The Worth Series: Complete Collection

by Lyra Evans

  Connor relaxed slightly, which Oliver found odd until he said, “that makes it unlikely the killer is a Werewolf.”

  Oliver wanted to give Connor the shred of hope, but he couldn’t let Connor grow lax in his investigation in any regard. “Maybe less likely,” Oliver said carefully, “but not impossible at all. Everything about this crime is very heavily tied to Logan’s Court and its world. The forest, the entry to Hunt, the collar around the victim’s neck—all these things would be difficult for a non-Wolf to discover. And nothing about the posing of the body or the ruse implies anything was accidental. This killer knew what they were doing.”

  They pulled into the driveway to Connor’s manor house, and Oliver watched him carefully as they did. Connor’s pale blond hair was hanging more limply than usual, his blue eyes somewhat dimmed. The sharp line of his jaw was rougher, his skin showing the signs of a five o’clock shadow, as though he hadn’t the time to shave as closely as he usually did. Oliver wanted to reach out and smooth his cheek, to pull him close into a kiss, to tell him it wasn’t his fault and they’d catch the fucker who did this to Malcolm—but he didn’t.

  The Daily Spell article hovered in the back of his mind, his hasty retreat from Logan’s Court earlier that morning haunting him now. He wished he’d called in sick, just told the world to fuck itself, and come see Connor right away. But that would have been running away, and Oliver never did that. The last thing he wanted was to give the damn reporters and assholes at the precinct the idea he was ashamed.

  “Connor—” Oliver began, unsure what he meant to say. He turned away from Connor, looking out at the manor house before him, massive and stately and full of history, and got distracted. “Why are there so many cars here?” The driveway was so packed with cars of all types, both inexpensive and luxury models, that Connor had barely managed to pull passed them to park in front of his doorway.

  “Alphas and Betas are all on site,” he said, counting the cars by sight. “They’re preparing for tonight.”

  Stepping out of the car, Connor closed the door. Oliver followed quickly after him, his expression wrinkled. “What’s tonight?”

  Connor blinked at him, then closed his eyes and exhaled, as though just remembering Oliver didn’t know every detail of his life. The pang of regret in Oliver’s chest was hard to ignore. “The wake. For Malcolm. The whole pack will be present.”

  Oliver nodded slowly, cursing himself for forgetting the reality of loss. While for him a dead body meant investigation and a search for justice, for most people it meant preparations for the funeral, the wake, the send-off to the Otherworld. But Oliver hadn’t been to a funeral since that of his parents, and that was a very long time ago.

  He walked up into the house behind Connor. The massive front door opened to reveal a mess of people moving about, carrying trays of food and cases of alcohol. Donna, tall and dark-haired and probably as dangerous as she was beautiful, stepped into view from the door at the end of the hall. She was carrying a tablet and swiping through information on the screen.

  “Gallagher, did you pick up the potions from Black Moon like I asked?” she said, and a burly man with a shaved head and ink-black skin stopped, the case of beer in his arms barely causing him effort.

  “I arranged them in one of the mini fridges downstairs,” he said. Donna nodded, and he went on his way.

  “How are things coming, Donna?” Connor asked, toeing off his leather shoes and passing his coat to a nearby girl with red hair and thick glasses. She was tiny, taking the coat as though it was delicate as a baby and hanging it ceremoniously in the closet. Connor smiled at her briefly, and she tittered.

  “There’s a lot to do,” was all Donna said in response, offering Oliver a nod. Considering it was about as friendly as Donna got, Oliver considered himself pretty lucky. At least if she had seen the article in the paper, she wasn’t buying in to the sensational suggestions that Oliver was going to break Connor’s heart in order to abuse his authority for sexual favours from charged suspects.

  Oliver removed his boots and pulled off his jacket and sweater. Immediately, the redhead jumped forward to take his clothing too, smiling brightly at him. He offered a confused thanks as she placed his jacket in the closet with the same reverence she gave Connor’s.

