by Lyra Evans
Oliver clicked on the link to their page and felt his lips part. The cover page for the company was a close-up shot of the company’s owner and CEO, Connor Pierce. Tall, pale, and blond, he stared out the screen at Oliver, his eyes burning with possibilities. The stormy blue of them was nearly liquid clear. His perfect lips quirked to the side in a confident, almost daring smirk. And Oliver exhaled slowly.
Connor Pierce was absolutely gorgeous, absolutely powerful, and absolutely a suspect in a murder. He had the most to lose from Eloise cutting ties with Werewolf companies. And the most to gain from her death. Oliver clicked away from the front page, almost desperate to be released from the photo’s intense, pinning stare. He moved on to the “About Us” section, and found the situation was far worse than he’d imagined. Connor Pierce wasn’t just head of Pierce Entertainment. He was also one of highest-ranking Alphas of Logan’s Court.
“Shit.” Oliver leaned back in his chair, staring at the sidebar images of Connor Pierce. He was pictured in a number of different poses and locations. Most of them were of Connor wearing a crisp, perfectly tailored suit, his broad shoulders filling out the fabric in a way that made Oliver want to tear if off of him. A few photos, however, were of Connor wearing somewhat less professional garb. Oliver paused on one in particular.
Connor was dressed in all black and reclining in a chaise before a fire. The contrast in the photo was such that the black clothing disappeared into the background, Connor’s pale skin glimmering in the firelight. His black shirt was unbuttoned and revealed a smooth expanse of alabaster skin. His head was turned slightly, his hair disheveled around his eyes, and his lips parted. It was the kind of pose a model might make, trying to sell underwear, but Connor didn’t look like a model. And though he angled his head back, his neck exposed, his body on display, he didn’t look vulnerable either. Quite the opposite—he looked powerful.
Every detail of the image conveyed the power this man wielded. Oliver tried to swallow against the dryness of his mouth and throat. His breathing laboured, heavy, he clicked away to another page, trying to ignore the pooling heat in his belly, or the tightness of his pants. He cleared his throat several times and adjusted himself in his seat.
Looking down at the scratched names on his list, Oliver decided he needed to start questioning people. He might get lucky—maybe Connor Pierce had nothing to do with Eloise Carmichael’s murder. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to go into Logan’s Court, and he could just pretend he’d never seen the photos of Connor.
Pushing himself off his desk, Oliver got to his feet and grabbed his coat. He needed to focus. The Captain would be breathing down his neck at every turn for this case, he was sure. She was outside now giving a statement to the press about the murder, and he was not to be seen by them. She’d made it clear he should be as scarce as possible until he had caught the killer. The less the press saw of him, the more they’d think he was busy investigating. Which, he supposed, was more or less true. But it also meant he had less opportunity to fuck up and give them details that might incite a kingdom-wide panic about Werewolves. Or any kind of retribution.
Oliver slipped out the back entrance to the station, pocketing his list. The first name was Daniel Brown, Eloise’s long-time boyfriend and Vice-President of Obscura Industries. He’d already been notified quietly by police about her death, but Oliver still needed information. And the boyfriend is always top of the list for questioning. It would be an easy start to the case. Except for the crowd of press lurking outside the entrance to the Carmichael Estate.
Oliver stopped beneath a snow-covered tree, trying to figure out a way to get passed the vultures without having to comment on the case.
“Mr. Worth!” Too late. A journalist with the Daily Spell had spotted him. He took a deep, calming breath, and stepped forward toward the house. “Mr. Worth, do you care to comment on the investigation into Eloise Carmichael’s death? Do you have any suspects? Is Daniel Brown a person of interest? Mr. Worth?”
“Detective,” Oliver corrected, walking right through the sudden onslaught of journalists converging on him. He pressed through the throng of them, though they did their best to avoid actually touching him at all. He reached the entry gates to the Carmichael Estate and held out his badge to the magical warding around the perimeter. The protections twinkled slightly on the air, barely visible unless you knew what to look for, and finally admitted him. He stepped inside the line of the Estate and left the crowd of journalists, unsatisfied, behind him.
