by Lyra Evans
As Oliver stepped further into the club, Racer tried to follow him in, but Donna stopped them. “No need for you to join us,” she said. “He’ll be in good hands here.” Oliver turned back sharply. Racer was his escort, his guarantee at the border. His heart hammered in his chest. How would he get back?
But Racer merely nodded, and he and his partners disappeared back into the storm. Donna closed the door behind her, a predatory smile on her face when she saw Oliver’s spark of distress.
“Don’t worry, little Sorcerer,” she said. “We don’t eat ape.”
She swept by him and toward the dimly lit room at the end of the hall. Oliver watched her go, and once she was out of sight, took a moment to steady his breathing. He clipped his badge back to his belt, having blown his own cover, and unzipped his coat.
The walls were black as the outside had been, the minimal lighting came from the ceiling, which was blanketed with tiny pinpricks of light reminiscent of the night sky. Only this night sky had more stars than any Oliver had ever seen. The floor was matte, reflecting no light, and made him feel as though he walked on nothing at all, suspended above a void.
It was deeply unnerving, but not so unnerving as entering the main dance floor. Decorated in much the same way, only with scattered constellations in larger lights, the main hall was a space snatched out of the depths of the universe. No planets or moons, only stars, darkness—the endless night. Only the illusion wasn’t entirely complete.
To the right was the bar, and there were lights on underneath the counter, dimming the effect of the illusion and revealing the floor proper. The light glinted off rows and rows of bottles, each filled with liquid of a different and mysterious colour. Standing behind the bar, his form a shadow edged in white, was Connor Pierce.
Oliver felt his throat go dry, his tongue too thick for his mouth. Heart beating faster, Oliver stopped dead at the mouth of the hall. Connor Pierce was tall, lean, and built of a kind of quiet muscle most common in nature’s deadliest predators. His white-blond hair seemed radiant in the low light of the club, reflecting almost as a halo around his head and tapering down the nape of his neck. Oliver’s eyes followed the line of his spine, swooping down his back to his hips and—the bar blocked the rest of his view.
As he watched, trying to collect himself, Oliver noticed a frisson pass down Pierce’s back. He lifted his head, taking a deep, slow breath, and then turned slowly to face Oliver. Mouth slightly open, Oliver could do little but be rooted to the spot by Connor Pierce’s intense blue eyes. Like ice and lightning, his eyes were even more brilliant than in the photos, even from across the room.
“Detective,” Pierce said, his voice smooth as dark chocolate and smoky as expensive scotch. He tilted his head slightly as he turned to face Oliver more fully, every part of his body now oriented at Oliver. A flicker in his eyes and the slightest twitch of his nose told Oliver he sensed something. Heart beating still faster, feeling more like a deer than he ever had in his life, Oliver shifted the bag on his shoulders. Could he smell the weapons through the sense-glamour? “What can I do for you?”
Somehow it didn’t sound like an offer of cooperation. If Oliver hadn’t known any better, he might have thought Connor Pierce was offering him something much more inappropriate. But he couldn’t be.
They stood for a moment, both motionless, both apparently caught in the other, and then Donna made a disdainful noise and walked between them, crossing the main hall to disappear into a darkened doorway. The moment’s reprieve from Pierce’s gaze gave Oliver the time to collect himself and pretend to be a cop again.
He shook off the look, the feel of Pierce taking him in with his eyes, and stepped toward the bar. He had a job to do, regardless of how attractive his suspect was.
“I have a few questions regarding Eloise Carmichael,” he said, trying to maintain an evenness in his tone he didn’t feel in his chest. Pierce’s eyes flickered with recognition, but it was fleeting. He leaned casually against the edge of the bar. Oliver felt goose bumps rise on his skin, the air around him nearly sparking.
“Yes, I’d heard,” he said, his eyes always on Oliver’s face. A shiver ran down Oliver’s back. His coat and scarf now seemed unbelievably thick, almost suffocating. He could feel a drop of sweat run down his spine. Pulling the scarf from his neck, Oliver set it on the counter, trying to play it off as casual. “A terrible thing.”
