by Lyra Evans
“Anything?” Oliver asked, pressing a hand to his temple.
“The same magical smell as the bedroom,” Connor said. “This office is rife with it. But there’s something else too.” He looked directly at Oliver. “Blood. There was more of it here than the bedroom.”
Heart pumping wildly, Oliver nodded. “Where? Can you find the source?”
Connor paced around the room, nodding in various directions as he sniffed the air, searching for the origin of the smell. Finally, he stopped by the desk. He reached down to open a drawer, but stopped abruptly, staring. Oliver moved over to the desk.
He reached down to perform another unlocking spell, but before he touched it, he noticed it. A tiny smudge of something dark red covered the polished brass keyhole. Oliver summoned a different spell to his mind, a blood-identifying spell, and the moment he did, the smear glowed blue.
Casting a forensic collection spell, Oliver pulled the blood off the keyhole and it hovered on the air a moment before being encapsulated in a bubble of glass that appeared out of thin air. Encased in the glass ball, the blood smear was safe to store. Oliver pressed his thumb to the glass, sealing the ball with his police signature, and stored the ball in his pocket.
“Impressive,” Connor said. “That was definitely Eloise Carmichael’s blood. I could smell it. But it may not prove murder.”
“We need more,” Oliver agreed, unlocking the drawer with a set of more complicated spells. Apparently something in the drawer was much more important to keep safe than Brown’s office. Finally, the drawer clicked open, and Oliver pulled it out.
Inside they found a bundle of clothes, hastily shoved inside and glittering with magical residue. Pulling them out, Oliver identified them as a button-up shirt, a pair of dress pants, a pair of socks, and a pair of men’s underwear. All of these pieces were ragged, torn in places as though ravaged by an animal. The magic used on them was recklessly done and somewhat incomplete. The white shirt still bore red a few splotches that Oliver recognized as blood.
When he went to pull them off the fabric, though, they wouldn’t come. The spell wouldn’t recognize the blood as blood. Cursing, Oliver cast a different forensic collection spell, gathering the clothing up into small individual pouches, then shrunk them down and slipped them into his pocket as well.
Hoping that was enough, Oliver glanced down to the bottom of the drawer and found two vials. Both were mostly empty, one of them uncorked. He lifted them magically. They hovered, swaying slightly, on the air in front of him. The magical residue of one of the vials matched the residue on the clothing. Feeling for the signature of the potion, Oliver was again bombarded with the chaos of competing magic.
“He used this on the whole office,” Oliver said, pulling back, his headache worse than before. The pounding in his head turned to searing. “It’s some kind of anti-tracking potion. Covers magical signatures, blood markers, that kind of thing. This is a dangerous potion in the hands of the wrong person.” Pulling apart the vials, Oliver found the second one was sticky, with some hairs clinging to the outside of it. Looking into the vial, Oliver saw a few drops of an iridescent potion. As he watched it, it shifted colour and texture several times, from blue and liquid, to gunmetal grey and gelatinous, to purple and oozing, and on. Sensing for the signature of the potion, Oliver found it changed too. From the smell of molten rock, to the feel of laughter caught in your chest, to the growing panic of a dark night, to the taste of longed-for kiss—the signature shifted, each new one eclipsing the last.
But after a moment, Oliver felt one signature he did recognize. The anticipation of a planned fall, like riding a rollercoaster.
“If that’s not a transformation potion, I don’t know what is,” Connor said, studying the bottle. He plucked the hairs stuck to the outside, then paused, and his attention went back to the drawer. Reaching down into it, he drew his fingers across what looked like the empty bottom of the drawer. When he straightened, however, he held several fine hairs in his fingers. “Wolf fur,” he said, his expression hard again. “From a wild wolf, not a Werewolf.” He sniffed it. “A dead one, by the smell of the fur.”
There was a bubbling rage in his words now, a fury rising, barely contained, in his eyes. In a stranger Oliver might have been afraid, on his guard. But in Connor the anger was contagious. Oliver felt it rise inside him, too, as though Connor’s anger was his. Daniel Brown hadn’t chosen a wolf for nothing.
