Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2)

by Clara Coulson

  The image of Liam dying on the snow folds around my vision like a panoramic painting, and for a moment, I’m there again, and the cold is snaking its way through my veins, and Zhang is carrying me like a sack of flour, off to the torture shack, and all around me there is ice and blood and darkness. And…And…

  Would that have happened if it weren’t for my déjà vu?

  Would that have happened if my so-called power hadn’t altered, slightly, our investigation at Slate’s house?

  Would McKinney and his crew have caught up to us at a slightly different time, in a slightly different place, and undertaken an ambush that ended in a slightly different way? McKinney told me at the shack that he was merely following us and looking for an opportunity to strike. He chose Lombard because there was no traffic nearby. So what if we’d left Slate’s house later, because it took us longer to find the basement room without my déjà vu, and then, as a consequence of rush hour, there had been traffic around the Lombard intersection?

  And better yet…

  What if I’d stuck myself on desk work, like I should have, after I nearly crashed my truck? What if I’d never been at Slate’s house to have déjà vu in the first place?

  If I’d kept my promise to Riker and Ella, would Liam Calvary still be alive?

  “Cal!” Someone shakes me by the shoulders, and I blink the haze in my vision away. The DSI infirmary snaps back into focus. Cooper is leaning over me, worry etched into his tear-streaked face. “Are you o-okay?” He stumbles over his words. “D-Do you need me to get Navarro?”

  “No, Coop.” I stick my hand into the medical kit and draw out a package of gauze. “I need you to redo my bandages. That’s all.”

  “Are you sure?” His watery eyes peer down at me, wide and fearful. Like he thinks I’m about to stroke out or fall into a seizure. “You were staring at the wall for almost two minutes. You didn’t respond to me when I called your name. Do you have a head injury? Something that could be getting worse? Something—”

  “Cooper,” I say, with a softer edge, “it wasn’t a physical problem.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t…?” A soft gasp. “Oh. You had, uh, a flashback?”

  “Something like that.” A familiar sensation slides down my face. I touch one of the few gauze-free areas on my cheek. Wet.

  I’m crying.

  Cooper’s crying.

  Everyone’s crying. Isn’t it grand?

  Cooper gnaws on his bottom lip and then sinks down next to me on the bed. “Do you want me to call somebody? Captain Riker? Ella, maybe? Or…a psych?”

  “Nah, Cooper. Don’t worry about it.” I pat his back and flash him my best fake smile, which must look awful, considering my face is swollen like a half-inflated basketball and most of my skin is not a standard color. “If I need to see a psych, I’ll trudge on over to their department when I’m ready. Wouldn’t be my first visit.”

  “Yeah?” His gloved hands carefully pry the gauze packet out of my clenched fingers. “Wouldn’t be mine either.”

  We don’t speak much after that. Cooper deftly changes out all my bandages like an expert who’s worked an ER floor for years. When he’s done, and my old gauze pile is disposed of in the appropriate medical waste bin, the two of us walk side by side out of the infirmary, across the hall, and to the elevators. I hit the up button, and we wait, while the red number above the center elevator ticks down from the top floor.

  Cooper clears his throat. “So, are you going home?”

  “In a bit.” I shove my freshly bandaged hands in my coat pockets. “Navarro told me I could give my statement to Riker first. About what went down with the kidnapping.”

  “You sure you’re up for that? After what just happened?” He keeps his eyes trained on the elevator doors.

  “I have to be up for it, Cooper. People’s lives are at stake.”

  “Thought you said my little speech was ‘on the money’?” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to the left, subtly shying away from me. “Yet you sound like you haven’t changed your mind about pushing yourself too hard.”

  “No, you misunderstand. I learned a lot from that speech.” I nudge his arm with my elbow. The most casual gesture I can think of. Something normal to defuse the tension. “I’m no good for a fight right now. I acknowledge that. But I still need to contribute to saving lives in my own way, even from a desk. I have to adapt for a little while, be more like you, play a different role, a support role.”

