Day Killer (City of Crows Book 5)

by Coulson, Clara

  No, someone else must’ve hired this guy. But who? The shapeshifter who pretended to be Cooper that one time implied this shifter has exorbitant rates, so only someone with considerable assets could hire him. Besides Iyanda, and Lucian mooching off House Tepes’ budget, I don’t know anybody with that kind of clout. Who could it be?

  The shifter doesn’t give me any hints. He slaps a placid smile onto his borrowed face as he helps me out of the chair and coaxes me toward the door. “So, here’s the game plan. I’m going to shift into you and make a run for the guards. While they’re distracted, do what I told you. Out the window. Onto the roof. Full speed away from here.” He digs something out of his pocket and hands it to me. A thin bundle of twenty-dollar bills. “Find a place to sit tight for a little while, and as long as the coast stays clear, grab a cab back to wherever you stashed the Tepes heir. Got it?”

  “What do you have to do to shift into me?” I ask.

  “Nothing too taxing. Watch.” He swipes his hand across my cheek, wiping off a thick layer of partially congealed blood, and then sticks his fingers into his mouth. I’m about to protest, because I’ve had enough of people drinking my blood today, when the guy starts changing shape right before my eyes. It happens the same way it did at Cooper’s house, with the creepy cracking and grinding, the skin and muscles undulating wildly. About thirty seconds later, the guy looks nothing like Norris the noble vampire and everything like me.

  Well, that’s freaky.

  He must notice my discomfort, because he says, in my voice, “No worries. I won’t use your shape for any untoward things today. I’ll swap appearances again as soon as you’ve successfully escaped. For reference, we’re on Holden Street, near the intersection with North Park. I assume you know where to go from here?”

  I do, but I don’t bother confirming that. Instead, I fixate on a single word he just used. “What do you mean today? Are you planning to use my form for untoward things in the future?”

  He blinks at me, with my own damn eyes, and doesn’t respond.

  Oh, I don’t like this at all.

  But I can’t stand here and stomp my feet about the risks of a shapeshifter who can change into me at will. I have to get back to Lassiter’s, figure out where Foley went, and…Hey, wait a second. “Was Foley actually spotted by a scout, or was that some bullshit you said to get Lizzie to leave the room?”

  “Both,” he answers. “I played the part of young Lord Banks and made an appearance on the other end of town”—he briefly pauses as I digest the fact he’s got Foley’s form in his repertoire as well—“deliberately attracting the attention of a Knight scout in that area. Then I followed the scout who saw me back here, changed places with Norris while he was taking a smoke break in the alleyway you’re about to jump over, and came upstairs and reported my own setup to Lady Banks.”

  Jesus, shapeshifters are scary fucks.

  “Okay then.” I tuck the money into my pocket. “I guess we’re set.”

  “We are,” he agrees, grabbing the doorknob. “Wait until all three of us are in the stairwell. Then make a break for it. Do not hesitate. Vampires, as you know, are quite fast.”

  Understatement of the year.

  He holds up his—my—fingers and counts down from five. At one, he heaves the door open, jumps into the hallway, landing hard and loud on the squeaky floorboards, and sprints to the left. A couple people, a man and a woman, shout in confusion at the sight of the Crow who should be tied up barreling straight toward them, and that moment of hesitation costs them a chance to stop the shifter. I hear the sounds of a metal door, the stairwell door, flying open and banging against the wall, and the stunned guards huffing and puffing as they scramble to follow the fake me down the stairs. The second the door slams shut, I exit the room and take off in the opposite direction.

  As promised, there’s a window at the other end of the hall. Unfortunately, there is glass still in it, and it’s nailed shut.

  Oh, just what I need. More bloody lacerations.

  Sighing, I pick up my pace, brace myself, and throw my body at the window with all my strength. The glass shatters outward, the weathered wooden frame buckles and snaps, and I fly across the narrow gap between the abandoned office and the shorter building next door. My landing on the rooftop is less than graceful, earning me a whole host of new scrapes and bruises. But I ignore the sharp pains, stand up on trembling legs, and after a short moment to breathe, hightail it away from the office of death.

