by Lyra Evans
Oliver froze, his expression momentarily blank. “What?”
Sky proffered his hands in a quick gesture. “The timing of this is definitely suspect,” he said, beginning to pace back and forth. “These murders, as accelerated as they are, happen only a day or so after the Daily Spell publishes an article about you and your sexual escapades?” He shook his head, that same look in his eyes as at the first test case at the Academy. “No, definitely not a coincidence. He probably read the article and was triggered to act. Who knows, maybe he’s been fantasizing about you, about killing you, for months or years. But now he’s seen the article, he knows he can’t trap you into another one-night-stand and can’t have you. So he targets people who look like you.”
In Sky’s infuriating way, he began to make sense to Oliver. It was possible, he supposed. The mention of a relationship with Connor was certainly likely to trigger someone with that kind of mindset. Oliver had seen people resort to murder over much less.
“Well that would narrow it down to the same Fae or Wizard list,” Oliver said. “I never had a one-night-stand with a Werewolf. Never been with one before Connor. But why would they do this? I still don’t—”
“Of course not,” Sky answered dismissively. “You wouldn’t. But it’s obvious. They slept with you once and became obsessed. Probably stalked you online or through the other articles about you. It was only a matter of time, really. Sleeping around with that many people was bound to put you in the path of a psycho of some kind or another. You were never as good at reading people as I was.”
A cold like death ran through Oliver, still as midwinter. “That much is obvious,” Oliver said, his tone matching the feeling in his chest. “Or maybe I’d have known what you were going to do.”
Sky held his gaze, green eyes fierce and angry. But after a moment, he looked away. “Still,” he said, “it’s the most viable possibility so far. Can you think of anyone you picked up that stands out? Someone that has the capacity to do this?”
Jaw tight, Oliver glared at the air between them, unable to keep looking directly at Sky. The anger that lived within him was a creature all its own, borne of the pain Oliver never dealt with, the pain he kept locked away. So much for being over it.
“No,” he said at last. “No one stands out.” He left off saying that was rather the point. “I can’t think of anyone—”
“No one?” Connor said quietly, and Oliver started, the question a lance to the chest. A shade passed over Connor’s eyes. He was unnaturally still. The sting of bile hit Oliver’s throat. “The man who outed you to the press seems a good—what do you call it?—person of interest, if you ask me.”
Oliver felt the anger begin to drain, thoughts of Sky swallowed up with his shame at the article, at what that did to Connor. “I mean, maybe,” Oliver said, conceding reluctantly. He let out a ragged breath and ran a hand through his messy hair. His mind pulled at the thought, working it from various angles, but it didn’t fit the question. “He just—didn’t seem like that type. Going to the press was about attention. This—this is something else.”
“We’re definitely paying attention,” Sky said, and Oliver shot him a dark look.
After a moment, Oliver remembered Connor’s desperation to save his pack, to protect his Wolves, and Oliver relented. “I still don’t think he’s the type, but I’ll ask Rory to go find him and poke around. If he does want attention, he’ll be more than happy to talk to a reporter. And if he did this—” he added, gesturing at the empty spot where Jamie Grace’s body had been, “then there’s no way he’d talk to cops anyway. Rory’s the best bet.”
“Are you sure you can trust this Rory?” Sky asked, studying his face. Oliver gave him a stony look.
“More than I can trust you,” he snapped, and the wince, the wounded look on Sky’s face was almost enough to make Oliver regret saying it. The Oliver that picked up one-night-stands wanted savage retribution; the Oliver that cried when Sky left wanted something else. Oliver shut his old self away again, unable to deal with the mess of emotions and talk to Rory at the same time.
He punched in her number, walking back over to the bar, and waited for her to pick up. “Hey, it’s me,” he said quietly.
“Wow, that bad, huh?” she asked, and Oliver blinked.
“What?”