“Thing?” Oliver repeated, his eyes following Pierce as he directed his attention to Oliver’s scarf on the counter. He sniffed the air so subtly Oliver nearly missed it. What was he looking for?
“Murder,” Pierce explained, his attention now fully back on Oliver’s face. “Quite a shock to find out it was Eloise, too. I saw her only yesterday.” Pierce leaned down slightly, drawing his gaze level with Oliver’s. “But I imagine that’s exactly why you’re here.”
Oliver held the look a moment, taking the time to sense his own clues. He felt around for the magical signature around Pierce, but it was hazy. Freshly fallen snow, crisp as cracking ice, and the warmth of a bed first thing in the morning. He felt the deep, throaty laughter of shared love, the spark on the head of a match, and the sudden, hard press of skin to skin. Oliver stopped breathing, heat flooding his senses, his body tingling with the sense of Connor Pierce. But something was missing. There was more to the signature, he was sure, but he couldn’t feel it. Not clearly.
He tried to pull himself out of it, out of the near-trance that Pierce’s magical signature drew him into, but it was difficult. Everything was hazy here, in this floating piece of the universe. Pierce studied him, and Oliver forced away the sensations.
“I’m trying to ascertain a timeline for her last hours,” Oliver said, returning to the questioning. He placed his hands on the countertop, grounding himself in the cool surface. “When did you meet Ms. Carmichael?”
Pierce blinked slowly at Oliver, and Oliver felt as though he was making some kind of invitation.
Don’t be stupid. Focus on the damn case.
“The meeting was scheduled for four o’clock,” he said. Oliver pulled out his notebook and jotted down the information. It was as he expected, what he already knew, but he needed something to look at that wasn’t Connor Pierce.
“And what was the meeting regarding?” He looked back up to find Pierce even closer than before, leaning partially over the counter. Oliver fought the sudden intake of breath that came naturally. He stood his ground, unwilling to back away and give Pierce the upper-hand in the questioning. But another instinct was harder to fight—the one that told him to lean in, to close the gap between them.
“Obscura Industries has a long-standing monthly meeting with Pierce Entertainment as per our contract,” he explained. Oliver searched Pierce’s face, but he didn’t seem to be lying.
“Seems like a bit of a waste of time for the CEO of a major company like Obscura,” he said. “Coming all the way to Logan’s Court once a month just to check in?”
Pierce smiled, the arc of it pulling at the corners of his mouth in a slow, fluid line. “True,” he said. “Which would be why normally the meeting was between one of her VPs and my associate, Donna.”
Oliver continued to write notes here and there, needing to remember to breathe. “Yet yesterday Eloise Carmichael elected to come in person to meet with you and not your associate?” Pierce nodded. “Why would that be?”
“Why indeed,” Pierce said, and Oliver tried to snap himself out of the stupor he was in. Ogling Pierce like a puppy wasn’t going to get him to reveal himself.
“A source informed me Obscura was intent on cutting ties with Pierce Entertainment,” he said, expression pointed. He wanted to see Pierce shifting, uncomfortable. He wanted to see him slip. But Pierce didn’t.
“Not a very good source, I’d say,” he answered. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the Daily Spell. Not a very objective publication, are they?”
“So Ms. Carmichael did not come here to end her contracts with your c
ompany?” Oliver asked. Pierce seemed unfazed by the line of questioning, and Oliver was only getting more frustrated. He was definitely hiding something, but Oliver couldn’t figure out what.
“She did not,” Pierce said.
“Were you aware of Ms. Carmichael’s feelings regarding Non-Humans?” he said, pushing the angle. No one referred to Werewolves as Non-Humans unless they were intent on being inflammatory.
Pierce pulled away, standing straight, and Oliver nearly regretted losing the proximity. “Unfamiliar words in your mouth,” Pierce said, studying Oliver’s face again. “I can tell. You didn’t like the taste of them. Nice effort, though.”
Oliver’s jaw tightened. Was he being played? “Did you or did you not know of Eloise Carmichael’s prejudice against Werewolves?”
