by Lyra Evans
He passed into the locker room. A few other officers were inside, adjusting their things, hanging their coats or picking them up at the end of their shifts. One or two looked haggard and worn, drawn in the eyes and mouth as was common after a long night on a case. The others were fresh-faced and perky, which in itself was unusual. No one was ever that happy to be starting a shift, however much they loved the job.
Oliver nodded in their direction, his eyes on his own locker. He released the locking spells with a silent charm and a press of his fingertip to the handle. The locker shimmered for a brief second and click open.
Immediately Oliver was overwhelmed by a flood of promotional cards with half-naked men on them. All of the cars were emblazoned with flashing phone numbers and summoning spells. The men were glossy, as though coated in oil, and lying in various states of pleasure and ecstasy. With names like “Brick” and “Big Jim” and “Rod,” they were all clearly escorts of varying legality.
Next to him, Oliver heard the barely muffled snorts and snickers of the fresh-faced cops who’d just started their shifts. After a moment, more voices joined in the laughing. Oliver’s cheeks burned, and he tightened his jaw.
“Careful, Worth,” one of the officers said. “Don’t want to let the Captain see your stash of prospective partners. You should probably keep that shit at home.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and lifted the pile of flyers with a wave of his hand and an unspoken spell. He threw the pile of papers into the garbage can and set them alight. The blaze was high and hot for an instant, then gone, as though it had ever been. Only a small dusting of ash in the bottom of the garbage bag was any indication something had been done.
“You’d think ACU officers would have more important demands on their time than laying waste to a small forest to produce hooker ads in these quantities,” Oliver snapped, hanging his coat inside the locker. His head pounded with the shame that burned in his face. He wanted to leave, to run back to his car and go home and sleep for a year, but that would be precisely the point. The people who commit these kinds of pranks wanted him to give up and run away.
“Is that how you landed on Daniel Brown as a suspect for the Carmichael case?” someone asked, the voice familiar and sneering. Oliver turned to find Davin—a pompous idiot Oliver had managed to outperform at every turn. Despite Davin’s family history of police officers and special agents to Nimueh, Davin was small-minded and dim, his spells always lackluster, and his policing as lazy as it was possible to be. He hated Oliver, and Oliver had decided the feeling was mutual. “You promised Pierce you’d get him off it he just blew you?”
Oliver lunged at him but didn’t make contact. His fist hanging in midair by his ear, Oliver hovered over Davin. All the anger from his lifetime of torture and verbal abuse at the hands of people like Davin drained down, leaving only the awareness of being watched.
“Careful, Worth,” Davin said, a dark smile on his face. “Don’t want to go and get messed up too badly. Otherwise your doggy isn’t going to like you anymore.” Oliver drew back, taking a deep breath, and turned to leave the locker room, but Davin called out to stop him. “You forgot something!” As Oliver turned back to see, he was rewarded with a smack to the face as a thick set of flyers was thrown at him. “You should probably call him. It says on the card he books up fast, and we all know how much you like a bangin’ good time.”
A fan of cards for “Hot Rod” lay at his feet, the escort flashing a dazzling wide smile as he winked, his chest oiled to the shine of patent leather. Next to the number, a glittering slogan read “for a bangin’ good time!”
Oliver’s lip curled, and he cast a spell to vanish the cards before pushing into the bullpen. He settled at his desk, his heart pounding in this throat, his head aching worse than ever. In his pocket, his phone buzzed, but Oliver ignored it. He couldn’t answer when he felt as though he could easily tear the whole precinct down with his bare hands. He flicked on his computer, trying to calm himself enough to work.
He was used to dealing with Davin’s idiocy, but usually it wasn’t quite so brazen. And though Oliver wasn’t the favourite in the precinct, his fellow officers generally disdaining him for his publicized success, he didn’t often feel this kind of hostility. His worst-case scenario come to life, Oliver had always held out hope that if he did come out to his colleagues, they wouldn’t care. He’d hoped it would be nothing, no big deal, his fears all unnecessary.