“No ‘hey, bitch, what took you so long?’ or asking me intrusive and totally ridiculous questions about my sex life like usual,” she said. “Something is definitely wrong. I mean the news yesterday was rough, but I figured getting back to your love-pooch would help distract you a bit. Apparently not.”
Oliver shut his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his temple. “I’m here on work, Rory, not—whatever. I’m fine. And my questions are no more ridiculous or intrusive than yours are.”
“Pumpkin, please,” she hummed. “At least I know how gay sex works. But the mechanics of girl-love are apparently so far outside the realm of what your little brain understands you resort to asking me if I’d tried any new vegetables recently. Seriously, Oli, gross.”
Hand to his now throbbing head, Oliver tried to shake out the images Rory was planting. “Whatever, I need a favour. You know the shitbag who outed me? I need you to go find him and figure out if he’s a run-of-the-mill attention whore or a possible I-love-you-so-much-I-want-to-kill-you-and-wear-your-skin level psycho. He might be involved in our case.”
“You’re sending me to interview a possible psycho killer?” she asked, incredulous. “Do I get the exclusive?”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Obviously. But not until the case is over. And be careful. If he is a psycho, he’ll be okay talking to press as long as you build him up. Make him seem like a genius or artist or some shit. No calling him a monster, yeah?”
“Noted,” she said. “I’ll let you know ASAP.”
“Thanks.” She hung up and Oliver returned to where Sky and Connor were standing, a gulf of awkwardness between them. Connor was a pillar of barely contained aggression, and Sky, for his part, was cool as a freezing potion in midwinter.
“Done,” Oliver said. “I don’t think it’ll lead to much, but if that jackass is the killer, we’ll know before the end of the day.” Sky nodded once, his eyes still constantly studying Oli, roving over his body. A curious and unwelcome feeling rose slowly in Oliver’s chest. He turned to Connor. “As for any other options, I’m still blank.”
“Well, at least we seem to have crossed out Werewolves as an option,” Connor said, eyes travelling the space between Oli and Sky as though it were a commuter route. “Which means the killer had to cross the border at some point.”
Pulled back to the case, Oliver looked up at Connor. “A border guard would know who that was. We should talk to them.”
“I’ll drive,” Connor said. Sky stared him down a moment before nodding and gesturing for him to lead the way.
The drive to the border was silent. Being the shortest of the three, Oliver was forced to sit in the backseat of Connor’s sports car. Sky had simply not fit, no matter how Oliver tried to squeeze him in there in his mind. Short of cutting off his legs at the knees, Sky was simply too tall to fold himself into the small space. Oliver, however, managed to sit back there with only mild discomfort. He made a note to suggest they take a different car next time they went for a ride with another passenger, but Oliver amended that note quickly to say they should just never take a ride with a third passenger.
From his half-hunched position in the back, Oliver had a spectacular view of the crystalizing tension between Connor and Sky. The two of them looked as though they were competing for the title of “Best Statue Impersonator.” Connor moved only as much as driving required him to, which was little considering the road to the border was largely a straight line. He drove at a somewhat more reasonable speed than usual, which Oliver wondered at. Possibly Sky’s suggestion that Connor was unable to protect Oliver adequately still rankled him.
Sky, meanwhile, sat stalk still, shoulders squared and back straight, l
ike a monarch on a throne. They could have chiseled a portrait of him in stone and no one would be able to tell which was the real Sky but for the colour of his hair.
When they finally piled out of the car, Oliver crawling out feeling much more like a toddler in a play-maze than a full-grown man, Oliver found they were face to face with a set of Wolves Oliver didn’t recognize. Having expected Racer again, he was somewhat surprised there were other border guards.
“Lillian Trent and Gregory Murphy,” Connor said by way of introduction. Lillian was a wisp of a thing, slight and delicate as a wax doll. She had pale brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and eyes the colour of sea foam. Hardly the appearance of a threat, Oliver suspected she was much more dangerous than she looked. She wore garments of leather and fur, like Racer did, made for speed and stealth. Gregory Murphy was much the opposite, large and bulky and dark as raw earth. He wore similar garments, but his had the added advantage of a light layer of armour. Probably because he was the more obvious threat of the two. If someone was going to take out the border guards, they would likely aim for him first.