  Connor was at his side again suddenly, whispering, “she’s still very young. Brand new Beta. Just named a few days ago, so this is her first major pack event.” His breath was hot on Oliver’s neck, causing a not unpleasant shiver to run down his back. “She was excited to meet you,” he continued, this time with more regret. “Even asked me if you would be at the next pack event so she could pay you due respect.” He moved slightly away from Oliver here, and Oli felt the weight in his stomach steal his breath.

  “What did you tell her?” he asked quietly, and Connor gave him a look tinged with sadness.

  “That you were very busy with work,” he said, “but I’d hoped you would be able to make it if I gave you enough warning.” He glanced around the house, busy with preparations, his hands in his pockets. “I guess you did make it.”

  Oliver dropped his head, eyes shut. He felt less worthy of respect than he ever had. “Connor,” he began, but Connor shook his head.

  “What’s next in the case?” he asked. “It’s my duty to oversee the preparations, but I’m quite sure they’ll understand if you need my help.”

  Shooting a look around at the busy Wolves, Oliver exhaled slowly. “There’s not much more we can do until the autopsy’s completed and the evidence is analyzed,” he said. “And I need to do that myself, as I’m the only one here with that kind of magic.” He offered Connor what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “You should be with your pack.”

  Connor studied him, his expression unreadable. “Are you sure? The safety of this pack is paramount; not even tradition can stand in the way of that.”

  Oliver reached out to place a hand on his bicep, squeezing softly. “Really, it’s okay. There’s nothing you can do for the case until I’m done. Be with them.”

  Connor didn’t move. “You’ll let me know what you find the moment you’re done,” he said, but it was a question. Oliver could feel it.

  He nodded. “Definitely.” He made for the stairs to the basement. “I’ll work in your office for now, then.”

  “Of course,” Connor answered. “Let me know if there is anything you need. Anything.” Oliver nodded and took a step down, but before he could descend further, he felt a hand on his arm, holding him back. “And you’ll come to the wake later?”

  Oliver’s eyes met Connor’s, the blue of them suddenly turbulent and bright. Feeling his lips part, Oliver couldn’t quite catch his breath in the face of Connor looking so unsure. He was always in control, always suave and sophisticated. He was Connor, and now he was hurting. And Oliver felt responsible.

  “Yes,” he said, wishing he could give that answer to a different question.

  Chapter 7

  Oliver pressed his forehead to his balled fist, leaning against the desk. The evidence bubbles floated uselessly in front of him, each glittering with different coloured lights—the residues from the forensic spells he’d used on them. The trails of purple, pink, green, and blue light on the air made it look vaguely like a rave in Connor’s downstairs office, but Oliver hardly felt like dancing. None of the spells he’d used had yielded anything tangible. The bullets—removed from the body by one of the doctors Connor assigned to the case and brought down to Oli several hours before—showed only blood residue from the victim. The striations on the bullets might have been useful if they had a gun to match them to, but the murder weapon was still missing. No suspects and no gun to test. There was no other trace evidence on the bullets.

  The collar and the ropes were the same story. The rope was relatively common, excepting the fact that it was Fae-made. Anyone who had ever travelled to Maeve’s Court, or even Nimueh’s Court, could have purchased it in a standard hardware or survival store. That it would have had to
be purchased outside of Logan’s Court was the only salient bit of information, but even that hardly narrowed down the field of suspects. Wolves of Logan’s Court were unlikely to venture into Nimueh’s Court, even since the Treaty, but Maeve’s Court was historically neutral during all the conflict between the Courts of Nimueh and Logan. Werewolves didn’t face the same prejudice there that they did in Nimueh’s Court, and Logan’s pack did a lot of business with the Fae.

  The collar was Oliver’s best bet, he’d thought. It was only possible to purchase it in Logan’s Court, as neither Fae nor Witch or Wizard used these types of collars for their romantic entanglements or binding ceremonies. He’d tested it every way he knew how, using spells to find trace evidence, to source the origins of the leather (deer hide), the thread (rabbit fur), and the clasp (common steel), and even tried to identify a magical signature within the craftwork of the collar. He managed to get a weak signature—the smell of tanned hide and the exhale before releasing an arrow. That led him to search through Connor’s registry of pack members and their occupations. He found a leather-worker well known for mating collars whose logo had an arrow crossing a crescent moon. But that was a dead end too.