Maybe it’s not being gay. Maybe it’s fucking around with strangers.
But Oliver shut down the thought, refusing to allow himself to feel guilty for what he did when he was off the clock. He hadn’t broken any laws. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Why should they judge him for what he did with another consenting adult? How many of the other officers’ sex lives would hold up to scrutiny, were they in his situation?
Oliver glared around the room, his thoughts savagely tearing each of the police officers there to shreds. He knew things about each of them—small things, yes, but he could deduce much of the rest. At least three of the officers in the bullpen were having affairs. One of the female officers was almost certainly in a plural relationship, and another male officer had an affinity for cars that verged on the unnatural. And Oliver didn’t mean just driving them.
Not a single one of them would look quite so smug if their own dirty laundry had been aired on the front page of the Daily Spell. But they were content to laugh and play pranks on him, to harass him as long as he was the one in the spotlight.
Oliver clicked his email page more violently than strictly necessary only to find his inbox full to bursting with propositions from all sorts of men and a handful of women. Spam from prostitutes and exotic dancers was intermixed with messages promising penile enlargement effective enough to satisfy even the hungriest Wolf, and offers for several kinds of domination Oliver was definitely not into.
“Worth!” Captain Marks called from her office door. “In here. Now.”
Gritting his teeth, Oliver deleted the lot of spam and shoved his mouse away, pushing out of his chair. He walked by desks of officers glancing sidelong at him, some openly staring, as he marched into Captain Marks’s office and shut the door behind him.
Marks was an older woman with dark hair and skin the colour of desert sand. Her shrewd eyes were trained on him now, her mouth set in a thin line, and not an inch of her face giving anything away. She could have easily been trying to decide whether to kill him or promote him, but given the way the day was going, Oliver was willing to bet on the former.
The phone in his pocket buzzed again, and Oliver ignored it. Marks stared him down, then, after a moment, sighed.
“Is it true?” she asked, but unlike the reporters, there was no excitement, no salivation or hunger for a story behind her words. Instead, she seemed to ask free of judgment, which Oliver found more soothing than he could have said.
“Is what—” Oliver began, needing to be sure of the situation before he proceeded, but Marks rolled her eyes, and he regretted the loss of her almost compassionate demeanour.
“You know perfectly well what,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “Are you in a romantic or sexual relationship with Connor Pierce?” Oliver held her gaze, swallowing invisibly, and nodded. Marks’s expression didn’t change. “How long?”
Oliver hesitated, weighing out his words. “Just after the Carmichael case.”
Marks eyed him. “You were not involved with him before the completion of the case?”
There was no way to answer the question, really, so Oliver lied. “I was not.”
Marks released a heavy breath and sat back in her chair. She pulled the newspaper with the offending article out of a drawer and dropped it on the desk.
“This,” she said, pointing at the headline, “should not be news. I don’t give a damn what you do in your private time, as long as whatever it is is legal. But the Daily Spell has made it everybody’s business, and now I do have to officially log your relationship in case Connor P
ierce becomes a person of interest in any future cases.” She shook her head, as though it was ridiculous that she was put in this position. Oliver felt much the same, frankly. Marks turned back to him, after a moment, and asked, “Is this going to be a problem?”
She indicated the article again. Oliver considered the headline, the picture of him gazing lovingly at Connor in hospital.
“No, sir,” he said, and she nodded, gesturing for him to leave.
Oliver stepped out of her office, his mind racing, his heart beating faster than was healthy, but a slight weight lifted off his chest. At least Marks didn’t care. At least his Captain was on his side. Sort of.
The shame of the article burned deep within him as he made his way back to his desk. He was better than this, than this petty tabloid shit. A thought at the back of his mind told him he should have come out years ago, on his own terms, quietly. But the flare of panic and fear was still there. The possibility that people would never treat him the same way, would never trust his judgment or his work, tugged at the back of his mind. And if he openly acknowledged his relationship with Connor, made it truth and not just speculation? What then? What would happen to his career if everyone knew he ran off to Logan’s Court at every chance to get fucked so thoroughly he could barely move for hours? No one would ever take him seriously again.