Gregory Murphy also had something familiar about his face. Though he was very bulky with muscles, his features were angled and sharp. It took Oliver a moment to realize.
“Are you Blake Murphy’s brother?” Oliver asked, and Gregory smiled wide.
“He’s my younger, yeah,” he said. “Surprised you figured it out. Most don’t see the resemblance much.” Oliver chuckled. Blake Murphy was tall and lean and beautiful. He had the look of a fashion model while his brother had more the build of a tank. “Wanted to thank you—for what you did for him. He could’ve been in a bad spot if you hadn’t believed him. But you did, and he’s more grateful than I can even say. For believing him, and for finding Eloise’s killer.” Gregory got quiet a moment.
“How is he doing?” Oliver asked, and Gregory nodded slowly.
“Better,” he said.
“I’m glad,” Oli said. “So you’re both in Lane’s pack?”
Lane Irons was another Alpha of Logan’s Court. He was less polished than Connor but just as defensive of his Wolves.
“He sent us to cover the border for Racer and the Montgomery twins while they cover their sector’s grounds,” Lillian said. Her voice was deeper than Oliver expected. “We’re sorry for your loss. You have the full support of our Wolves,” she said to Connor. He nodded in thanks.
“You ever going to get to your questions, Worth?” a voice called from a bit further on. Oliver looked beyond Lillian and Gregory to see two guards standing firmly on the other side of the border in Nimueh’s Court. Oliver’s mouth broke into a smile. Brook and Jack were guards Oliver had come to know well, crossing as often as he did into Logan’s Court. Brook had overseen Oliver’s first ever crossing into Logan’s Court while on the Carmichael Case. Jack, Oliver met later.
Brook had all the aquiline features of Nimueh’s Court nobility because he was one. Though he had a seat at Court waiting for him, he took his grandmother’s name and signed up for the border guard. No one but Oliver knew of his deception, and having a friend in the border guard was always in Oliver’s best interest, so he kept his mouth shut. Jack, on the other hand, was plainer in look, with unremarkable features and dull brown eyes and brown hair. What he lacked in physical aesthetic, he made up for tenfold in personality. He’d been the one to call over to Oliver.
“I’d like to get home sometime this century,” Jack said with a grin. “Been on the job since midnight, and that after a double-shift the night before, too.”
“Getting too old for guard duty?” Oliver asked, and Jack gave him a rueful look. “I thought you were the most ‘virile stock that side of the Northern Border’?”
Brook laughed and Jack shook his head. “Even a stag’s got to sleep, Worth.”
Oliver shook his head. “Connor, these idiots are Jack and Brook,” he said. “Biggest pains in the ass on the border, but damn good guards.” Connor nodded at them, and Oli saw Brook’s eyes linger a moment between Connor and Oli. He must have read the Daily Spell article too, but there was no judgment in Brook’s eyes. Only curiosity.
“Ah, so you’re the mangy cur drawin’ Worth over the border every weekend,” Jack said, and Connor stilled. The words, out of another Wizard’s mouth, would have been wildly disrespectful, but the broad grin and delight in Jacks’ eyes gave Connor pause. “He’s taking good care of you, I hope. Otherwise, say the word, and I’ll toss him in our holding cells for a few nights to sort him out.”
“I’ll let you know,” Connor said, his mouth slowly pulling into a thoughtful smirk. Oliver rolled his eyes.
“So what do you need, Oliver?” Brook asked, and Lillian and Gregory moved closer.
Back to business, Oliver’s mind returned to the uneasy thoughts from the Black Moon. “We have reason to believe the killer we’re after crossed into Logan’s Court. Could be either Wizard or Fae, but the evidence so far points outside the borders. Do you remember anyone crossing that sticks out? Anything unusual?”
