Conviction

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “I certainly understand why the delay was necessary,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Hopefully it’s been productive?”

  “Straight to business.” Vincent nodded and gestured at the back of the van. “This way.”

  Kylie leaned against the van’s rear bumper. The cold was less of a concern for her, being half-ghoul. Technically, she wasn’t dead, but she was closer to it than most. The same necromantic energy that made her crave rotting flesh also helped her thrive in colder climates. She raised white-gloved hands to open the van’s rear doors.

  “We haven’t gone back to the lab yet, so the body is still here,” Kylie said, pulling the doors open. She nodded to the stretcher inside and the black body bag that held Deacon. “I’ve completed my initial review of the body, but the more detailed autopsy will have to wait. Though, as I said, it all seems pretty cut and dried. He was shot in the stomach and bled out.”

  “No traces of magic, or anything like that?” I asked.

  Vincent climbed inside the van. The stretcher took up most of the right side, but there was a narrow desk to the left and a small stool. He sat down and opened a file. “Perhaps we’ll start with the first crime scene, then move on?” he suggested. “Everything in order?”

  I frowned, but nodded. “Okay.”

  Vincent cleared his throat. “Right. So, there were ten people present at Something Fishy when the shooting occurred, most of them water spirits or creatures of some kind. Names and species are as follows: Hachim, redjal el marja; Maks, bolotnik; Valter, nakki; Palgun, kul; Gesupo, matabiri; Mickey V, human; Raichel, kelpie; Andy, human; Rowyn, kelpie; Deacon, satyr-blood. None of the aforementioned have any magical ability that would allow them to change or influence Agent Bradford’s memory.”

  I ran through the list in my head, double-checking. Redjal el marja, that was a Moroccan water spirit in charge of protecting the purity of whatever river they’d chosen as their own. Hachim certainly was protective. Bolotniks were swamp spirits, no magic, just aquatic creatures that were peaceful enough if you left them alone. Kuls were Siberian water spirits who foretold misfortune, oft predicting drownings and terrible fates at sea. And the matabiri were spoken of in Papua New Guinea. They, like the bolotnik, were harmless swamp spirits who didn’t bother anyone who didn’t trespass in their homes.

  The nakki though…

  “Nakkis are shapeshifters,” I spoke up. “Yes?”

  “They are,” Vincent agreed. “But they have no innate magic.”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve heard rumors that some nakkis can enchant with their songs. I seem to remember one woman who was lured to her death in a lake following what her friend said was the most beautiful song she’d ever heard.”

  Vincent shook his head. “It is more likely that the nakki from that story was not a pureblood. There are many, many creatures who live near the water and use the power of enchanted song to lure in their victims. Most likely, the creature in your story had ancestry that included rusalka, or siren.”

  He seemed to sense my next question before I could ask it.

  “Valter has no such enchantment in his lineage. He is a shapeshifter, but that is all.”

  “So Andy’s memory loss had to be caused by his head injury,” I said.

  Kylie shifted on her feet. “I examined Andy’s head wound when I arrived, before Vincent healed him. Unfortunately, it’s not possible to determine the veracity of his memory loss from a physical examination alone. There’s just no way to predict how someone’s brain will react to a concussion, there’s too much variety. But based on what I saw, I can say it’s possible he doesn’t remember what happened.”

  Vincent rubbed the patch on his left elbow. “I examined Agent Bradford for any spells that may have contributed to memory loss, including a tox screen for potions, but I didn’t find any. Of course, magic can be dispelled, so even if someone had enchanted him, or perhaps even enchanted something outside the bar that would affect him, they could have removed it later. In which case, the only way to be absolutely certain that his memories were manipulated by magic would be to take him to a specialist. And there are those at the Vanguard that could perform such an examination…”

  “But?” I prompted.

  He cleared his throat again. “But Agent Bradford was not…amenable to that idea.”

  “He wouldn’t let you call someone in to look at his memories?” I asked.