Pierce pressed a thumb to the side of his mouth, his arms crossed in front of him. “I did,” he said. “First time we met it was obvious she was uncomfortable. But she got over that quickly.”
Oliver’s eyes widened slightly, his head tilted. “Yesterday wasn’t the first time you’d met?”
Pierce shook his head with a smile. “No,” he said. “The first time was a few months ago, actually. That was when she came to meet me with the intention of cutting off ties. That’s when the rumours started swirling in that rag your kind call a newspaper. But she didn’t go through with it.”
Oliver thought back to the first articles about the possible break. A few months prior was when Eloise had taken control of her parents company, only a month after their deaths.
“Why didn’t she go through with it?” he asked. It was a bold question. Not strictly in the scope of the investigation.
“She wasn’t comfortable with bigotry,” he said. “As I understood it, it was mostly the result of her uncle’s influence. He’d complained about Obscura’s dealings with us in the past. Went on and on about it to her parents, she said. But they were smart business people. And, as it turns out, so was she.”
Oliver licked his lips, his throat still dry. He was dehydrated now. Without saying anything, Pierce turned around, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Oli. He stared at the glass for a moment, suspicious, but took it in the end. He was too thirsty. He drank, one long gulp, and let the water soothe his parched throat. It was ice cold but went down without a shiver.
“Thank you,” he said, placing the empty glass on the counter. “But I don’t buy it.” Pierce’s eyebrows shot up. “She meets with you once and throws out all her uncle’s influence in a second?” Oliver looked him up and down, feigning disinterest. “You’re not that charming.”
The smirk on Pierce’s lips was full of light, full of temptation, and he gave Oliver a similar sizing look. But at the end of it, Oliver didn’t feel dismissed or small. He felt hot, naked, vulnerable.
“I think you’ll find I can be very persuasive,” he whispered, and Oliver exhaled a low, ragged breath. Pierce licked his lips and brushed some of his blond hair out of his face. “But I never said I was the one who convinced her to change her mind.”
Oliver swallowed hard against the tightness of his shirt collar. Pierce must know the effect he had on Oli. Oliver tried to shake it off, knowing that, but couldn’t quite manage. “Who then?”
“Another Wolf,” he said. “We met at one of my other clubs the first time. It was already in operation. There were quite a few people there. I just know she found someone—intriguing—and decided she wasn’t quite as disgusted by Werewolves as she’d thought.”
Oliver wrote this down, unsure if he could take Pierce at his word. “So why come back to meet you in person yesterday?”
Pierce shook his head. “She needed a ruse, I imagine,” he offered. “How else could she come to Logan’s Court without arousing suspicion?”
“What time did your meeting end, then?”
Pierce’s expression changed slightly, as though he was disappointed by the question. “Approximately five o’clock. We didn’t have much to discuss. Pierce Entertainment is a growing business. We upped our monthly order of Obscura’s Potionworks and that was that.”
Oliver noted the time down in his coded notebook. Pierce looked almost as though he wanted to lean over and peek at the notebook, but he made no move to try. Oliver considered him. “Where did she go afterward?”
Eyebrows cocked in question, Pierce said, “I really wouldn’t know. My business with her was done. I had other people to attend to.”
Something about the way he said people caused a flare inside Oliver. He shifted from one foot to the other, ignoring the strange feeling. “And where were you between the hours of midnight and four a.m.?”
Pierce sighed. “I was at one of my other clubs, Hunt, until an hour after closing,” he said. “There are at least twelve people who can corroborate that, if you need.” Then he leaned over again, suddenly so close to Oliver he could barely breathe. “Is that all you need, Detective…”
“Worth,” Oliver said, his voice breathier than he’d realized. He cleared his throat once. “Oliver Worth.” Pierce hummed low, a smile on his face and his eyes darkening. “And no.” A flash of excitement crossed Pierce’s face, only to disappear when Oliver said, “I need to know who it was convinced Eloise Werewolves weren’t so bad.”
Pierce pulled back, his professional mask sliding back into place. The flickering warmth in his eyes was gone, the darkening in his eyes turned light. Oliver didn’t know why this bothered him, but it did.
