Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2)

by Clara Coulson

  The nude Wolf looks me over, a snarl splitting his face, and jerks his chin up. “Out of the truck, boy.”

  I grab the support grip on the ceiling, brace my other hand against the doorframe, and carefully lower myself out of the vehicle. When my boots crunch into the snow, and my weight shifts downward, another wave of dizziness nearly sends me sprawling. I screw my eyes shut and waver for a second, but I don’t fall. I won’t give these bastards the satisfaction.

  I open my eyes again and glance at the nude Wolf. He’s stocky, taller than me, but I don’t lift my head up to make eye contact. “Well? What next?” My voice is weak and raspy, but at least the words come out whole and intelligible.

  The man scowls at me and snorts, then juts a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to where two of the clothed men are still standing. The third one is now off to the side, a hand stuffed in his pocket. A concealed gun, to take us out in case we try to run off. Not that we could get very far anyway, in our conditions, especially with werewolves in pursuit.

  The gun’s just an intimidation tactic.

  Wolves love being the most threatening creatures in the room. And the woods.

  Mimicking the nude Wolf’s scowl, I push by him and march up to the two clothed men. Behind me, I hear the other nude Wolf wrestling to get Liam out of the truck. Liam falls into the snow, hard enough to make him cry out in pain, but I don’t look back to check on him. If I appear too concerned about Liam’s well-being, they might hurt him more to try and force better answers out of me.

  So I plant myself in front of the man who appears to be the leader of the group, the man everyone else keeps looking to for commands.

  The man is in his mid-forties, or maybe a little older, since Wolves age a bit slower than humans do. He’s tall and broad, with a thick, dark beard, and hard brown eyes that scrutinize me from head to toe. He’s wearing a camo hat, along with a heavy tan coat and worn denim jeans. His boots are new, with rubber lining to ward off water. There don’t appear to be any weapons on his person, either because he feels he doesn’t need any, with his Wolf abilities, or because he expects his subordinates to protect him at all costs.

  The man waits to speak until the two nude Wolves basically drag poor Liam to my side. One of the cuts on Liam’s head has split open again, and fresh blood pours down his face. He can’t stand either, so the Wolves simply drop him, and he sits listlessly in the snow, the cold quickly seeping into him. I glance back and forth from the injured Liam to the man who dared to order an attack on DSI in broad daylight.

  It takes a special kind of bravado to risk exposure the way this man did. If any normal people had driven by that intersection during our fight with the Wolves, there’d be a damn YouTube video up right now entitled REAL WEREWOLVES IN MICHIGAN, with six million hits, and the entire supernatural super-community would be up in arms, demanding retribution against the Wolves. This man is either stupid and very lucky, or so hateful that he honestly doesn’t care about the consequences of his actions.

  A strong breeze whistles through the trees, knocking snow off the branches. Afterward, the woods fall silent. Dead silent. There’s no one else around for miles. No one who can save us. No one who can hear us scream.

  As the weight of this truth settles on me, my posture must weaken, because the man in the camo hat suddenly smiles and offers me his hand.

  “McKinney,” he says in a gruff voice. “And who might you be?”

  “Kinsey,” I reply and refuse the handshake. “Something I can help you with, Mr. McKinney?”

  McKinney drops his hand, but the smile sticks. “Straight to the point, eh, kid?”

  Liam faintly groans and starts to slump over to one side.

  I tense up and say, “I don’t see any reason to beat around the bush. Considering all the effort you put into dragging us out here. I assume this is about the murdered Wolf at Jameson’s?”

  “You assume right.” McKinney tucks his thumbs into his pockets. “See, kid, it turns out your Wolf victim was my good friend Vic Martinez. Been my lieutenant for nearly twenty years. Known him since I was, hell, your age.” His lips tighten into a sneer. “Loyal. Brave. One of the best men I’ve ever known. And now he’s in the city morgue.”

  I turn this revelation around in my head for a second. If Martinez was McKinney’s second, then does that mean McKinney knows about the summoning plot? Was Martinez working as McKinney’s proxy in some grand plan with an unknown goal? What’s going on here? The hell are these people up to?