  Five minutes later, as I shimmy down a fire escape ladder to an alleyway filled with trash that smells like rotten fish, all I can think is: Lassiter better have some damn good beer in his fridge.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lassiter, as it turns out, has great beer in his fridge.

  Seated at the detective’s cramped kitchen table, sipping a thirst-quenching cold one, I relay all the events of my exciting afternoon to Foley and Lassiter, who’ve spent the last couple hours pacing frantically around the house, trying to figure out what to do about my abduction and presumed murder. Foley isn’t at all surprised to hear about Lizzie’s uncomfortable “seduction” behavior—which raises a lot of questions I don’t really want answered. While Lassiter is surprised at every single thing I say, particularly the part about there being two copies of me running around Aurora and screwing with the vampires.

  “That shifter,” Foley says, spinning his own beer bottle around in his hand, “doesn’t come cheap. The price tag for the Halliburton job was so outrageous that my father actually got angry at Lucian for contracting such a ‘swindler.’ Of course, the shifter’s effectiveness ultimately warmed my father’s opinion on the matter, but he was still irate about the check he had to cut just to gain a slight edge over the Methuselah Group. I’m honestly struggling to come up with other possible employers, specifically ones who would have an interest in thwarting my sister by protecting you.” He winces. “No offense. I don’t mean to suggest you’re not important.”

  “But that’s just it.” I finish off my beer and slam the bottle on the table. “I’m not important. I’m an uppity Crow with a penchant for barging into games with players far out of my league. What would anyone have to gain from sending that shifter to rescue me, apart from ensuring that I’ll still be around to help you and Lucian at the gala tonight?”

  “Which nobody except Lucian and his team and us know anything about,” Lassiter throws in.

  “Precisely.” I push my empty bottle back and forth across the table, eying the half-healed cuts on my fingers. Foley’s blood has lost most of its effectiveness, but it won’t completely leave my system for another day and a half. If tonight’s operation goes awry, I might wake up in the morning with a pair of fangs myself. I’m on the fence about whether that fate is better than waking up in some afterlife, having left my friends to fight this war on their own.

  “I wish we had more time to explore the possible angles of the shifter’s employer,” Foley says, “but we’re running late as it is. The gala starts at six. We’ve got an hour and a half to suit up, drive all the way across town, and get into the museum without being spotted by any of the Knights’ scouts. Lucian’s likely in the city already, prepping his own team. We’ll have to save our concerns about the motives of the other potential parties now influencing this ‘shadow war,’ as you put it, for later.” He runs a quaking finger around the rim of his bottle, producing a low whistling noise. His nerves are starting to get the better of him. He’s worried about facing Lizzie tonight.

  He has a right to be.

  “All right. Let’s put the shifter on the backburner for now,” I say. “Lassiter, you said you picked up our suits?”

  “And bought you two some guns, since you got interrupted.” He slides his chair back and rises, using the table to steady himself. Even so, I spot the slight wobble in his movements, the sign of an ongoing neurological problem affecting his balance. He heads into the living room with an uneven gait and returns a minute later with two suits draped
in clear plastic covers. “The guns you guys were planning to buy, but that I ended up buying myself”—he coughs indignantly—“are already loaded up in my car, which you two helpfully left parked on a street for so long that it earned a nice, fat parking ticket I’m going to have to explain to my captain.”

  “Sorry,” Foley and I mutter in tandem.

  Honestly, I forgot about Lassiter’s car. Oops. Good thing my DSI colleagues didn’t notice it parked near the suit shop. I would wonder why they didn’t notice it, except I suspect they were acting on the eyewitness tip of another agent who happened to be in the area at the time. The whole thing probably went down like this: They received “urgent” information about a vampire fugitive running amok in the city, along with a human accomplice, and put out a general alert to all agents. Some random agent on patrol saw two guys fitting the general description of those “criminals” heading into a gun store. And boom, Teams Dean and Ramirez showed up to wrestle the bad guys into submission.