  The stiffness in Cooper’s stance melts away, and he glances at me with those wide blue eyes. “Like me? Really? You’re going for that?”

  “Yes, I am.” I muster a real smile this time. “And right now, that support role means getting every shred of information I can about the Wolves and the Jameson murders to the people who can make a difference. Do you agree?”

  He chews on the idea, then nods. “I agree. Just don’t overtax yourself. Promise?”

  “What, afraid your hero might run out of juice for good?”

  His cheeks turn beet red. “M-Maybe.”

  The elevator dings, and the doors open.

  “Honestly, Cooper, if you ask me, you have shit taste in heroes.” I smack my hand against the small of his back and playfully push him into the elevator. “There are way better heroes than me at DSI.” Following him inside the box, I grin at his perplexed expression, and tap the appropriate buttons on the elevator’s number pad. “I mean, seriously, have you seen Amy and Ella in a real fight?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Well, I hope you do someday. Because it’s like watching a goddamn Jackie Chan movie.”

  “Oh?”

  The doors close.

  “Yep. And when you do see them whoop ass in live action, maybe you’ll learn the errors of your ways and pick a hero who isn’t a complete moron.”

  “Well…I agree with the last two words in that statement.”

  And away we go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My trip to the fifth floor isn’t supposed to be a walk of shame.

  But since God loves to laugh at me…

  After I let Cooper out near the cafeteria, so he can grab some lunch, I arrive at the floor where I usually work. There’s no one marching through the halls, like I would expect this time of day, so I saunter down to Riker’s office unhindered. Only to find said office empty.

  The desk, which Ella has been helping the captain clean up for the past few weeks, has finally been cleared of the massive paper and folder stacks that used to decorate every available inch. To my surprise, I also spot Riker’s pain medication, the little orange bottle lined up with a stapler and a box of paper clips. I’m not sure how Ella’s been coaching the captain out of his depression, but Marcus was at least partially correct back at Jameson’s.

  The old Captain Riker is returning at last.

  I close the office door and backtrack down the hallway, wondering where the heck everyone is. Navarro didn’t mention there was a task meeting in a progress, but it’s possible Riker, or maybe Commissioner Bollinger, called one at the last minute.

  With that in mind, I turn the corner and head toward the opposite wing of the Criminal Investigations Division. As I’m passing the row of elevators again, the one on the far left dings, and the doors open when I’m right in front of the box.

  A shaggy-haired man in his early thirties stands inside, texting something on his phone. He hits send and looks up to see me staring at him. I’m staring at him because he’s definitely not DSI, dressed in ratty jeans, worn rubber snow boots, and a camo hunting coat that has seen better days.

  Blinking at me, like he wasn’t expecting any DSI agents to meet him on a floor of the DSI building, he stuffs his phone in a coat pocket and says, “Oh, hello there. I didn’t realize they’d send someone to greet me…”

  Confusion crosses his face, and his lips twist into a frown. He examines me closely, gaze lingering on the stark white bandages that poke out of my sleeves and collar, the bruising and swellin
g on my face and neck, the obvious lean to my posture, favoring the leg with the less serious bone fracture. I don’t know who this man is, but he figures out who I am in about six seconds. And then, so much color drains from his face that he’d probably turn invisible if he jumped into a snowdrift.

  “Christ,” he says. “Are you Cal Kinsey? The kidnap victim?”

  I almost cross my arms, but the motion jars a couple ribs, so I drop my hands to my sides. “Yeah, that’s me. Who the heck are you?”

  “Vincent Wallace.” He exits the elevator with slow, careful steps, like he’s afraid the lightest shift of air might blow me to pieces. “Representative of the United Lycanthrope Congress, Eighth District of Michigan—Aurora.”

  Every aching muscle in my body tenses simultaneously. “You’re a werewolf,” I reply, in a less than friendly manner.

  Wallace cringes. “Yes, I am. Which, I imagine, means you’d rather not interact with me right now.”

