by Lyra Evans
“Proposed l-last n-night,” he said, giving in to the grief again. “She said yes. Said she’s never—never b-been so h-happy.” He rocked against the back of the chair, gripping it tightly. His nails dug long, shallow graves into the wood, his fingertips bloodied.
“Eloise Carmichael had been in a relationship with Daniel Brown for years,” Oliver said quietly, very aware of how powerful Blake clearly was. “And she’s been outspoken about her feelings on Werewolves since she took over her parents’ company.”
“That was never her!” Blake cried, desperate, his muscles bulging with his anger. Oliver stood his ground, pulling a protection spell into his mind in preparation. Connor, however, eased himself between Oliver and Blake, clearly placing himself as a more direct threat to Blake. But neither of these reactions were necessary. Blake almost immediately curled back into himself, at sea in his own turbulent feelings. “That bullshit prejudice was all her uncle. He’s the one who hates Wolves. Told her all sorts of lies about us, whispering in her ear the moment her parents died. She was grieving and vulnerable, and he took advantage to try to get her to cut off ties.”
“She did try to break ties,” Connor said, sniffing the air nearer Blake. “The night she met you she was here to end our contracts.”
Blake nodded dimly. “I know,” he said. “She told me. One of the first things she said to me. Like she was trying to remind herself to hate me on principle. But once we saw each other—smelled each other—wasn’t an option. We both knew that.”
Oliver relaxed slightly, letting the protection spell slip from his mind so it could focus on other information. “What do you mean? Eloise wasn’t a Wolf, how did she—”
“Even Witches and Wizards can smell,” Blake said dismissively, his face dripping. “You just don’t know what you’re smelling. You think attraction works on sight alone?” He shook his head. “There’s a connection, a spark, between two people, regardless of background. Wolves know it by smell; Witches and Wizards know it a different way. Or maybe they don’t know it right away; you people do like to lie to yourselves. But Eloise knew it, even if she wanted to pretend she didn’t. And I knew. The moment I smelled her, I knew.”
“Knew what?” Oliver asked, somewhat frustrated. He ignored the dismissive comments about his people, knowing that for Blake to love Eloise as he clearly did, he couldn’t ascribe to the prejudice of his kin.
“That we were fated,” he said. Oliver was dumbstruck. Fated? Did Blake really believe that was possible? Even the Fae were hesitant to fully buy into prophecies made by their Banshees, knowing the future is foggier than an autumn storm. But when Oliver shot Connor an incredulous look, it was to find Connor studying Blake seriously.
“You really belie—” Oliver began, and Connor’s eyes flickered to Oliver, but Blake interrupted him.
“See what I mean?” Blake said, shaking his head. “Always lying to yourselves. Eloise took two weeks to come back the first time. Couldn’t let herself believe it was real, but it was. Then she could hardly stay away. There’s no denying a connection like that. It’s instant and all-consuming, and burns brighter than a star. You stand opposite this person and the whole world is knocked off-kilter until you’re together. Nothing is right until you are, and then nothing is wrong ever again. Until—until one of you—”
Blake cried out again, slamming his hand against the chair. Oliver nearly jumped at the sound, catching himself only just. Every muscle in Blake’s body seemed wrought to agony as he yelled out his grief. A pang of that pain burst in Oliver’s chest. He had never felt that way about another person, never felt as though his entire world would burst from the loss of them. He’d been close—once. He’d thought it was true love, maybe fated—if he were to use Blake’s words. But it wasn’t.
It didn’t come close to what Blake Murphy felt for a woman he knew only a few months.
“How was she going to become your mate?” Connor asked, tilting his head slightly to crack his neck. He was tense. “She had a boyfriend and an uncle who would never approve. She could lose her entire fortune and her company if she became your mate.”
Blake shook his head. “No, she was leaving the idiot boyfriend,” he said through his tears. “Said they hadn’t been getting along for years. Her parents death only made their problems worse. She said the night of their funeral he came to her and asked to move more money to ArcaShield to fund his pet project. Said now that her parents were gone he could make some real progress, make money. On the night of their funeral. He didn’t understand why she got so mad.”