  Oliver called the woman, named Gertrude Driver, and described the collar he’d found. She seemed to think it was possible it was one of hers, but she couldn’t recall who might have bought it. She’d recently set up an online business with a website on the network to reach more customers. Sales had increased and she’d recently shipped a number of packages over the borders—to both Nimueh’s Court and Maeve’s Court. Oliver asked her for the records of the sales, which she emailed him, and still nothing.

  Though the presence of hematite stones might have intrigued some Witches and Wizards, mostly the buyers were people interested in creating culturally accurate costumes and role-play scenarios, as far as Oliver could tell. The popularity of “Werewolf Sex Slave” costumes and accessories was apparently rising fast since Connor’s appearance in the pages of the Daily Spell.

  Oliver shuddered and closed the website, trying to push the thought of random men and women getting off to the image of Connor out of his mind. Jealousy was the least of Oliver’s worries at the moment.

  He shrank the evidence bubbles down and set them into Connor’s locked drawer, adding a signature-print locking charm on the drawer for added security. Only he or Connor would be able to open it now, to remove the contents without severe personal injury. Not that there was much in there that was helpful to Oliver anyway. The killer had left virtually nothing behind in the scene—which irked Oliver.

  It was almost impossible to commit a crime—or just to perform an action—without leaving something behind. The moment you touch something, you leave a mark. Sometimes a literal fingerprint, but other times something subtler—an impression on the skin, a void in the dust, a streak on the clean window. You leave behind DNA and fibers and, most importantly, magic. The fact that none of those things was left at the crime scene was alarming. And clearly intentional.

  But getting rid of evidence was harder than it seemed. It was easy enough to wash away blood and wipe down a doorknob, but to remove all signs of life, any residue from any person? That was somewhat harder. The crime scene had been more sterile than a hospital surgical room, in terms of trace evidence.

  And then to remove both sense and magical signatures—that was powerful magic at work. Daniel Brown, the killer from the Carmichael case, had tried to obliterate his own magical signature and the remnants of the murder in his own office. Even with the best potion-makers and magical scientists at his command, he’d only managed to obscure it in a chaos of other senses and signatures. More like covering up blood with lots of other blood than bleaching it away.

  What had happened at this crime scene was—different. Precise. Ruthless.

  And that was the difference, really. The coldness of the crime. There was no strong sexual component that Oliver could sense, which was rare in crimes like these. The murder was perfunctory, efficient; if the killer got off on it in any way, it wasn’t in anything at the crime scene. On another day Oliver might have suspected a woman was the killer because of that. But that didn’t feel right. The murder felt like a message, like a massive banner raised in signal, directed at someone specific. It didn’t have the hallmarks of vengeance or comfort or profit—all the main motivations for female killers.

  But Malcolm Ryan was, by all accounts, a good man. He cared for his friends and family, even for his ex-girlfriend. He had no money to inherit, wasn’t involved in any kind of business dealings that might yield a sudden cash flow upon his death, and he wasn’t in debt. All that Oliver got from the murder was that it was cold, distant, calculated.

  Which means the killer isn’t just criminally sophisticated, he’s probably also a psychopath.

  The thought did nothing at all to comfort Oliver. Knowing there was a possible psychopathic murderer on the loose in Logan’s Court only made Oliver’s job more urgent. He needed to find this person. He needed to get them out of Connor’s world. People in power, like Connor and Logan, were always going to be a target. Oliver pressed his palms into the desktop, feeling the smooth wood on his skin and remembering the first time he’d been in this room, the first time he and Connor had—well he didn’t know what to call it. ‘Fucking’ was the word he usually used, but it didn’t seem right anymore, not with Connor.