“I don’t have a name,” he said. “And if I did, I don’t know that I would give it to you. I would never betray another Alpha like that. The man you seek is not of my pack.”
Taking a chance, Oliver pressed himself against the bar, leaning over the counter in a mirror of Pierce’s previous position. The countertop dug into his stomach, the cold of the surface almost glacial against his heated skin. He nearly lost himself in Connor’s eyes, but the slight twitch of Pierce’s nose as he breathed Oli in kept him on his goal.
“I need that man,” he said.
Pierce paused, then closed the distance between himself and the bar, drawing within an inch of Oli’s face. He smelled of heat, like fire and leather, and a flash of the image from the website made Oli’s cheeks hot. He saw Pierce laying on a chaise, his shirt pulled open, hair glowing in the firelight. But he was beneath Oliver in this image, his eyes trained on Oliver’s, his hands on Oliver’s hips, his back arched—
“I don’t think he’s the man you need,” Pierce breathed, and Oliver pulled back abruptly, remembering who he was and where he was. Pierce seemed only slightly disappointed. There was playfulness around his eyes.
“I’m not gay, and I don’t sleep with murderers,” Oliver said, shaken by how close he’d come to doing just that. Only he wasn’t so sure Pierce was a murderer.
When he looked up, Pierce finally seemed off his game. His expression was edged with alarm, as though he was offended by the idea.
“I am not a murderer,” he said, every word bitten out of the air. Oliver felt a pang of guilt but took the lead he was given.
“Then prove it,” he said. “Help me find the Wolf that changed Eloise Carmichael’s mind.”
Pierce watched him, as though he was feeling for the trick. Or maybe he knew he’d been tricked already. Either way, he relented.
“Deal,” he said. “I’ll take you to someone who can give you the name. But they won’t let in any outsiders, only Wolves and consorts.” Then he looked Oliver up and down again, letting his eyes roam slowly over Oliver’s body. Oliver flushed with heat again. “ So you’ll have to pretend to be mine. But you’ll have to change. And you do what I say.”
An image of the Daily Spell plastered with images of him with Connor flashed in Oliver’s mind. He’d never let on he was into guys, not to anyone at NCPD. The last thing he needed was assholes taunting him about that too.
“I’m not gay,” Oliver told Connor again, trying to seem uncomfortable with the idea of pretending to be with a man. But he wasn’t sure
the discomfort on his face was sending the right message. Connor watched him a moment, a piercing disbelief in his eyes.
“You’re going to have to be,” he said, after a moment. “I can’t get you in unless they believe you’re mine. They’ll eat you alive otherwise.”
“Fine,” he said, not quite sure if Pierce meant that literally or figuratively. But he was caught between failing to solve the case and revealing himself; Oliver knew there was only one option. “Lead the way, then, Mr. Pierce.”
Pierce smiled, the most wolfish he’d looked yet, and shook his head. “Oh no,” he said. “Call me Connor.”
Chapter 7
When Connor Pierce offered to take Oliver to the man who could name Eloise Carmichael’s Wolf lover, he’d expected to go right away. But as he sat, slung low in the bucket seats of Connor’s expensive sports car, speeding down a snow-covered road, he reflected that perhaps he should have gotten more clarification on the plan.
His knuckles white as he clutched the edges of his seat, Oliver stared down the oncoming road that would, he was sure, spell his death at any moment. Snow whipped by, the flakes vaporizing on contact with the windshield. Oli wasn’t sure if it was a magical ward on the car or just the speed at which they were travelling.
“Did I mention I’m a police officer?” Oliver said, his voice somewhat strangled. Connor, the devil, laughed, and despite himself, Oliver was soothed by the sound.
“I was under the impression you were here as a friend of the Court,” he answered, his entire body as relaxed as if he were getting a massage. One hand on the wheel, the other lingering on the clutch and dangerously close to Oliver’s thigh, Connor might have been on a casual Sunday drive. He looked at Oliver for a moment, his eyes off the road, and Oliver’s heart leapt into his chest. “But if you’re intent on cuffing me, I may be inclined to play along. I’m very good at role play, I promise you.”