Oliver’s mind raced. Daniel Brown hadn’t mentioned any of that. He’d been drunk, clearly, when Oliver questioned him, but surely he would have mentioned fighting with Eloise about money for ArcaShield. Their last meeting was at ArcaShield, after all.
Unless he knew how it would sound. Oliver frowned.
“So maybe she was willing to leave her boyfriend,” Oliver said. “Doesn’t explain away the uncle. He’s High Warlock in Nimueh’s Court and head of the Carmichael family. She’d have lost everything to him. That’s a hard reality for someone who’s grown up with everything. So I’m thinking maybe she said no to your little proposal, and you got angry—”
“No!” Blake said, his entire body lurching into motion. He barely made it out of the chair, his eyes desperate and horrified. “I would never—never—hurt—her,” he forced out, his body soon giving out again. He sunk onto the chair, reigning in his anger, but his face was screwed up in frustration, as though Oliver and Connor were simply not understanding. “The company was left to her, not him. She’s the one who inherited it, and her parents included iron-clad clauses to protect her from her uncle trying to take it. They left her everything in the will, guaranteeing her future. Why do you think Uncle Freddie,” he spat the name, “never took over the Carmichael Manor? Her parents made sure it would belong to Eloise. He could have put up a fuss about it, if he wanted, but it would only have drawn more attention. And for the High Warlock to speak out openly against his own niece’s inter-species marriage would be bad for his career.”
Oliver considered this. “A marriage between a Witch and a Wolf would have been a good way to strengthen the treaty, I guess,” he mused aloud.
“Any of Nimueh’s Court who objected publicly would reflect badly on her and the Court as a whole,” Connor added. “But for a Carmichael to mate a Wolf after all their rants about ‘non-Humans’ would have been hugely embarrassing. He’d never recover from the scandal. It was a lose-lose for him.”
“When was the last you saw Eloise?” Oliver asked, his mind racing to fit the pieces together.
“Around eleven thirty,” Blake sniffed, blinking his tears away. His eyes were still wet, but finally he stemmed the flow. Perhaps he had no more tears to cry. His maudlin state did not change, however. He slumped over the back of the chair as though every muscle in his body gave way.
“Where were you? And where did she go?”
Blake stirred, his eyebrows knitted together from the effort of thought. “We were at my place, out in the West Wood, Lane’s territory. She said she was going home. Always does. Has to. But it was going to be the last t-time. She was going to t-tell Brown about us as s-soon as she got home.” There were no tears now, but the heaving in Blake’s chest told Oliver Blake hadn’t yet stayed his grief.
“And where were you between midnight and four a.m.?” Connor shot Oliver a look here, but Oliver tried to ignore it. He had questions that needed asking, regardless of the feelings of his suspects.
Blake didn’t seem to notice what passed between them. He blew his nose again, fighting to hold his head up. “Went to Lane right away. Had to formally present my intentions to him.” His jaw tightened; Oliver could see the struggle to fight down the sobbing. “I—was too excited to sleep. Wanted to go over right away.”
Oliver nodded to no one.
“We can check with Lane, but I’m sure it’s clear what his answer will be,” Connor said in an undertone to
Oliver. Oliver nodded again. But Blake’s alibi wasn’t what worried Oliver. Blake had reacted so viscerally to the suggestion that he was to blame for Eloise’s murder. It was a difficult thing to fake—that kind of horror and pain. Despite the strange similarities in the magical signatures, Oliver found he believed Blake.
What worried him now was the two new suspects Blake had presented. Hunting a Werewolf killer without triggering a war between the Courts was one thing. But investigating a High Warlock and the boyfriend of his niece was going to be an altogether different kind of hell.
“You have access to the business records for Obscura Industries, right?” Oliver asked suddenly, turning to Connor.
Connor nodded. “It’s all public knowledge. I can have my people put together a report,” he said.
Oliver pulled at his fingers, popping his knuckles. “How fast can they get it to us?”
“A couple hours,” he said offhand, considering Oliver closely. “Why?”
