with the deceased. A two hour ceremony on her friend and she heard none of it. All she could think of were the kind brown eyes she would never see again.
Several classmates came up to offer her condolences. Anyone who knew Owen knew they were close. She accepted the hugs and kind words on autopilot, but grew tired of it all after a while. When a brunette she didn’t know hugged her and started bawling so hard her words were incoherent, she gave in to her darker half. The words, “stop crying” just sort of slipped from her lips by accident. They weren’t meant to be heard, but the effect was immediate. The woman stopped weeping and her words were lucid.
“That was really odd,” Lizzie said as the brunette walked away.
“Yeah.” She should have felt bad, but all she really felt was relieved. The dramatic sobbing was getting on her nerves.
“Are you really going to work after this?” Her roommate kept trying to convince her it was a bad idea, but she needed something normal.
“I haven’t been in all week and I have a few projects to finish up for Brandon before graduation.” That was the day her internship with the CRF’s online marketing team ended. She wasn’t leaving, but the department’s full time job offer was contingent on her security clearance. Her position included updating social media websites to encourage foundation donations. Nothing security related, but the clearance was a requirement for all employees. Only students were exempt and she wouldn’t be one after Sunday.
“I’m sure he understands.”
“He does, but I want to get these things done before my mandated employment break.” Her polygraph and medical exam were scheduled for next week. The clearance would be granted a week or so after she passed and then she could begin working again.
“I still can’t believe you’re joining their club,” Lizzie muttered.
“It’s not a club, it’s a humanitarian agency.” The CRF was globally respected as an impartial organization that specialized in negotiating treaties and saving countless lives all over the world. They had their own military unit and enough interpreters to rival the United Nations. They didn’t report to any specific government, however the United States was one of their biggest clients. That was why she needed a clearance to work there; it was the only way the American government would grant the CRF access to certain files.
She rolled her big brown eyes. “Yeah, it’s a club.”
“You could always ask your dad to help you find a position. Or maybe Dr. Fitzgerald. I’m sure there’s something there for a school teacher.”
“Yeah, no thanks.” Lizzie didn’t like the CRF. Her father held a high up position within the company and specialized in the Russian region. That meant he traveled a lot and was rarely home. Stas suspected that was the real reason her best friend hated the humanitarian organization.
“Oh, great.” Lizzie grimaced as two people waved at her from across the room. Former sorority sisters from the looks of it. That was a world Stas wanted no part of, but her best friend ruled. She pasted on a fake smile, muttering “duty calls” as she walked over to engulf the women in hugs and air kisses. And the redhead accused the CRF of being a club.
Okay, Liz.
Needing a distraction from all the hugs and crying, she stepped out of the room and right into the hands of a reporter. Overdone lashes widened into a false smile as the fake blonde entered her personal space.
“I hear through the grapevine you and Mr. Angelton were close. What can you tell me about his social activities?”
“Yeah, I’m not interested. Thanks, though.” She tried to maneuver around the pushy woman, but a set of manicured nails snagged her arm.
“Is it true he was gay?”
The woman’s claws dug deep, making her wince. “Let me go.” Her calm tone was underlined with an authority the woman couldn’t ignore. She dropped her hold and looked at her hand as if it was malfunctioning. Using the woman’s distraction to her benefit, Stas got away and hid inside one of the empty classrooms.
She pinched her nose in frustration. That was two times she let her persuasive gift slip in a matter of thirty minutes. Her control over her darker nature was faltering. The nightmares were back, leaving her sleepless and weak. She needed to get a grip. Every command left another black mark on her soul, reminding h
er that she was less than human. The power was terrifyingly addictive. One day it would consume her.
“Well, that was enlightening.”
Her hand flew to her chest. “Jesus,” she breathed, meeting a pair of all too familiar blue eyes. “You scared the shit out of me.”
He was dressed in an all black suit today, including a tie. It hugged his athletic form and gave her the distinct impression that this man might just be the devil in disguise. Or maybe a demon. She had no idea what he was, but he wasn’t human. Somehow he managed to enter and close the door behind him without her hearing a single step of those expensive shoes against the tile floor. He leaned back against the wall, long legs crossed at the ankles and hands in his pockets.
“I’m curious. How old were you when you realized you could bend others to your will?”
She forced herself to reply. “What?”
“Oh come now, Astasiya, feigning ignorance doesn’t suit you. Order me to do something instead. I dare you.”
A violent tremor shook her, rendering her speechless. For years she had kept a lid on her abilities, playing it off whenever the occasional demand slipped. It was easy to laugh off coincidences with normal people, but there was nothing normal about this man. He would see right through any charade she threw up as was evident by his blatant dare.
“I thought it might be coincidence with the hysterical woman.” He pushed off the wall, his steps casual as he sauntered towards her. “Persuasion is a very rare gift, after all.” He stopped just in front of her to tuck a stray blonde strand behind her ear. “But that reporter was all you.”
She forced herself to swallow, mouth dry. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough.” His intimate gaze stroked over her, touching on all the places that could make a woman squirm. “It’s customary for one in my position to kill you on sight. Fortunately for you, darling, I’m not an admirer of our archaic laws.”