“You must need a bit of wolf to become one,” Oliver said. He shook his head. “And I’m guessing he thought carefully about becoming a wolf. He seemed pretty determined that Eloise’s killer must be a Werewolf.” Connor looked mutinous, and Oliver thought he understood. He felt a surge of rage at Daniel Brown, but there was also shame. If he hadn’t been so concerned about the possibility that it was a Werewolf, he might have noticed that Brown’s strange insistence on ignoring the political ramifications of arresting a Werewolf was a bit suspicious. “Fuck, I’m such a fool!” Oliver cried suddenly.
“That you are,” a voice said from the doorway. “I demand to know what you’re doing in here. This is an unlawful search.”
Daniel Brown stood pompously just inside the door. Oliver tensed, holding tightly to the vials in his hand. Next to him, Connor tensed as well, and Oliver had the strange sense that his hackles were raised. Oliver opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but Connor beat him to it.
“You killed her,” Connor said, his voice unusually harsh, almost bark-like. “You reek of it. The smell of death.”
Brown’s eyes widened a moment, his jaw tight. He froze, as though about to bolt. “What is this? You bring a Werewolf to my office without permission? What kind of hokey investigation is this?” His face was flushed a strange colour, his voice higher pitched than Oliver remembered it. He held out his hands suddenly, moving jerkily. “Test my hands, if you will! I do not have a trace of death on me. And to suggest this when I’ve just lost—”
“Not on you,” Connor said, his voice still rough. Oliver caught his meaning right away, his blood running cold. Of course, it would have had to be—but the reality of it chilled Oliver. Daniel Brown, however, did not seem to understand. So Connor explained. “In you. The smell of death is caught in your teeth.”
Chapter 21
For a moment, they all stood frozen. Daniel Brown looked as though he’d been stunned or hit with a freezing spell. Connor’s words echoed on the air around them, carrying with them the putrid essence of their meaning. Oliver acted first, though it didn’t look like much. He reached out with his senses to find Brown’s magical signature under the chaos of the magic in the room. It took a moment, but finally Oliver found the thread of it—the smell of freshly pulped paper and burning ink, the sharp sting at the moment of violence, and just a hint of anticipation before a fall. The residue of the transformation potion was still in his system, then.
Oliver relaxed, pulling himself back to the present. Once he had, he found Brown’s demeanour changed drastically. His pompous, outraged expression relaxed, his face shifting to a mask of calculated indifference.
“I’d like to see you prove that,” he said, his voice cold and distant, though Oliver thought he could still detect a ring of fear. Brown was looking upon Connor with disgust but spared Oliver a look, too. “Associating with Werewolves,” he said, all pretense of the grieving boyfriend now gone. His lip curled and Oliver had a strong sense of who it was really influencing Eloise’s opinion of Wolves. “I thought better of you, Detective. The officer who caught the Thistledown Thrasher should be above the use of consultants.” He spat the word as though it was derogatory, a curse as offensive as ‘non-Human.’ “I had high hopes for you, but it’s clear you’re just as corrupt as the rest of the NCPD. I’m sure the press outside will be more than happy to hear what I’ve got to say on the matter.”
Oliver nearly laughed. It was a stretch, a desperate move to try and intimidate him into backing down. But people like Daniel Brown, who had clawed thei
r way up from nothing and yearned desperately for power and prestige, would never understand not wanting limelight. Brown clearly thought Oliver’s public reputation was of prime importance to him. Most people seemed to think Oliver enjoyed being in the papers all the time, having journalists dog his cases and crime scenes, hoping for a quote or a sound bite.
“I think there’s a bigger headline to be had,” Oliver said, keeping his tone conversational though he slipped the vials into his pocket and began taking stock of his options. The room was small, and Connor was technically a civilian. Both of them were cornered behind the heavy wooden desk, and Oliver needed to ensure that nothing happened to Connor if Brown decided to do something stupid. The doorway to the hall was their best bet, of course, but the windows opposite it, large and covered with sheer curtains, would be a less ideal alternative. “Your magical signature is a perfect match for the murder. I’m pretty sure when I walk out with you in handcuffs the reporters will forget all about Connor, here.”
Brown moved slowly, taking a step or two into the room, still blocking the doorway. As he moved, so did Oliver, taking his cues from Brown. They were slow, steady steps, never rushing, never making abrupt movements. Keeping Brown calm in order to bring him in was the first priority. Brown had his eyes on Oliver, but every now and again, his gaze would flicker over to Connor, who had not yet moved.