Oliver turned to Blake, whose breathing was so slow and constant Oliver thought he might have grieved himself to sleep. “We’re done here,” he said, and Blake glanced up at him. Not asleep then. “Thank you for your help.” Then, almost without thinking about it, Oliver added, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Blake nodded quietly and returned his head to his arms against the chair.
Oliver made for the door, Connor following him. “I need you to make that request now. If we’re going to investigate this, it’s going to have to be fast. Before they realize we’re even looking.”
Connor gestured his okay to Lane as they rushed by down the hall, then pressed close to Oliver. “We?”
Oliver bit back a smile and shrugged. “There’s no way I can get a warrant to search Frederick Carmichael or Daniel Brown without evidence. And the word of a single Werewolf isn’t going to convince anyone right now, I’m afraid.” He turned to Connor, whose expression was intense but unreadable. “I still need your help. So I guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer.”
Connor’s mouth quirked. “However will I cope?”
Chapter 16
The trip back to Connor’s place was completed in silence, Connor focused on the road while Oliver let his mind wander down all the possible avenues of the case. He’d have given anything, twenty-four hours earlier, to have leads that weren’t Werewolves, but now he was faced with the alternative, he wasn’t sure these suspects made the case any less delicate. If Oli thought investigating in Logan’s Court was hazardous to his career, then going after the High Warlock was practically flushing his future as a police officer down the toilet.
But the memory of Eloise Carmichael’s body, sprawled and broken on the snow, floated in his mind punctuated by images of Blake Murphy, heaving in grief. Though Blake Murphy was the easiest suspect, the last known contact with the victim, the secret lover—Oliver just didn’t believe he’d done it. No matter how Oliver looked at it, he couldn’t see Blake murdering Eloise.
Nor, for that matter, could he see Connor doing it. What had seemed obvious motive and means only a day earlier now seemed flimsy connections. Connor was only the entry point into the case, not the centre of it.
Or are you just trying to convince yourself so that your attraction to him is less inappropriate?
Oliver chanced a glance at Connor. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and he turned the wheel gently as they came back up to his home. His blond hair was more disheveled than it had been when they left for the club, and the memory of Oli running his fingers through it, straddling Connor’s lap, came flooding back. He shifted awkwardly in his seat and looked away. But his mind wouldn’t let go of the memory so quickly. He licked his lips, remembering the taste of Connor, the press of his mouth to Oli’s, the burning desire in every inch of him.
“You should probably come,” Connor said, his voice husky in Oliver’s ear. Oliver jolted, turning with wide eyes to Connor who only smirked back. “Inside, I mean. We’re back,” he said, gesturing to the house. The car was stopped, the engine off, and Oliver had noticed none of it.
Face hot, Oliver stepped out of the car, swearing at himself in his head. Some cop he was, clearly. He followed Connor back through the entrance, taking off his shoes and setting them to the side of the entry. Connor made his way to the staircase again, but this time took the right set going downward. Oliver followed him silently, wondering at what was in each of the rooms of the massive manor.
At the base of the stairs, they stepped into a massive open space, divided more in theory than practice. Clearly meant for entertaining, the sprawling sitting room was fitted with a massive flat screen television on one wall, surrounded by reclining leather seats and bookended by cases of displayed curios and a microphone stand that must have been connected to a hidden speaker system. Next to the TV was a billiards table, complete with rack of cues, flanked by dartboards. Adjacent to those was a set of ornate chess sets, each on their own table. To the back of the room was a bar behind which the wall was lined with the most extensive collection of high-end alcohol Oliver had ever seen.
But something was off. It didn’t seem like the kind of room Connor would spend much time in. It felt flat, somehow, as though this is what people expected of him rather than what he wanted for himself. Oliver couldn’t say how he knew this—he’d only known Connor for a day. And he’d spent most of that time operating on the suspicion that Connor could be a murderer.
“I know,” Connor said, suddenly so close to Oliver he couldn’t breathe. His breath ghosted over Oliver’s neck and Oli shivered. Oliver wasn’t aware of having spoken. “This isn’t where I usually spend my time, but every Alpha must have a space for Pack events.” He shrugged and was gone from behind Oliver. Oli exhaled, suddenly cold, and turned to follow Connor again.