The guards exchanged looks. “What timeline are we talking?”
“Would have to be before three a.m. yesterday. If they crossed back, it would’ve been early this morning. Probably four thirty or later.” Again, the guards exchanged looks.
“No one crosses at those times,” Brook said. “Other than you, anyway. But there’s no commute between Logan’s Court and Nimueh’s Court, so people don’t cross for the usual work hours. Most of the crossings happen around early afternoon or in the evening.”
Oliver stared at them. “No crossings? At all?” He looked to the Wolves, hoping they had smelled something, noticed a subtle difference Wizards weren’t trained to identify. They shook their heads too.
“We weren’t here for the first crossing you mentioned, but no one left,” Gregory said.
“We would have noticed the scents,” Lillian added. “No Fae or Wizard. Not counting this one, anyway.” She nodded at Sky.
“You’ve got wards,” Sky said, and Oliver had almost forgotten he was there. “Can you bring them up? Show the crossings?”
Brook shrugged, glancing at Jack, then they both spread their hands. The gloves they wore bore several gemstones sewn into the palms—jade and rubies in a concentric pattern. They cast the spells, tailored and locked to the border guards’ signatures to prevent tampering, and the wards appeared on the air before them. The shimmering lines were written in green and purple on the air, peaking at points where someone crossed the border into or out of Nimueh’s Court. The crossings out were marked in green, the returns marked in purple. Each peak was labeled with a time and a name. Oliver’s own name shimmered at him, and Sky’s name appeared further along as well. But there were no other Fae, no other crossings at all. Not since Oliver entered Logan’s Court at the beginning of his weekend with Connor. There were, however, two breaks in the wards. Two marks where no information was recorded, no line, no magic seemed present at all. One occurred approximately an hour before the window for the first murder. The second occurred within twenty minutes of the second.
“That’s strange,” Brook said, noticing the breaks. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“Nor me,” Jack said, casting several test spells on the wards. “They seem to be in working order. No tampering.” His brow furrowed, he looked to Oliver.
“Do the wards mark animal crossings?” Connor asked, and Oliver knew his line of thinking. The Carmichael Case had been solved on blank marks like these, a sign that an animal had left the Carmichael house, not a human. But the guards shook their heads.
“No,” Brook said. “They’re tailored to mark Werewolves and other forms of magic though, so if someone had shifted and then tried to cross, the wards would have alerted us. There was no alert. No sign of that.”
Oliver turned to the Wolves. “You don’t remember anything from this time?” he asked, pointing to the second break in the line.
“Nothing,” Lillian said, her expression wide-e
yed and alarmed. Gregory looked as uneasy as she did.
“If something crossed, even an animal, we would smell it,” he said. “Hear it… there would be marks in the snow. This period…” He trailed off, blinking. “We were…” A look crossed his face, confusion wrapped in fear.
“I can’t remember,” Lillian said.
“Come to think of it,” Jack said, looking at Brook. “Neither can I. My memory sort of—skips. I remember checking the road at around one forty-five two nights ago. Then I was walking back to the customs booth, but I don’t remember going out to the border line.”
Brook swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t either,” he said.
Oliver and Connor exchanged looks.
“Memory wipe,” Sky said. “Someone stole their memory. They must have allowed the crossing, then he took the memory of it.”
“We would never allow that,” Lillian said, her tone sharp.
“I really doubt he asked,” Sky said. “You probably wouldn’t have known what he was doing. And then it was over.”
“May I?” Oliver asked, his heart racing. Brook nodded. Oliver stepped forward and placed his hands by Brook’s ears, hovering palms inward on the air. He cast a complicated charm to see into Brook’s memory, searching for the edges of visions, feelings, experiences. He found the blank moment, the spot where his memory died for no reason. As though Brook had been knocked out and woke up without knowing it, the memories slid into one another. Without scrutinizing the thought, they would never have noticed something was missing. No one remembers every minute of every day.