  “I don’t blame him,” Flint said. “I wouldn’t want a stranger poking around in my head at the best of times. And it’s plain to see why Agent Bradford might have more reason than most not to trust an Otherworlder to that extent.”

  My brain flashed back to Andy’s file. I shoved those mental images away before I could drown in them all over again. Yes, I could understand his trust issues. Why he wouldn’t want anyone, especially someone he didn’t know, seeing those memories.

  “But it could clear him,” Peasblossom argued.

  Flint looked at me. “Perhaps he has faith you’ll prove he’s innocent. He might agree to let them look inside his head later, but for now, it would seem he truly believes it won’t be necessary.”

  It was the same impression I’d had earlier when Andy so obviously relaxed when I arrived. Back then, I’d thought the trust was subconscious, an instinct. But if Flint was right, then Andy’s faith in me was greater than I’d thought. I threw back my shoulders. I would not let him down.

  Vincent continued. “I found no magic artifacts at the scene. The bar is the favorite dive of several Otherworlders, but none of them demonstrated the inclination to collect artifacts or items of power. I tested all food and drink, and none of it showed evidence of being anything other than mundane. Unless you count the bottles of whiskey Valter dug out of a bog that are now strong enough to make a troll cry.” He shivered. “I smelled one of them. Not a mistake I’d make twice.”

  He stopped suddenly, holding up a finger. “Before I forget.” He dug into his pocket and produced a small amber orb. “Speaking of artifacts, Evelyn asked me to give this to you.”

  “Shiny. What is it?” Peasblossom asked.

  “A one-use spell. She said it brings clarity of mind. You throw it on the ground in front of someone who’s…” He trailed off, trying to think of the right words. “Someone who’s not thinking clearly,” he finished finally. “The activation word is Tranquillitas.”

  I took the orb, studying it for a second before putting it into my waist pouch. “I’ll thank her when I see her.” I peered at the file. “What about prints on the gun?”

  Vincent studied the open file with the intensity of someone who wanted to avoid eye contact. “Agent Bradford’s prints were the only ones on the weapon. I was able to confirm that the gun found at the scene is definitely the one that shot and killed Raichel.”

  “Did you confirm with Andy that it was his gun?” I asked.

  “Agent Bradford confirmed that the gun was the same make and model as one he’d brought with him to the bar. But he was unable to swear it was his gun exactly because the serial numbers had been filed off. I was able to use a simple spell to repair them.” He cleared his throat. “The gun was used in a robbery two years ago. The thief was arrested weeks later, but the gun was never recovered. It would seem it made it to the black market.”

  “So, not Andy’s gun,” I clarified.

  Kylie stepped forward. “It wasn’t his legal FBI-assigned weapon, but he admitted he purchased a gun from a street dealer. And given his prints were on the gun, it does seem likely that the murder weapon is the same gun he purchased.”

  She didn’t come right out and say how bad it looked that Andy had an illegal weapon, but I could see it in the grim set of her mouth.

  I fought to keep my voice calm. “He’s dealing with creatures of the Otherworld. He’s an officer of the law, he can’t have bullets being traced back to him when he can’t tell the truth about why he fired the gun—and at what.”

  Kylie didn’t look convinced, but I move
d on. “What about gunpowder residue?”

  “I tested the hands of everyone present, of course,” Vincent assured me. “Unfortunately, that test also proved positive only for Agent Bradford. I’m sorry, Shade.”

  “That doesn’t prove he fired the killing shot,” I argued, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Spells could clean gunpowder. And couldn’t that residue have come from earlier, like being at the firing range, or from someone putting the gun into his hands after the fact?”

  “No one there had the magic necessary to clean gunpowder,” Vincent said calmly.

  “A shapeshifter wouldn’t need it,” I pointed out. “And anyone could have worn gloves.”