  “Sorry if that’s a bit prejudiced,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Wallace situates himself in the middle of the hallway, a somewhat comfortable distance away from me. He runs a hand through his messy hair before he speaks. “Look, I know sorry isn’t going to cut it, and that you probably have a thousand and one angry things you want to spit at me right now. And you have every right to say those things because, yes, monitoring Wolf dissidents in my district is my responsibility, and the fact that I didn’t pick up on McKinney’s virtual terrorist group operating under my nose makes me a pathetic failure. I understand. If you would like to scream at me, and possibly punch me in the face—after your hands heal—I readily invite you to do so, Detective Kinsey. At a time that is convenient for the both of us.”

  I stare at him, waiting for the punch line. Then I realize he’s serious. “Dude. Did you really just give me permission to beat you up?”

  “It’s the least I can do, after what you went through.” Wallace shrugs. “Your captain gave me a very thorough lecture regarding your injuries during our phone call earlier.” He purses his lips. “Good god, I can’t believe I didn’t notice a group of literal psychopaths working right next to me at community events.” A humorless laugh. “Guess I won’t be winning reelection, huh?”

  The glaring contrast between this man and McKinney strikes me so hard in the gut that all my budding anger dissipates in an instant. Of course. Not all werewolves are violent nutcases. You know that, Cal.

  Wolves are known for being more aggressive than humans, as a consequence of their altered biology, but they aren’t incapable of reason, and they certainly aren’t incapable of being nice when the situation calls for it. They have families and friends, like everyone else.

  I say, “I’m not going to hit you, Wallace. Or scream at you.”

  Wallace picks up on the fact I’ve calmed down, his enhanced Wolf eyes scrutinizing my now relaxed posture. “Oh? Are you sure? Wouldn’t blame you.”

  “I’m sure.” I offer him my hand.

  “Ah. Well, then…” He gives a quick shake, trying not to hurt me. “It’s nice to meet you, I guess. Though I wish it was under much better circumstances.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and starts pacing back and forth across the hall. “When that Captain Delarosa visited me a few days ago, I thought this was a case about one Wolf who had some kind of drug deal go wrong. Then I got word McKinney’s crew attacked DSI and kidnapped people. The next thing I knew, I had the ICM, DSI, and the mayor’s office breathing down my neck.”

  “Did they think you were involved with McKinney?”

  “I’m the local rep, so I’m assumed a guilty party in every significant Wolf crime that takes place in Aurora. Until proven otherwise.” A bitter smile cuts into his stubbly cheeks. “That’s the downside of being a prominent member of a not-quite-stable government formed less than a decade ago. No one trusts us not to revert to the old, warring pack mentality at the drop of a hat.”

  “Man, that…sucks.” Now I kind of feel bad for this guy. If I got painted with a black mark every time a human being committed a crime, I’d be a nervous, depressed wreck—oh. I guess that explains his disheveled appearance.

  “It does suck.” He rubs his chin, contemplative. “But that’s what I signed up for. Somebody had to bite the silver bullet.” Tugging his phone out of his pocket again, he checks the time. “I best be getting on to the meeting. Are you coming as well?”

  “Didn’t know there was a meeting. I was about to go check the task room—looking for my captain.”

  “You weren’t invited?” He maneuvers around me and starts walking backward in the direction of the task room. “I thought you’d be the star of the meeting.”

  “Yeah, no. I’m supposed to go home and rest for a week.”

  “Oh, right.” He gestures to my bandages, and my face, and pretty much all of me. “Human. Slow healing. Forget that sometimes.”

  Not as slow as you might think, buddy.

  “Born Wolf?” I ask him.

  “Indeed.” He points a thumb over his shoulder. “You coming?”

  “Yeah, of course.” I shuffle after him down the hall, chewing on the idea of giving my statement about the kidnapping—about Liam—to a roomful of people. It would have been hard enough to sit in that chair in front of Riker’s desk and recount four days of torture to only my captain and teammates. I’m honestly not sure I can tell the whole story without breaking out into tears, and sobs, and maybe even some hyperventilating.