The manor house of the Carmichael Estate was as grand as their name’s legacy demanded. Four stories of primly cleaned windows with vaulted arches beneath every rooftop, the manor house was probably as old as Nimueh’s Court was. One of the first families to pledge allegiance to Nimueh and her ancestors, the Carmichaels have always been at the heart of the kingdom’s politics and power. Frederick Carmichael, Eloise’s uncle, was currently High Warlock of the Court, and right-hand advisor to Nimueh herself. It was no surprise that there were journalists camped outside the manor. They were probably hoping to catch Frederick himself coming or going.
What was surprising, as Oliver knocked on the front door, was that there was an absence of extra security stationed around the Estate. And more of a shock was that Daniel Brown himself answered the door. A man who had reached his physical peak in his late teens, Daniel Brown was the picture of wasting youth. His skin was drawn, yellowish, and the dark circles beneath his eyes told of grief and sleeplessness. His hair was uneven, as though he’d forgotten to style it, and he’d missed a few spots shaving. There were nicks along his neck, a few long enough to be cuts. They bruised slightly at the edges. Apparently he’d had more trouble shaving than Oliver thought.
“So you’re the famous Detective they’ve set to the case,” he said rather than asked. He stepped away from the door to admit Oliver and revealed a crystal tumbler full of amber liquid in his hand. “Come on in, then. Let’s get this over with. Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
Oliver stepped inside, the heavy oak door closing behind him, but hesitated before removing his coat or boots. “Has no one been by to speak with you?” he asked, edging on panic. He’d taken from Brown’s behaviour and appearance he already knew about Eloise.
“Some officers came by to tell me the love of my life was dead,” he said bluntly, his expression empty. “If that’s what you mean.” Oliver said nothing. “What they won’t tell me, though, is why they won’t let me in to see her body.” Oliver stood motionless, his eyes searching Brown’s face as his mind raced for an acceptable answer. But there wasn’t one. Brown nodded after a moment, heaving a humourless laugh, and walked down the marble-floored hall. “Of course not. Come on. Make yourself at home, Detective. Hell if I know how long I’ll be allowed to say that.”
Oliver toed off his boots and followed Brown down the lavish hall. The floor was tiled marble, polished to a shine, and a sweeping oak staircase dominated one side of the entrance. Brown turned to the left, past a pair of wide, open glass doors, and into what looked like a formal sitting room. The furniture was all elegant, classic, and probably older than both Oliver and Brown combined. It didn’t look it, though. The wood was polished and the cushions as pert as the day the pieces were made. Perhaps some maintenance charms were sewn into the fabric.
Pausing in the doorway, just before setting foot on the plush carpet, Oliver felt for the magical signatures in this place. The home of every Witch and Wizard normally hummed with the latent magical signatures of the residents, but the sitting room carried little with it. There was a soft buzzing at the back of Oliver’s head as he tried to listen, to feel the magic. Otherwise, nothing.
“What kind of warding does the manor have?” Oliver asked, glancing around the perimeter of the room. There were no runes he could see from here, but the wards for the Carmichael Estate were probably set on the perimeter of the grounds.
“All kinds,” Brown said, dropping unceremoniously onto the thick seat of the cent
ral sofa, apparently unconcerned by the question. “They track entrances and exits on the grounds, keep out blacklisted individuals, raise alarms if someone is trying to breach them…They even impede magical signatures. Do police even still look for those? If you tried to read for them, you won’t get anything in here, I’m afraid. And I can’t turn the wards off. Not authorized,” he said, and the last word was tinged with bitterness. He took a long drag on his drink.
Oliver stepped inside. This complicated matters slightly. “You do live here,” Oliver said by way of question, seating himself in one of the armchairs. “It’s your house too.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Detective,” he said, gesturing around with his glass. “This is the Carmichael Estate. And I’m no Carmichael. Never married, remember?”