  “True.” Vincent took a deep breath. “But in the end, Agent Bradford is the only one with the means, motive, and opportunity. He is well-acquainted with firearms and his prints are on the gun that killed Raichel. His feelings about kelpies are also well-documented, and multiple testimonies including his own confirm it could have looked to him as though a kelpie was trying to kidnap a young human. And of course, he was armed and outside with Raichel at the time of the shooting.”

  “We tried, Shade,” Kylie said quietly. “I searched the body for any signs that she could have been shot from a different weapon or from farther away. Raichel only had the one entry and exit wound, close range. It was center mass, just like FBI agents are trained to shoot. I looked for some sign that Mickey may have been fighting her off, so Andy might have had good reason to believe he was saving him.” She shrugged helplessly. “There was nothing, no defensive wounds.”

  “And I searched every inch of the scene,” Vincent added. “I used every test I could think of to find some trace of magic or a spell that could have been used to make Andy see something that wasn’t there, or conceal something—or someone—present. There were no echoes of glamour, no magical artifacts. I checked every bottle of alcohol, every food item. I searched every inch of the parking lot, every inch of the bar. I analyzed every speck of evidence my spell revealed. I found nothing.”

  My throat constricted, strangling my voice. “Not all magic would leave a trace.”

  “Of course, you’re right. There’s always a chance whatever was used left no trail. And as I said before, magic can be dispelled.” He tried to sound hopeful, but failed. And I noticed he struggled to look me in the eye.

  He thinks Andy did it.

  “Tell her about the second crime scene,” Kylie prompted.

  Vincent brightened. “Yes, the second scene. A little more hope to be had there—though not much,” he warned.

  “Just tell me what you found, I won’t get my hopes up,” I lied.

  “Yes.” Vincent closed the first folder and shoved it away before flipping open the second. “So first of all, the gun that killed Deacon was also unregistered. Also formerly used in a crime only to disappear before trial. So it’s reasonable to assume it was purchased on the black market.”

  “You think Andy purchased not one gun illegally, but two?” I demanded.

  “I can’t say that for certain, that’s beyond what forensics can tell us,” Vincent said carefully. “But I can tell you his prints were the only ones on the second gun.”

  “He—”

  “However,” Vincent said, raising his voice, “the prints on the trigger were smudged. And I did find something else on the gun. A small speck of leather caught in the trigger.”

  He pulled out a photograph and held it out to me. It was a tiny fleck of grey leather.

  “I think we can assume based on its location that this piece of leather came from a glove. If so, it comes from the outer layer, so no DNA. However, it is very fine leather. Even from this single flake, I can tell you it was expensive. Too much so, I dare say, for someone on a federal salary.”

  “The killer left the gun at the scene?” Flint asked.

  Vincent frowned. Again, he and Kylie shared a look.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “We found the gun in Andy’s SUV.” Vincent furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, I thought Oksana would have told you. She found Agent Bradford’s vehicle.”

  “Where?” I asked. “Did she find Andy?”

  “No. His SUV was found abandoned in a parking lot between Detroit Avenue and West 29th Street.”

  “There was no sign of foul play,” Kylie rushed to add. “No blood, nothing like that.” She looked at Vincent and jerked her head toward me. “But we did find something encouraging.”

  “What?” I resisted an unkind urge to strangle Vincent. That would only make him go slower.

  “There is evidence that a female sidhe was in the SUV,” Vincent said.

  “Who?” Peasblossom’s wings buzzed furiously next to my ear.

  Vincent glanced toward the house. “Morgan.”

  Flint grabbed for my arm, but he was too slow. I’d already hurled myself in the direction of the manor, my magic scalding my hands as I clenched them into fists at my sides.

  “Shade, don’t do anything stupid,” Flint warned.

  I raised my fist to pound on the door, but stopped myself. I couldn’t go inside like this. Flint was right, I had to calm down. I didn’t want to give Luna an excuse to “help me relax” again.

  My cell phone chimed with a text message before I could calm down enough to knock without punching a hole through the door. I almost didn’t check it. Nothing was more important to me right now than finding Morgan. Finding her and getting the answers I needed. No more hints, no more teasing.