His phone buzzed in his pocket again, and Oliver pulled it out with a grimace. He was not in the mood for reporters calling for interviews, or friends from first grade calling to ask about the news. But when he saw the screen, only Connor’s name appeared on it. Every missed call was from him.
Heart sinking and stomach in a knot, Oliver ducked into the men’s room. He checked all the stalls were empty and locked the door before answering the call.
“Hey, I know I left kind of abruptly, but this isn’t really a good time—”
“I’m calling about something else,” Connor said, his tone strange to Oliver’s ears. “I’m in need of—your expertise.”
Confused, Oliver hesitated. Connor sometimes used that kind of language to initiate dirty talk or phone sex. They’d only done it once or twice, and usually after Oliver had had a long day at work. He’d be lying in his bed at home, his cock hard and throbbing, his only means of release Connor’s voice and the filthy things his mind could come up with.
With a heavy sigh, Oliver shook his head. “I’d love to, but this is really not the time or the place. I’m at work—”
“Not that expertise,” Connor said, his words slightly clipped, and Oliver felt worse than before. The bottom seemed to have fallen out of him, all his organs abandoning him. He felt empty and cold. Was Connor really that upset about earlier? Had he seen the Daily Spell yet? Was the only good thing left in Oliver’s life about to be taken from him? “This is a professional call. Logan requested you personally.” He paused once more, his tone tight. “There’s been a murder.”
Chapter 4
The road into Logan’s Court was well worn in Oli’s mind. He’d travelled it so many times in the last weeks he could have walked it blindfolded and still found his way to Connor. But as he was driven to the crime scene, the dense woods of Logan’s lands whipping by like images on a reel, Oli thought of that morning. He thought of the blindfold he’d donned for Connor, to play a game and test his senses, to have Connor in a new way, a different way. He couldn’t seem to get enough of Connor, not even after a full four days spent in bed, in the shower and the bath, and on every piece of furniture that seemed vaguely challenging. Connor had opened his closet of toys for Oli, and they’d indulged. And still Oli wanted him more and more. It had been years since he’d wanted anyone that much, that often, that desperately.
And he had run from it. He ran that morning from the possibility of having all of Connor, for all to see, for all the future. And why? Because he was afraid of pranks and name-calling? He was afraid of reporters hounding his every step? Oli had dealt with that shit before. And now he was dealing with everything he expected. The accusations, the insinuations about his character, the complications in regards to his work—so what? It was all on him now, no going back. So why was he still afraid to give Connor what he wanted? Why was he afraid to acknowledge it publicly, officially?
A weight settled in Oliver’s stomach and did not seem to want to budge. The Werewolf driving him was a border guard he’d met before, though never spoken to. She was dark-skinned with luxurious curly hair and sharp eyes. Her name was Celeste, apparently, and her twin, who was not in the car, was named Estelle. He’d asked upon entering the car.
They pulled up to a turn, and Oliver felt his throat tighten. He knew this road, knew this turn. He’d come here before with Connor, a few times. The first time was a dangerous play, a tightrope walk over a tank of piranhas, and Oli had barely managed it. But all the follow-up visits were memories filled with dancing and laughter and heated kisses and groping down narrow corridors. Connor never seemed to be able to dance with him without wanting to fuck him right after. Not that Oliver minded.
We’re not going there now.
Just as he clung to the hope they’d turn somewhere, pull off into a thicket of trees, Celeste stopped the car and got out. Oliver held his breath as he opened the door, scanning for Connor, for an indication of the crime scene. But there was no one and nothing in sight.
“We set up a perimeter a mile or so out,” Celeste told him. “We didn’t know how far back you’d want it set, to preserve the integrity of the crime scene.”