Oliver studied him. He drank from the tumbler again, the amber liquid nearly gone. It was certainly early in the morning for that kind of drinking, but murder had that effect on people. By the look of Brown’s swaying head, it wasn’t the first glass he’d had that morning.
“You said you weren’t sure how long you’d be able to host people here,” he began, glancing around the room. There were large portraits of all the Carmichaels on the walls, including a particularly large one of Frederick Carmichael hanging over the fireplace. Eloise’s parents were relegated to one side, and she herself occupied a smaller portrait toward the corner. Brown was pictured nowhere. “Has the High Warlock implied you would be evicted?”
Brown snorted into his drink, but there was little of it left. He coughed, finished the drink, and rose to pour himself another from the sidebar. “Implied? No. He flat-out told me I would need to make other living arrangements. Once it was appropriate. Doesn’t want the press to find out they’ve kicked me out so soon after Eloise’s—well. That would look bad for the High Warlock, in any case. Can’t have that.”
Brown poured out another tumbler-full of what Oliver guessed was cognac and shambled back to the couch.
“I realize this is a very difficult time, Mr. Brown,” he said, wanting to expedite the questioning. He wasn’t sure how long Brown would remain coherent in his intoxicated state. And he wasn’t keen on sticking around for the full recounting of his every grievance with Frederick Carmichael. “I just need to ask you a few routine questions, and I can be on my way.”
Brown stilled, looking into the depths of his glass for a moment. “I understand. I’d look at me too, I suppose. I’m sure Uncle Freddie’s made it clear he would.” He sat up, too quickly, and swooned slightly. Laying back down with more control, Brown gestured for Oliver to start his questioning.
“When was the last time you saw Eloise?”
“Yesterday afternoon, at the office. Around three, I think it was. My assistant, she’s in the other room—she can give you a more precise time if you need. Or I’ll just have her send you my full schedule. We had lunch, discussed a few upcoming deals and reports, then Eloise left the office for another meeting.” Oliver nodded, pulling out a notepad and pen. Jotting down the details, he watched as the letters he wrote transformed themselves into others, leaving his notes in code.
“And this is the main office of Obscura Industries?” he asked.
“No, actually,” Brown said. “It was the offices of ArcaShield. Obscura is the parent company, but ArcaShield is mine. We were discussing some quarterly numbers for that and Obscura as a whole. I was overseeing an exciting new research and development project there—would revolutionize tracking and undercover operations for police, actually—so it was easier for Eloise to come meet me.” He stopped abruptly, his expression pulling at pain. He fought to swallow and took a deep breath. “She liked the little café around the corner. They had a cherry tart she’d get every time she visited…”
Oliver jotted down the details, watching Brown struggle to down more cognac. “Had she expressed any concern about anyone recently? Maybe she was having difficulty with another business, or representative?”
“You mean did she think anyone might try to kill her?” he said, shooting Oliver a side-long glance. “No, Eloise didn’t think like that. Or she didn’t worry about it, anyway. Doesn’t mean she was right though. Clearly.”
“How do you mean?”
“Other than being murdered?” Brown said, coughing a cold laugh. He wiped at his eyes, apparently unable to separate his emotions. “As soon as she took over Obscura she started talking about Werewolves and Fae and how we shouldn’t do business with any of them anymore. Said they were no better than animals. She was—very determined in her opinions. And she made it known to anyone who would listen.”
“So you didn’t share her feelings?”
“I don’t care about those things,” he said, shaking his head. “Obscura has more than a few major contracts with companies from Logan’s Court. And Maeve’s Court too. Cutting off ties with anyone not Human would mean cutting a sizeable chunk into the company’s bottom line. But she wouldn’t be talked out of it. Once Eloise made up her mind, she was deaf to reasoning.”
The sinking feeling from earlier was back, and Oliver wished he’d managed to eat something more than stale coffee at the precinct. “So there was a significant loss on the horizon for both Obscura and the companies it severed ties with.”