  Then my phone started to ring. I didn’t even realize Peasblossom had flown down to jab at the buttons until I heard her gasp.

  “It’s Andy! He has a different phone.”

  The door swung open. Morgan stood tall as though facing a firing squad. “Mother Renard. I’ve been expecting you.”

  I stared at her even as I reached for my phone. I pointed at her, signaling her to wait as I raised the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?” I asked, not saying Andy’s name. No reason to let Morgan know.

  “Shade. I need your help. I’m going to text you an address. Can you meet me?”

  I stepped back, still staring at Morgan. Andy needed help. The second call like this in less than twenty-four hours. A thousand questions vied for dominance to be the first on my lips. I couldn’t ask them, not yet. Not until I was away from this woman. “I’m on my way.”

  Andy ended the call. His abrupt disconnect left me with even more questions. Was he alone? In trouble? Hurt?

  “Who was that?” Morgan asked.

  I shook my head, pointed at her again. “I’ll be back.”

  The fury-blooded fey studied me, reading in my expression everything I hadn’t said. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 13

  “I don’t trust that timing,” Flint muttered. “What are the chances that Bradford would call right as we were about to corner Morgan?”

  “Just say what you want to say,” I said, not hiding my irritation. I stuffed the file folder Vincent had given me into my pouch. I’d look at the rest of it later, when I could concentrate.

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  I did. He was suggesting that Morgan and Andy were in contact. I wrapped my fingers around the door handle and stared out the window at the derelict neighborhood Andy was apparently hiding in.

  The housing collapse of 2008-2009 wasn’t over for everyone. In some Cleveland neighborhoods, a combination of poor tax collection and a failure of banks to either transfer the house title into their name after an eviction, or inform the evicted that their name was still on the title led to the creation of what people referred to as “zombie homes.” Abandoned properties falling beyond disrepair, into that sad place where a building had nothing left in its future but to wait around for someone to care enough to demolish it. I’d seen properties like this before.

  I’d never expected to find Andy in one.

  “You think they’re working together.” I turned in my seat t
o glare at Flint. “To what end?”

  “You know—”

  “I’m not talking about your theory that Morgan is molding Andy into a crusader against the kelpies,” I interrupted. “I mean to what end do you think Andy called me for help now? Why ask to meet me here, now, after I was about to talk to Morgan?”

  Flint looked like he wanted to say something, but held back.

  “You know he wouldn’t hurt me,” I pressed. “This isn’t a trap. You think he did it to keep me away from Morgan?”

  “I think we all choose our friends. And as much as you might want to, you cannot choose Agent Bradford’s for him. No matter how much you hate his choices.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Andy is too smart to trust Morgan.”

  Flint was saved from having to respond when we arrived at our destination, and he pulled into the broken driveway.

  I got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at a house that had once been home to a family with small kids. At least if the abandoned, rusted tricycle half-buried in the yard was anything to go by. Now the muted sunlight revealed ivy taking over the pale blue siding, swallowing the columns of the wraparound front porch, and erupting from loose roof shingles. The steps leading up the front porch were barely more than large splinters, and crossing the porch to the front door would require a leap of faith. Or wings.

  “You go inside first, I’ll be right behind you,” Flint said.

  “Coward,” Peasblossom muttered. She flew ahead of me, a soft pink light emanating from her skin. “You should let me go in and bring him out. Safer that way.”

  “No.” I lurched forward and began picking a path to the door. “I want to see him.”

  “You’ll see him when I bring him out.”

  “I’m going in, and we’ll leave together.”

  “Then I’ll just stand by and wait until someone needs stabilized,” Peasblossom huffed. “Shouldn’t take too long.” She hesitated, then asked, “Any word from Scath?”

  I didn’t take my eyes off the porch, gingerly stepping over any board that looked too rotted to hold the weight of a healthy witch. “I tried to call her cell phone, but there was no answer. I sent her a text to let her know what’s happening. Your guess is as good as mine whether she’ll show up.”