  “Forgive me, sir,” I say, “but I don’t see why that information warranted kidnapping two DSI agents off the streets. If you wanted to tell us about Martinez, why not just come into the office? We’re working to find—”

  McKinney backhands me. I stumble two steps to the left, head spinning, and barely manage to stay upright. The Wolf man rubs his knuckles and finally peels the mask of geniality away, revealing the ferocious beast beneath. His eyes flash like a night predator’s, and his lips tick open, baring a couple of unnaturally sharp teeth. His next words come out as a growl:

  “I’m not working with you stupid Crows for shit. You understand? You little bastards can prance around all you want, waving magic rings and flapping your lips like you have some kind of authority—but I’m not buying into that lie. You’re just morons playing dress up, poking at things you have no business in. Vic’s death is Wolf business, and it’ll be resolved with Wolf justice.”

  As I feared. These guys want to go vigilante on Martinez’s murderer.

  And they don’t care who they have to rip apart to find him.

  I touch my cheek, wincing at the tenderness of a soon-to-be bruise. “All right, McKinney.” I drop all the fake formality. “I get it. You hate DSI, and you think we’re in the way. Just tell me what you want. The crime scene photos? The evidence we’ve collected so far? A list of suspects? What?”

  “No, kid. I don’t give two shits about your fake investigation.” McKinney stomps his right boot into the snow. “I want to know which of those ICM fucks made the decision to kill my best friend. I want their names. I want their addresses. I want that information now. And if you don’t give it to me, neither of you stupid freaks are getting out of here in one piece. Make sense?”

  A cold that has nothing to do with the weather bursts from the pit in my stomach. McKinney thinks the ICM murdered Martinez?

  “I…don’t understand. Wizard Halliburton was among the victims at Jameson’s. Why would you think the ICM orchestrated your lieutenant’s murder?”

  “Hah!” McKinney spits. “Halliburton probably kicked the bucket because Vic didn’t go down as easily as they wanted him to. Three or four of them ganged up on him, so he turned Wolf, took out the ex-mayor and Halliburton, and then got overpowered by the remaining practitioners.” He clenches his fist so hard his knuckles crack. “That’s what happened. The ICM decided the Wolves had done their part and needed to go. Vic was the only one who knew the whole plan on our end, so they offed him. Plain and simple. And my response will also be plain and simple.”

  His hand shoots out and grabs the front of my coat. He tugs me forward until his sharp teeth are unbearably close to my face. “I don’t care what sort of deal you freaks cut with the ICM to let them off the hook for this. I don’t care about keeping up appearances with your fake investigation. What I care about is retribution, kid. And you’re going to help me get it.” He releases my coat and smooths out the wrinkles. I swallow hard; he notices and grins. “So give me the names, Kinsey. Who at the ICM made the decision to kill Vic Martinez? And who carried out the deed? I know you know.”

  Except I don’t know. Because everything this guy just said is bonkers.

  DSI and the ICM don’t get along well enough to cover up each other’s minor indiscretions, much less sweep major crimes under the rug. That much became clear to me this morning, when Marcus threw his temper tantrum and stormed out of the bar and grill. And even if we did have that kind of sordid relationship with the magic prac
titioners, why on earth would we waste time and money going through the motions of an entire investigation, only to falsify every piece of evidence along the way? I don’t even think that sort of thing is possible, at least not on the scale that McKinney is suggesting.

  Is this dude some kind of conspiracy theorist? Or—and this is a terrible thought—has he experienced this sort of flagrant cover-up from the ICM in the past?

  I recall Ella’s story about Wizard Vickers and the attempt by the High Court to let him off easy for first-degree murder. Maybe McKinney has seen the same behavior in the past, and thinks, because DSI and the ICM occasionally cooperate on cases, that we must also collude to hide evidence of ICM wrongdoing. That’s a huge stretch, but, depending on McKinney’s history with practitioners, it might hold water.