Brown’s eyes widened comically, his mouth round in an exaggerated ‘o.’ “Absolutely. I mean, Obscura would survive. It always does. And we have large contracts all over Nimueh’s Court, so it was a loss, but not deadly. But some of the businesses in Logan’s Court…well, they might not have fared so well.”
“Why is that?”
“Obscura provides a number of magical tonics and potions very useful to someone from Logan’s Court, if you catch my meaning. They can’t produce them there. Need a Witch or a Wizard skilled in potion-making to brew it. A Master, really, and the amount they consume—not really possible for a small independent firm.”
Oliver stopped writing, his pen hovering just above the paper. He had to ask the question, but he didn’t think he wanted to hear the answer. “Do you remember which was the last meeting Eloise had yesterday?”
Brown sipped on the cognac for a long moment, his eyes half-lidded, his head tilted toward the portrait of Eloise on the wall. “She only had the one meeting, after our lunch. As far as I know, anyway.” He dropped his head, his expression tight, crumpled, as though he was folding beneath the weight of the roof. “She crossed into Lgan’s Court to meet with Connor Pierce, of Pierce Entertainment.”
A weight dropped onto Oliver’s shoulders as he cursed under his breath. “You’re certain?” he asked, making a note, despite himself. He was grateful for the coding spell on his notebook.
“Yeah,” he said, looking up suddenly. Oliver could feel Brown’s eyes searching his face. “She went on about how she was going to have to shower ten times when she came back to get all the dog smell out of her clothes. Said it was worth it, though, if it was the last time Obscura did business with any of ‘their kind’.”
Fuck fuck shit fuck. Of course, fucking damn it.
“And what time was the meeting?” Oliver asked, trying to figure out how he was going to break this information to his Captain.
“I think it was scheduled for four,” Brown answered.
“And where were you between one and four a.m.?” he asked, trying for delicacy.
Brown seemed jarred, but answered still. “I came home around eleven and went straight to sleep. Didn’t get up until around five this morning.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?” Oliver asked, wincing at his own question. Brown’s face turned ugly, drawn by the loneliness and grief he fought with.
“Only the house,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “The wards track every person coming in or out. You can check them…”
“No need,” Oliver said, noting it and looking up. “You say you got home at eleven. Were you not concerned when Eloise didn’t come home?” Brown looked hurt, angry, as though Oliver had suddenly betrayed him. “Ro
utine questions, Mr. Brown, I’m sorry.”
Brown nodded slowly, his anger giving way. “Like I said, I fell into bed right away. I sleep like the dea—I sleep heavily, and she often came back after I was asleep. It wasn’t until this morning, when I realized she wasn’t—and then the officers came by…”
Watching Daniel Brown slowly losing the battle not to cry wasn’t something Oliver was keen to continue doing. He sat frozen for a few moments, then got to his feet, slipping the notebook back into his pocket.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Brown. I’ll let myself out,” he said and made for the entrance again.
“They won’t tell me,” Brown said, his voice breaking. When Oliver looked back, he saw that Brown had lost the battle with his emotions. Tears streamed slowly down his puffy cheeks. “They won’t tell me how she died. But it was them, wasn’t it? Werewolves. That Connor Pierce did something to her, and they won’t let me see—”
“We’re waiting on an official cause of death, Mr. Brown,” Oliver said, trying for comforting. He was never good at this part. “It’s still very early in the investigation. Nothing is clear yet, but we are doing everything we can. I’m sorry I can’t provide more information yet.”
Brown had shut his eyes, struggling visibly against the sobs that wracked his body. But suddenly, he looked up at Oliver, his eyes sharp and fierce even as they shone wet in the low light of the sitting room. “You will catch him, Detective Worth. Promise me you’ll get the son of a bitch that did this to my Eloise. Even if it means risking an inter-Court nightmare. Don’t let the politics interfere with justice for my Eloise. Please. Promise me.”