Oliver nodded, wondering at the precautions. A mile was probably more than was necessary. Didn’t the Wolves of Logan’s Court have their own procedure, though? Oliver was sure he could have made due with whatever they would normally have done.
Celeste began the trek toward the crime scene proper, and Oliver fell into step with her. The air in the woods here was close, still, colder than it had been in Nimueh’s Court. Though Logan’s Court was always slightly colder than Nimueh’s, Oliver felt this forest was particularly unnatural in its climate. Magic crackled on the air and in the bark of the trees. The snow seemed deep and untouched, but Connor must have walked through it to get to the crime scene to begin with. Right?
As they walked, Oliver cast a look behind him for his footsteps and found them missing. The path behind was as clear as the path ahead. Oliver shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, whispering warming charms into the emerald beads lining the edge. They gleamed momentarily as the fabric heated slightly, keeping him comfortable despite the cold. Connor had bought him the scarf; he’d insisted on replacing the useless one Oliver had worn the day they met. The last one had a single emerald of poor quality, and the charms never held for long. But this scarf, made of rabbit hair and lined with the emerald beads, was the most luxurious item of clothing Oliver owned. Beyond the obsidian collar at his neck, anyway.
Finally a set of figures broke the monotony of the trees in the distance. Oliver made out Connor’s blond hair, nearly pale as the snow and stark against the backdrop of naked trees and sky. The others were more difficult to discern from this distance, so Oliver turned his mind instead to preparing for the scene. He took a long, slow breath, clearing his mind of the concerns of his relationship or his life in Nimueh’s Court, and found the steadying place within him that allowed him to see clearly in the haze of brutality.
“Alpha,” Celeste said,” bending her head slightly as they came level with Connor and the others. For a moment, Oliver thought this was directed at Connor, but when Connor and Estelle—who was clearly identifiable as the doppelganger of her sister—shifted to include them in the circle, Oliver’s eyes found the person Celeste addressed.
Logan stood, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the newcomers with a closed expression. He was stern and unyielding in his every detail, but there was a warmth in his coal-black eyes and iron-ore skin that told Oliver he was more approachable than he seemed. Murder tended to shift behaviour in even the most stoic.
“Celeste,” he said
, his voice deep and smooth as river rock, “and Detective Worth. Thank you for agreeing to assist in this matter.”
Oliver inclined his head, mostly on impulse, and tried to look less off-kilter than he felt. He chanced a glance at Connor. His face was calm, smooth, and soft, but the colour of his blue eyes betrayed him to Oli. He was wrought with grief. The weight in Oli’s stomach seemed to drop an inch further, the wind pulled from his lungs, but he tried to shake it off.
“Of course,” he said to Logan. “Anything I can do to help, I’m at your service.”
Logan considered him, the thick fur of his coat’s collar flitting slightly in a breeze Oliver didn’t feel. “I was hoping you would say that,” he said, turning to gesture beyond him. His long hair was a shining blue-black and pulled into a neat braid studded with golden thorns and twigs. Oli was momentarily distracted by the sight, and it took him a moment to remember he was at a crime scene. But the golden adornments stuck in Oliver’s mind, a clear display of Logan’s stature, his position in the pack. It was a mark of royalty, quite simply, and the realization that this was Connor’s cousin caused a strange stirring in Oliver. Was Connor in line to be the high Alpha? Oliver couldn’t fathom the implications of that and pushed it from his thoughts. He stepped into the circle of Wolves, in line with Logan, and surveyed the scene before him.
Much to Oliver’s horror, they were exactly where he thought Celeste had been driving him—the entry point of Hunt, one of Connor’s clubs. It was marked by a magical gateway between two massive trees, like pillars of an archway. They rose up high into the depths of the sky, their tops barely visible to Oliver at the foot of them. Beyond the trees, once you passed the threshold, was the passage into Hunt, a corridor of tightly sprouting trees, woven into one another to block out the elements and the sky. From outside the club you could see nothing beyond the sentry trees—nothing but more forest. But now there was something else to look at.