  It may not have happened exactly that way, but I know I’m not far off. Like all law enforcement agencies, DSI’s path to a successful takedown and arrest is often predictable—it’s who and what they’re taking down and arresting that usually holds an air of mystery.

  This time around, I got some firsthand experience about what it’s like to be the mystery.

  Yay me.

  The suit fits nicely, I discover after a brief shower to wash off the blood and grime from my escape. I admire myself in the bathroom mirror. My assorted cuts and bruises are scabbed or faded enough that they won’t arouse suspicion. And my hair, just the right amount of slicked back with a dollop of some gel I found in Lassiter’s medicine cabinet, gives me a rakish air. I look like the sort of young rich boy that might be dragged to a charity function by his socialite mother as a bauble for all the pretty debutantes to fawn over. That’ll be a helpful ruse to utilize if I end up in the thick of the party at any point.

  Heading back downstairs, I find Foley waiting in the living room, looking sharp in his own suit but also mildly annoyed about being stuffed into it. He’s clearly worn such clothes while attending similar events in the past, judging by the way he carries himself—as a noble, he’s probably been shuffled around to every important vampire social function in Europe—but I don’t guess you can kick the introverted tendencies out of a person just by swapping their clothes. He’d much rather be heading back to Waverly’s library to sit in a room full of dusty books than cavorting with the wealthy citizens of Aurora at a charity gala.

  I would too, if only for the peace and quiet, but I guess I’ll have to settle for pretty paintings and a fight to the death instead.

  To my surprise, Lassiter shuffles out of his bedroom sporting an old but expensive suit. He raises his hand to stop me from objecting, and says, “My mayor. My city. My job. End of discussion.” He tugs open his jacket to reveal a handgun tucked into a well-concealed shoulder holster. “I might not be winning any track meets, Kinsey, but I can still shoot straight, unlike you.” His sharp glare jabs the barb about my hand in a few inches deeper. “So I’ll be your backup. Plus, I figure at some point, you and Banks might need to run off to fight the evil vampires without having to worry about leaving the mayor and the other targets open to attack. I’ll be their shield in your stead, and in the event we need to escape quickly, I’ll lead them out of the building.”

  A hundred rebuttals sit heavy on my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to throw any of them. Like me, Lassiter wants to protect Aurora, and though he explicitly told me once that he doesn’t want to get involved in the supernatural underworld more than necessary, he also drove home the fact that he will get involved, regardless of the costs, in any situation, supernatural or mundane, that threatens to bring down this city and the innocent civilians who call it home. He’s a good cop.

  “What about your balance problems?” Foley asks.

  Lassiter shakes his head. “Not a huge issue once I’m up and about. It’s much worse when I first stand. I can handle being a watchdog, as long as you two make good on your end and support the vanguard for this Lucian guy.”

  Reluctantly, I say, “All right. You can come. But please don’t throw yourself into the fire. I don’t want to see you end up back in the hospital.”

  “Whether or not I end up on my deathbed in the hospital really depends on you and your vampire buddies, Kinsey,” he points out. “But I’ll take the blame for jumping headfirst into the frying pan and risking a few nasty burns. I can be a stubborn ass when the occasion calls for it.”

  “Can’t we all?” I adjust my suit jacket—and the holster hiding my own gun, borrowed from Lassiter’s personal collection. “But enough chitchat. Let’s move out.”

  The thirty-minute ride to Aurora’s only modern art museum is uneventful. Unless you count me and Foley kicking each other for leg room as we sit in the narrow floor space behind the front seats in Lassiter’s car. (We’ve already been spotted by eagle-eyed observers in public once. I don’t want it to happen again.)

  But before the winner of our skirmish is declared, Lassiter parks the car in the small employee lot around the back end of the museum. After he carefully checks the perimeter for anyone who might be a vampire—I gave him the details to search for—he knocks on a window twice to signal the all clear. Foley and I clamber out of the car, stretch our legs, and tug the rumples from our suits. Then all three of us cluster around the trunk, which Lassiter opens with his remote, revealing the small duffle bag that holds the two shotguns.