“Don’t your clubs count?” Oliver asked, trying to imagine Connor singing karaoke or throwing darts. It conjured a rather comical image, but the man in it was hardly Connor.
“No,” Connor said. “Those are considered public spaces, and a pack must have shelter in private, should they need it. Any of my Wolves is welcome in my home. It’s one of the responsibilities of an Alpha. Providing for any Wolves in need is another.”
He walked along the corridor, lined with photographs of Wolves Oliver hadn’t met and a few he had. Donna and the bartender from Hunt were both pictured, smirking into the camera flash, standing on either side of Connor. They seemed younger in the photo, but still so much the same, as though they were freer then. Which maybe they were.
Connor opened a locked door at the end of the corridor and led Oliver inside. A light flicked on as they stepped inside, the chandelier made of what seemed to be slabs of foggy quartz cut unevenly from their cave. The effect was an even, but somewhat muted lighting of the entire room. In front of the far wall was a desk of heavy, carved wood. A sleek laptop sat on the surface, shining silver in the light. The walls to either side of the desk were lined with bookcases and filled with tomes of all kinds. Some were magical texts, Oliver saw, studies and theories on the practice of magic. Others were histories of the Three Courts and their origins. Others still were business and law books, perhaps useful in Connor’s line of work. But a good number of the books were fiction—mysteries and fantasies and horror books. There were all kinds standing in perfect rows along the shelves.
Moving around the desk, Connor settled into the high-backed leather chair and flipped open the laptop. He began tapping at the keys, his eyes sweeping across the screen as he did.
“This is your home office, I take it,” Oliver said rather than asked. Connor glanced up briefly, and Oliver meandered around the room looking at the book titles. Some of the tomes were ancient, clearly rare and valuable. Others, particularly the novels, were newer and well-worn. The backs were cracked, split with rivers of white along the titles where they’d been held open too long, too many times. Oliver felt a smile on his lips as he studied the covers. This seemed more like Connor than the TV or the pool table.
“
Your powers of deduction astound me,” Connor said, and Oliver could practically hear the smirk in his voice. He turned to find Connor watching him, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back into the chair.
Oliver frowned. “I thought you were requesting the review of Obscura’s books?”
Connor’s smirk did not falter. “I did. I just messaged the necessary parties. Shouldn’t be long. Maybe an hour, I’d guess.” His smirk changed then, becoming more mischievous. Oliver swallowed and turned back to the books.
“I should probably contact my Captain,” he said, aware at the slight tremor in his voice.
“How do you plan on managing that?” Oliver turned back to Connor, his fingers stroking the spine of one of the books. Connor’s eyebrows arched quizzically. “You’ve no connection to your Magical Network here, remember?”
Oliver said nothing. The air around him seemed to grow thick and hot, and suddenly every inch of him was powerfully aware of how alone they were in the house. “Well I guess you can spend the time getting me up to speed on what you already know about Obscura Industries.”
“No.” Oliver tensed, his throat tight. Connor’s eyes bored into him, as though intent on stripping him of his every defense to see what lay beneath. He felt vulnerable, his heart racing. The obsidian choker weighed on him, and he tried to call up a protection spell in his mind. But he found it blank. No spells were coming to him now. Nothing was in his mind but the look on Connor’s face, the softness of his hair in Oli’s fingers, the heat of his mouth on Oli’s.
“No longer interested in cooperating?” Oliver asked, trying to make his voice sharp, challenging, but he didn’t manage. Even he could hear the pitch of nervousness in his words. “And you’d almost had me convinced you weren’t involved in the murder.”
Connor rose to his feet, stepping around the desk and toward Oli. With every step he took, Oliver wanted to retreat, to move to the door, to leave the room, the house. But he couldn’t. He found himself rooted to the ground, letting Connor gain on him. “I wasn’t involved,” Connor said, his voice quiet and smooth. “You don’t really believe I was, or you wouldn’t have asked for my help in getting the Obscura information.” He was close now, standing at his full height over Oliver. Oliver could smell him, though he couldn’t describe the smell anymore. Not since his sense-enhancing potion wore off. But as he breathed in, he wanted to breathe more, as though Connor was air and everything else was water.