  McKinney suddenly grabs my hair and pulls. Hard. “Get your head out of the clouds, kid. I’m not waiting around here all day for you to make up some clever lie to get yourself out of this predicament. Give. Me. The. Names.”

  Hissing through my teeth, I reply, “McKinney, there are no names. At least none that I know. Halliburton is the only wizard involved in the summoning plot that DSI is aware of. I swear. Whatever you think DSI is hiding for the practitioners, we’re not. If you want answers, you’ll have to ask the ICM, not us.”

  McKinney lets go of my hair and reels back, surprise written across his face. “Those ICM fucks told you about the summoning?”

  Oh.

  Of course I fucked up.

  I curse inwardly. No point in lying now. “Slate had some information about it on his computer.” But I can at least withhold the information about the shade clocks. “Nothing specific. Just that he, Halliburton, and a Wolf—Martinez, I assume—were planning a summoning of some kind. What you all were gearing up to summon, DSI doesn’t know. Whether or not the ICM has more than one wizard involved in this plot, DSI doesn’t know. We know very little, McKinney. You are giving DSI way more credit than we deserve here. We’re in the dark. We’re not shielding practitioners. We’re not building some kind of grand conspiracy. We’re not…”

  McKinney holds up his hand. “So this is how it’s going to be, Kinsey? You’re going to give me the runaround?”

  “It’s not a runaround, McKinney.” I breathe steam into the air. It’s getting colder as the day goes on. “For god’s sake, it’s the truth. I don’t have the information you want.”

  The Wolf man strokes his beard, appearing contemplative. “All right. I get it. They trained you well. So you’re going to stick to the farce until I force the truth out of you.” He hawks and spits into the snow. “Pity that. You look like a handsome boy, minus the blood. Can’t say that’ll be true when I’m done with you.”

  A chill skitters up my spine. Fuck. This guy’s crazy.

  I try to think up a solution, throwing him a bone, maybe. But I only know the names of two ICM practitioners in Aurora. Marcus and Erica. If I spout out their names, the Wolves will hunt them down. And while I know they can both hold their own in combat, there’s no way I can justify risking their lives just to appease this sick bastard for a limited time. I don’t even have a guarantee that he’ll let us go if I give him names—he might hold us captive until he’s sure I told the truth. So when the lie comes out…Damn it. There’s no way out of this.

  “McKinney, please—”

  He wheels around and rams his fist into my abdomen. My feet slip out from under me, and I crumple to the ground, vomiting up everything in my stomach. When I run out of things to purge, I collapse on my side, face planted in the snow, gagging over and over. My vision blurs. I can’t get enough air. It won’t pass through my throat. I taste blood.

  McKinney says to the man standing watch on his left, “Put this one in the trunk. We’ll take him up to the cabin. Work the answers out of him there.” To the other clothed Wolf, the one with the gun, he calls, “You drive. Go warm up the car. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Both of the men say, “Yes, sir,” at the same time. The one designated to take me away, who I think might be Chinese, shuffles over to me and clutches my arms. His grip is powerful despite his slim frame, and he heaves me over his shoulder like I weigh all of ten pounds. He then turns, my body dangling limply in his grasp, and marches toward a line of thorny bushes. The third man, with the gun, waits until we pass him, before he whips around to follow us.

  I feebly attempt to struggle, but my entire body feels like it’s being crushed by a pile of bricks.

  A powerful fear blooms in the back of my head. They’re going to torture me. They’re going to torture me for information I don’t have. They’re going to torture me until my body can’t take it anymore, or until McKinney gets too impatient and gives me a whack just a bit too hard to survive.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. This is not how I planned to die. This is not how I want to die. I’d take Vanth’s sword over this.

  Fuck, I never thought I’d want to go back to the Etruscan Underworld.

  “And as for you…” says McKinney’s stern voice.

  And suddenly I remember something my foggy brain forgot—Liam.

  I wrench my head up at a painful angle and seek out the place where I was standing a moment ago. Liam is now lying on the ground, unable to stay upright any longer. He’s either out of energy, or his wounded head is hurting so much that he can no longer concentrate on the world around him. His chest is fluttering up and down at a rapid, irregular rate, like he’s having trouble breathing. His arms and legs jerk out at random intervals. Weak whines pass through his lips. He’s suffering.