  Connor had pressed him down onto the surface, bent his knees back until Oli was folded in half, and pounded into him until Oliver was crying out nonsense and pleasure. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, Oli could still feel the hard wood digging into his back, his hands gripping the edges of the desk as he braced against Connor’s punishing rhythm. A drop of liquid desire streamed through Oliver’s stomach and down to coil in his lower belly. He groaned.

  That case had nearly ended badly—with Connor in the morgue instead of the hospital. That he ended in the hospital was hardly comfort to Oliver, who still held himself accountable. Sitting vigil over Connor’s motionless, sleeping frame in a Nimueh’s Court hospital was not something he wanted to do again. And that position—the vigil, the fear in his face, the desperation for Connor to be okay—was one of the reasons Oliver faced public scrutiny now.

  There were too many reasons he needed to solve this case quickly, following protocol, and protecting Connor was just at the top of the list.

  Oliver pushed himself out of the chair, his mind stretched blank as he glanced at the clock. It was late, the day nearly gone, and Oliver could hardly believe it had been only one day. He felt as though he hadn’t slept in years, as though the news of his tendency toward one-night stands and male lovers had somehow stolen whole chunks of his life. But that was only this morning.

  Body aching and yearning for Connor, Oliver opened the door to the hall and found himself assaulted with noise. Music pounded a heavy bass into the walls of his chest, and a buzz of chatter and laughter and the usual sounds expected at a party filled his ears. The lights dimmed, the hallway of Connor’s basement looked more like the hall of a club than a residence. Oliver walked out toward the main area and found a throng of people. There were enough Wolves present to populate a small island, and Oliver was hit, for the first time, by the sheer size of the pack that called Connor Alpha. Oliver stood motionless in the mouth of the hallway, staring around himself.

  There were Wolves grouped together by the pool tables, playing billiards and, apparently, betting on the game. Some others were inexpertly throwing darts at the dartboards, drinks in hand, laughing and stumbling into one another. There were card games and chess games (though the chess was definitely not played by the usual rules) and a large group of Wolves by the TV apparently playing what Oliver could only guess was strip-karaoke. What the rules were, Oliver couldn’t discern, but the young woman with the microphone was crooning a sensual ballad while three of the members of what seemed to be the opposing team pulled off items of clothing.

  There was food and drink everywhe
re, all neatly arranged on folding tables and shelves, nothing spilled or scattered around as Oliver would have expected with this many people drunk together. The cleanliness drew Oliver’s attention for only a moment before he realized what it was the majority of the Wolves were actually doing.

  In small groups throughout the room, Oliver saw what he thought were couples making out. It became quickly apparent to him that these were not couples, and they were not making out. Or not just making out. To his right was a group of three Wolves, the smallest Oliver could see, and they were in varying stages of undress, groping and fondling and finally penetrating each other. Two men and one woman, they moaned and gasped as though no one was around, no one watching them fuck against one of Connor’s chairs in the middle of what Oliver thought was supposed to be a wake.

  But as he looked around the room, he saw more of them. Groups of four or five Wolves, all naked or nearly, kissing and sucking and doing all the things Oliver generally liked to do with Connor. Alone.

  A group of four men caught Oliver’s attention. The man in the centre, his dark skin glistening in the low light, was sucking off a Wolf with short brown hair, while being slowly fucked by a Wolf with a mess of black curls and being blown himself by a thin young man with a curving set of antler tattoos at his hipbones. The man with short brown hair moaned as the dark-skinned man did something with his mouth, and he looked at Oliver. They locked eyes a moment, and Oliver found himself half-hard and unable to move. Slowly, the brown-haired Wolf bucked his hips into his partner’s mouth, once, twice, then pulled out with a pop. He kissed the man he’d just been face-fucking, and walked over to Oliver, his cock bobbing as he did. Oliver fought himself not to look at it, not to admire the body of the man stalking toward him now. He wanted Connor, not this Wolf with too dark hair and too grey eyes. He wanted Connor’s halo of blond hair, his bright blue eyes pinning Oliver down as Connor pressed into him, watching him come undone.