  Crying in public is not my favorite activity.

  But, if I manage to fill in any crucial holes in the case…I guess the embarrassment will be worth it.

  Wallace, a few paces ahead of me, reaches the task room door first and knocks. I limp to a stop behind him as the door is squeaking open to reveal Ramirez on the other side. Ah. Delarosa’s team must have been taken off the Jameson case after Liam’s body was found—which explains why Delarosa didn’t come to my get well shindig yesterday. He was off grieving. His teammates, who did show up, didn’t look so hot either (though I didn’t say anything about it at the time). Losses always hit captains the hardest, I think, remembering Riker’s behavior in the wake of Bishop’s death.

  Ramirez looks from Wallace to me and does a double take. “Kinsey?” he hisses. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be lying half dead in a hospital bed.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” I say flatly. “But I’ve been discharged from the infirmary.”

  “Really?” Ramirez gawps at my bruised face, disbelieving, then shakes his head. “Well, discharged or not, I hope you don’t think you’re heading back into the field anytime soon.”

  “Ramirez, I might be a bit stupid, but I’m not delusional. I’m just here to tell you guys the whole kidnapping story, for which I assume you are missing key facts that only I can provide. After I fill you in, I’m heading straight home. To rest. And relax. Blah. Blah. Blah.” I raise my right hand. “Promise.”

  The captain eyes me suspiciously. “Navarro say you could?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hm.” He thinks on it for a second and sighs. “All right. But it’s a circus in here. So, prepare yourself.” His attention hops to Wallace. “You too. Lot of angry people wanting answers about this so-called Wolf terrorist group.”

  Wallace dons a resigned smile. He wasn’t expecting anything better.

  Ramirez opens the door fully, revealing a task room more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. All the chairs at the table are filled, and there are people lined up against the walls, not a free space among them. Riker sits at the head of the table, the conference phone in front of him; he must be planning to bring someone on the line. My team is seated to Riker’s right, with Ramirez’s squad opposite them.

  As Wallace and I stride into the room, three dozen heads turn to check us out. The Wolf is almost completely ignored as every shocked gaze sticks to my face, gasps rippling across the room in a domino effect of recognition.

  Riker drops a pen he was hold
ing and stands up so fast it must hurt his damaged leg. “Cal, what do you thin—?”

  Ramirez raises his hand. “It’s fine, Captain. I vetted him. He’s just here to talk.”

  Riker clenches his fists, then relents. “Very well. You want to discuss the kidnapping, I assume?”

  I nod.

  Harmony Burgess pushes her chair back and rises. “You can have my seat, Kinsey.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “You don’t need to—”

  “Cal!” she snaps. “Sit down. You look like a century-old zombie. And I refuse to be held responsible if your limbs start falling off while you’re in the middle of story time.”

  Half the people in the room snort. The other half outright laugh.

  “Thanks, Harmony. Your supportive comments are always appreciated.” I hobble over to her chair and plop down. A little too hard. My breath comes out with an oomph as my ribs protest.

  “My point exactly.” Harmony rolls her eyes and backs up to the wall, squeezing in between two lower-level detectives.

  Ramirez reclaims his own chair next to me. “She’s got you there, Kinsey. You really are in rough—”

  “Enough,” Riker says, hands pressed against the table. He casts a look over my head, at the werewolf still loitering near the door. “I assume you’re Mr. Wallace?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Wallace replies.

  “Good.” Riker surveys the room. “Everyone’s here then. Plus one extra.” I lift both my hands in a What can you do? gesture, which Riker blatantly ignores. He continues with, “We’ve got a lot of material to cover in this meeting, and not a lot of time to cover it. There’s another snowstorm blowing in tonight, and I want boots on the ground as long as possible before the conditions get too severe to work in. Which is why I pushed this meeting up two hours on the schedule. Sorry for the late notice.” He finally retakes his seat, and then he gestures to me. “Now, let’s get this show on the road.”