  McKinney looms over him. “You’re a little too out of it to join in on the fun, aren’t you, boy?”

  Liam doesn’t answer.

  “That’s a shame,” McKinney continues. “The more the merrier, you know? But if you’re not going to be of any use to me, there’s no point in keeping you around.” He reaches into his coat and unsheathes a long, serrated hunting knife.

  All the air in my lungs vanishes in an instant, and I choke.

  With immeasurable strength, McKinney bends down, wraps his free hand around Liam’s throat, and hoists the broken man into the air. Liam flails, unable to breathe, but then grows limp again. McKinney holds him at eye level, staring at Liam’s bloody, tear-streaked face.

  The Wolf man says, “Least you can do one thing for me, though, boy. Send DSI a message they should have gotten a long time ago: when you play with the things that go bump in the night, you should expect to get dragged into the darkness.”

  McKinney thrusts the knife into Liam’s chest. Straight into his heart.

  And suddenly, I’m not in the woods anymore.

  I’m in Gloston Square, and Mac’s mutilated body rests in front of me. Blood everywhere. Intestines everywhere. Organs everywhere. Pieces of his blue uniform, dyed violet, everywhere. And me, screaming, crying, on my knees, pants soaked in red-stained alley water. My gun on the cold concrete, useless. The vampire’s words haunting the air. Better luck next time, kid.

  I’m standing on the shore of Lake Contessa, and there are bodies in the water. College kids. Bright futures. Snatched away by a vengeful spirit. Rendered charred and broken corpses bobbing up and down among the debris. Surrounded by fire and smoke screaming up into the night. And there’s nothing I can do but stare at the two girls in front of me, mortally wounded, barely breathing, on the verge of paying for mistakes they could hardly comprehend. Better luck next time, kid.

  In the woods again. Being hauled away. Thorny bushes grabbing at my useless hands. And Liam Calvary is on the ground, splayed out. Blood on his lips. Tears in his eyes. He doesn’t want to die. (They never want to die.) But the wounds are always too much. The blood drowning his heart is too much. He jerks once, twice, three times, and whimpers—a desperate sound lost on the wind moaning through the trees. And he goes still. Eyes wide open. Seeing nothing.

  Liam Calvary. Dead and gone.

  “Hey, what’s wrong with him? He’s hyperventilating.”


  Just like Mac.

  Just like all those college kids.

  Just like everybody else I couldn’t save.

  “Eh, he’ll get over it. Just drop him in the trunk.”

  Better luck next time, kid.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After three days in the torture shack, I can finally tell you for certain that Hollywood has never quite captured the reality of being bound to a chair and beaten for hours on end.

  My arms, tied too tight to the back of said splintery chair, have gone numb. My legs, after receiving several home runs from a baseball bat, are only in better shape than Riker’s because McKinney has been “saving my knees for last.” My stomach and intestines have tied themselves into a series of knots, thanks to the frequent, swift jabbing blows of the Chinese Wolf, Zhang—oh, and the fact I haven’t eaten in seventy-two hours.

  And, as if those injuries aren’t enough to fill a medical chart, at least three parts of my face are swollen up to golf-ball size because somebody likes to pistol-whip me when I call him too many naughty names. (That would be Donahue, McKinney’s gun-wielding flunky.)

  Don’t even get me started on the cattle prod burns. Or the four missing fingernails. Or the two missing teeth.

  Yeah, we’re just going to skip those. Nightmares for another time.

  If I live through this. Which I very well may not. Since DSI still hasn’t found me out in the middle of this godforsaken forest. I have no idea how long McKinney had me in the trunk of his car—his car with exceedingly poor suspension—or even which direction we were heading, until his cronies hauled me out and dragged me to the torture shack to begin McKinney’s “thorough interrogation.” Since the Wolves were smart enough to ditch my phone along with my weapons, DSI will have had to launch an old-fashioned search for their missing rookie detective.