  “How are you planning to bring this in?” Lassiter asks. “They’re going to search all bags bigger than a billfold, even if you’re on the security team.”

  “You’ll see,” I reply and motion to Foley.

  Foley steps up to the plate and whispers something under his breath. With my magic sense switched on, I watch a long, thin lash of green light wrap around the duffle bag. A second later, the bag disappears from view. I reach into the trunk, feel around for the invisible strap, and tug the bag out of the trunk, shaking it intentionally so Lassiter can hear the shotguns and ammo clattering around inside.

  The detective gawks at the seemingly empty space in the air where the bag should be, then lets out a low whistle. “That’s a handy trick. What do you call that?”

  “A veil,” Foley answers. “One of the key spells in any practitioner’s bag of ‘tricks.’”

  “Why don’t we use that to sneak inside?” Lassiter scrunches his nose in annoyance. “That way, I won’t have to smooth talk the guys at the entrance to convince them us three bozos are really on the security team list. You know, the list I illegally altered and that I could easily be fired and jailed for altering.”

  “Because good practitioners can spot shoddy veils.” Foley kicks up a few loose pieces of gravel with his expensive shoe. “And while my veils aren’t terrible, they’re no match for a witch of my sister’s caliber. Same goes for most of the other noble Knights who’ll be present at tonight’s festivities.” He sighs. “We’ll be less conspicuous if we walk through the door in plain sight and simply do our best to blend in with the help. After all, those of the upper crust are really, really good at pretending the help are more like wall fixtures than actual people.”

  “Sound like you speak from experience there, Foley,” I say.

  He flushes. “I’ve been to some fancy parties in my day.”

  “I bet.” I shoulder the bag and align it so that my suit doesn’t show any obvious depressions. “And I’d love to hear all about them. After we successfully sneak inside this death trap of a gala. Come on. It looks like there aren’t too many people at the door.” I gesture past a row of tall shrubs that stand between the small parking lot and one of the back entrances to the main museum building. The door’s about sixty feet from our spot, a bright yellow glow from the interior lights flashing across the sidewalk every time it opens to receive another security guard or cook or server as they all pour inside, frantically preparing for the party to
get rolling in under half an hour.

  We creep around the shrubs, all three of us on high alert, waiting for a vampire to jump from the roof or dart from the shadows of the various bushes and trees that accent the landscaping around the museum. But we reach the door unhindered and take a place at the end of a short line of well-dressed men and women. As the line moves, we step closer to the imposing, stoic man at the door with a tablet strapped to his arm, who’s checking people off the list as they give him their names.

  I quickly notice a wrench in our plans: The door guy asks for ID. I don’t have mine on me, and neither does Foley, because we don’t want to be easily identified. Only Lassiter can flaunt his name and face without fear that his identity will be used against Aurora, because he’s an inconsequential cop that no supernatural being would glance at more than once. His occupation threatens no one of relevance to tonight’s operation, and his name inspires no suspicion or fear. He’s safe. But Foley and me? What are we going to do?

  Lassiter apparently knows the answer. Undeterred, he steps up to the stoic guy and punches him playfully in the arm. The guy looks up from his tablet, and a broad smile grows across his weathered face. “Lassiter? What’re you doing here? Don’t tell me Carmichael put you on a basic security job, not with your seniority.”

  Lassiter shrugs. “My seniority doesn’t mean shit after my stint in the hospital, Nolan. The captain’s putting me through the ringer before he lets me leave the desk and actually work on the streets. That includes security details, nighttime stakeouts, the whole shebang. Fun times, am I right?”

  Nolan groans. “I mean, I guess I get where he’s coming from. You were pretty messed up, man. But it’s still cruel and unusual punishment. You’re better than this.” He looks over Lassiter’s shoulder, noticing Foley and me for the first time. “Who are those brats?”

  “Rookies,” Lassiter answers. “Captain shoved them on me. I’m supposed to teach them the ropes for how to run a good security detail.”