“We’ll see,” Brown said. “Reading magical signatures is such an unreliable branch of magic, after all. And nothing sells better than a favourite son falling from grace.” The disdain in his voice was palpable. An expression of revolt flashed across his face as he looked at Oliver, and Oliver knew it bothered him. That Oliver was, in a manner of speaking, more famous than Brown was a source of great injustice to him.
“Really? You think they’ll care about me when they find out you killed your own girlfriend, daughter of the High Warlock, because she was leaving you?”
Brown’s eyes flashed, and he stopped moving, standing in front of the sofa. He was broader than Oliver remembered and less doughy. Something about murder seemed to have agreed with him, and he stood taller. Slowly, he began to unbutton his cuffs, and Oliver saw his rings properly for the first time. They were heavy bands, each inlaid with a different stone—obsidian, jade, diamond, garnet, and sapphire. Each stone served a different magical purpose, but they told a very specific story about the kind of magic Daniel Brown intended to do. Obsidian was the most versatile, most expensive stone, of course, but jade was best for shielding spells. Diamond was best for offensive, cutting spells; garnet for explosive ones; sapphire for powerful curses. Sapphires were extensively controlled stones.
“You think it was a lover’s spat?” Brown asked, as though the idea was ludicrous. “Like I loved Eloise so much I couldn’t bear to part with her?” He actually laughed then, and Oliver took the opportunity to shift between Brown and Connor. But Connor had moved slightly, standing in line with the desk, directly in front of Brown. “If Eloise wanted to throw her life away to shack up with a bloody Mutt, I wasn’t going to stop her. No.” He shook his head. “That flakey bitch could do what she pleased with her body. But cutting me off completely—that was going to be a problem.”
Oliver gritted his teeth. Every passing moment he became more disgusted by the man standing before him and increasingly concerned for the safety of the man standing behind him. Connor was silent and still as an oak, but Oliver had the strong sense that he was on the verge of action. The way he spoke to Brown—it was loathing as Oliver had never heard it.
“She was going to shut down ArcaShield finally, wasn’t she?” Oliver asked, hoping to keep Brown talking. Focusing all his energy, Oliver wordlessly cast a recording charm. A tiny glowing blue bulb appeared in his hand, but Oliver held it down, directing the soft glow to the back of the room and away from Brown’s notice. “This place has been a money sink since the start, and only her relationship with you kept it afloat. But now she’d moved on—well there was no reason to be anchored to a sinking ship.”
Brown’s entire appearance morphed in an instant, a look of raw, wild fury drawing at his features as he yelled, “This company is my life’s work! The research we do here will put us on the cutting edge of defensive and offensive magic, providing our military with unparalleled power! I am keeping Nimueh’s Court safe!” Connor barked a laugh, and Brown rounded on him. “It’s filth like you, your kind, you animals that make it necessary for ArcaShield to exist!”
“We aren’t at war!” Oliver snapped, forcing himself more clearly between Brown and Connor, his heart racing. “The Treaty ensures that.”
Brown pulled a disgusted, pitying face, his mouth contorted into an ugly grimace. “Yes, the precious Treaty, the one that nearly put ArcaShield out of business. I was sure that placing Eloise’s body outside the Court would be enough. But you pitiful fools cling so blindly to the Treaty and the desperate hope that Logan and his Mutts will keep to it! You did everything in your power to deny the obvious. A wolf killed Eloise, as they will kill us all! They cannot be trusted! They’re savage, filthy mongrels—”
“NO!” Oliver screamed, but it was too late. Connor had shifted behind him, and a massive white Wolf the size of a bear leapt over Oliver at Brown. Brown cried out, but he cast a shield before Connor had managed to attack him. The force of the shield launched Connor back, flying past Oliver until his massive, furry body smashed into the shelves behind the desk with a resounding crash. A pained yelp escaped Connor as he fell, and Oliver felt the sound as a punch to the gut.
“You see!” Brown yelled wildly. “You see how animals behave! Attacking me unprovoked!” Oliver momentarily ignored Brown, his eyes trained on the place where Connor had fallen. After a moment, a mass of white fur began to move, and Connor’s Wolf form emerged, clearly injured but still alive and fierce. “See? These beasts have unnatural strength, unnatural power! They need to be wiped out! I will—” But Brown had stopped speaking abruptly. As Oliver turned back to him, calling his most potent spells to his mind, Brown seemed to take notice of something at Oliver’s throat. The obsidian collar. “Treachery! You bind yourself to an animal?! You deserve to be put down like the rest of the garbage!”
And he rounded on Oliver, his hands splayed out in front of him. Oliver saw the curse coming, but the recording charm was still running in his hand. He stopped it and slipped the recording bubble into his pocket, but the moment it took to do cost him. The fan of a cutting spell was already flying at him, emerging from Brown’s outstretched fingers, aiming directly at Oliver’s neck.
Oliver tried to call a shield up, but before he could, a heavy weight crashed into him, knocking him down. A resounding cry halfway to a howl shattered the air. Panting, Oliver pushed himself up to see Connor’s Wolf form, lying motionless on the ground at his feet. Before Oliver’s eyes, the Wolf seemed to change colours, from brilliant white to crimson red. The colour bloomed from high on the Wolf’s back, and for one inexplicable second, Oliver didn’t understand what he was seeing.
“Stupid Mutt,” Brown laughed. “That just makes one less to worry about in the coming war.”
Oliver’s heart stopped. Connor couldn’t be—he couldn’t. Forcing himself up, Oliver leaned over the motionless Wolf, his hands shaking slightly as he pressed a hand to the wound on his back. The gash was yawning wide, red and shining wet, and Oliver felt his lungs flatten, empty of air. He searched for healing spells, for anything he could think of, casting sparking lights of green and silver and blue. But he was shit at healing spells, always had been. The wound barely changed as Oliver cast, tears stinging his eyes.
Breathing hard, his chest heaving, Oliver ground his teeth together. Brown was moving behind him, stepping closer. Oliver could feel it in the floor, feel the ripple of movement on the air. He waited, tense and poised to launch, as Brown came to a stop behind him.
“Poor little dog-lover,” Brown whined in a false voice. “You’ll be with your precious Mutt soon. I’ll just tell people he attacked you when
you realized he really was the murderer.” Oliver’s blood boiled as he stood there over Connor’s unmoving body. “And I had to come in and take him down—in your honour.” Brown called the curse out, drawing the magic to power in his hands, and Oliver waited. He watched the light of it on the wall behind the desk, waiting for the moment it reached peak strength. When it finally did, Brown said, “goodbye, Detective Worth.”
And Oliver turned. Brown released the spell just as Oliver thrust his hands up with a mirror spell. A sheet of silver glass appeared on the air between Oliver and Brown, shielding Oliver from the curse Brown cast. There was a violent shattering sound as the mirror broke when the curse hit it, splintering the silver glass into a fine dust, but the mirror had done its work.
Daniel Brown screamed, a chilling, blood-stopping sound, and was slammed backward into the ugly painting on his wall. The full blast of his own curse hit him in the chest. Oliver stood slowly, watching as black lines spidered their way across Brown’s skin, every one of his veins filling with ash. He choked, caught in the frame of the torn canvas, his eyes wide with shock. Then, as Oliver watched, the black veins spread to Brown’s eyes, turning them black. Brown finally slumped, falling forward, hitting the couch and then the floor with a sickening thud. He didn’t move again.
Heart pounding, Connor’s blood still dripping from his hands, Oliver turned his back on Brown’s body, giving him no more thought. He kneeled before the broken Wolf, his face wet with tears that wouldn’t stop now.
“Connor,” he said, barely able to manage a whisper. “Connor, please.” He didn’t care that he was pleading, didn’t care that he was crying in the wreckage of a crime scene with a dead murderer behind him. He needed Connor to move, to wake up and smirk at him. Oliver buried his hands in the thick fur, the blood pooling out to his knees now. “Connor, you can’t do this!” He tried to move the Wolf but couldn’t manage. Connor was so much larger and heavier as a Wolf. Desperate, Oliver tried more and more spells, forcing all of the healing magic he knew into every attempt. The wound seemed to close a little, knitting together at one end, but the spell gave out halfway through and Connor remained motionless. “You can’t fucking die!” Oliver was sobbing violently now, pulling Connor’s head into his lap and stroking the fur away from his eyes. He pressed his head down to Connor’s, his forehead nestled between Connor’s pointed ears, his shaking, screaming sobs muffled into the fur. “I believe you, damn it! I believe your stupid stories of fated love and just knowing it, in your heart. I believe it because it’s you! It has to be you, and you can’t fucking leave me now when I’ve finally found—”
