Blood in the Batter

by Melissa Monroe

  “He was just angry that day,” she began. “Aaron had taken three days off in the last month to go to parenting classes in Westwend with his wife. He promised to work overtime to make up for it. And then he took the day of the parade off.”

  “If you were so unhappy with his performance, you could have just fired him,” Priscilla pointed out. “There was no need for threats.”

  Avalon listened to the guinea pig for another second and then shrugged. “He says that hindsight is twenty-twenty. He’d just lost an assistant, and his secretary was bailing. He was upset.”

  “Is that why you killed him?” Arthur asked dryly.

  The guinea pig began to squeak furiously.

  “No, of course not,” Ava translated. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Except for your client’s bank accounts,” Priscilla muttered. “Don’t say you weren’t hurting anyone. I don’t see how Aaron couldn’t have been unaware of what you were doing. Avalon could see it after only a few days. Let me guess—he confronted you about it?”

  The guinea pig was suspiciously quiet.

  Arthur seized on the new information. “You wanted to shut him up. Did he blackmail you, Grant? Demand a raise or else he’d reveal your dirty little secret to the world?”

  Grant’s pink little nose twitched, and he turned his beady black eyes away from Arthur.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you killed him.”

  The intercom crackled, and Priscilla jerked in surprise. Jack’s voice filtered in over the speakers. “As nice a theory as it is, boss, I’m sorry to say there’s no proof to back it. We got the sample back from the lab. It doesn’t match the one we got from the killer.”

  The guinea pig squeaked and Priscilla didn’t even need Avalon’s translation to know it meant something along the lines of “Ha!” or “I told you so.”

  “You’re still a rat,” Arthur said, squinting at the smug little rodent.

  “Actually he’s a—” Avalon began.

  “Don’t,” Arthur said. “Don’t. Now you are going to stay in here overnight. I know there’s no laws on the books about transmogrifying on the books yet, but I’m instating one in Bellmare right now. You’ve done this once already, Ava. You’re not going to do it again. Next time you turn someone into an animal on a whim, I’m going to make sure you pay for it.”

  “And how exactly will you do that?” Avalon said, crossing her arms over her chest. The glimmer in her eyes had dulled. Hopefully her interest with Arthur would wane after this. Priscilla could only hope.

  “I’ll figure something out. There are a lot of petty laws on the book, Ava, and I’m sure I can get you on something. You go one mile over the speed limit, keep your grass just a little longer than city ordinances, or play your music just a little too loudly? I’ll be there. And I’ll make your life a living hell if you continue to make this a habit.”

  Avalon huffed out a breath and finally looked away. It wasn’t an apology, but Priscilla had an inkling she wasn’t willing to test Arthur’s new rules.

  Scott Allen cleared his throat. “I’ll want your agreement in writing, Chief Sharp. Eight years in a state penitentiary, and no fee.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Arthur said. “Get out of here, you bureaucrat. You can meet up with Mr. Grant when he has all ten toes back.”

  “And what are we supposed to do with Mr. Grant?” Priscilla asked, eyeing the brown and white guinea pig.

  “We’ll have to keep him here. He’s technically a criminal. But it’s going to be a nightmare trying to keep him locked up. We don’t have any cells small enough. He’s bound to get out, and then we’ll have a fugitive we can’t really advertise on the local news. Heaven help the poor young kid who picks Grant up and takes him home, only to have him transform in their bedroom one night.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He frowned. “Someone will need to keep an eye on him around the clock until he turns back. Even if we put him in a hamster cage, it’ll need to be watched. I don’t want him trying to escape once he transforms into a real boy again.”

  “Are you suggesting a … guinea guard of sorts?” Priscilla asked, trying to stifle laughter at the image it conjured.

  Arthur scrubbed his face with his hands. “Heaven help me, I am. This isn’t what I signed up for when I became a police officer. I thought I’d be arresting drug dealers and thieves not …”

  “Faeries and small animals?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Priscilla couldn’t help a small smile. “Do you want me to make you a cup of coffee before I head home, Arthur?”

  “Yes, please. That would be amazing. I’m going to have another late night, I can tell.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have to turn this,” he gestured at Avalon and the furry Mr. Grant, “into a reasonable sounding field report.”

  “Good luck,” Priscilla said with a snicker. “That’s something I’ll want to read when you’re through with it.”

  Allen left the precinct, reminding Arthur they’d need to be in communication about Grant’s plea bargain. Arthur led a cuffed Ava to a nearby table to be booked. Priscilla spooned coffee into a filter and crossed over to the water fountain to fill the pot.

  “Do I really have to do the fingerprinting?” Ava whined. “It will never wash off!”

  “It’ll come off in a day or two if you scrub. Give me your hand,” he ordered.

  “At least you’ll show up on camera. And we know how much you love having your picture taken,” Priscilla said brightly, pouring the water into the coffee machine. She sat down at Bert Holder’s empty desk and smiled at her faerie godmother. “When Arthur tried to book me, he couldn’t get a mugshot.”

  Avalon scowled. “Your clothes are shabby and your perfume stinks,” she shot back. Priscilla wasn’t upset by the insult. Her godmother had a tendency to get hurtful when she had lost an argument.

  “My clothes were affordable, and I’m not wearing perfume.”

  “Yes, you are. I can smell it on you. When did you start wearing monkshood, dear? I know you’re dead, but a poisonous flower isn’t a good choice, even for you.”

  “Monkshood?” Priscilla echoed. “I haven’t come into contact with any—”

  She fell silent as she remembered something vital. “… when Garrett grabbed ahold of me, he smelled really bad.”

  “Sweat, probably,” Arthur said, pressing Avalon’s fingers into an ink pad.

  “No, it was cloying. Like …”

  “A flower,” Avalon finished. “Monkshood, presumably.”

  Arthur frowned. “Why would a man be using perfume? Especially one like Garrett McKnight?”

  “It’s not a typical scent,” Avalon said. “It’s a poison, like I said. Aconite, the queen of poisons. Also known as devil’s helmet and wolfsbane. Trumped only in its lethality by arsenic. Any part of the plant will do, but the roots and tubers are the most virulent.”

  “… why would he smell like a poison then?”

  Ava shrugged. “Well, it has a few medical uses, though most people are not good at getting the dosage right. But its most prolific use was in the sixteenth century. It declined in popularity after that.”

  “Oh? What was it used for?”

  “Wolves,” Priscilla breathed. “It was used to stabilize werewolves.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’m pretty sure that this is a bad idea,” Arthur said.

  “Do you have a better one?” Priscilla countered.

  They were standing outside of Branigan’s Tavern, one of the oldest buildings in Bellmare. During the revolution, a massacre had happened inside of its walls. The building still bore pockmarked walls and other indicators of the violence that had been a vital part of its history. Priscilla liked to think of it as an old, battered man, still limping around after all these years. The tavern still saw some business when ghost tours rolled around. And of course, there were times during the week when the average citizen could ge
t a beer here as well.

  Most didn’t, though. There were other bars not far away from Bellmare, and they were cheaper and sold a variety of drinks. Currently, Garrett McKnight was only one of two patrons, as far as she could see.

  They’d been able to track Garrett down after Jack had informed them that he had a very distinctive motorcycle design. Priscilla frowned at the wolf that had been painted in loving detail on the body of the bike.

  “How about we don’t go in and accuse the alleged werewolf of murder on the night of a full moon?”

  Priscilla usually paid so little attention to the lunar cycle that it had come as a shock to her when Ava had dropped her little truth bomb in the precinct. They were probably dealing with a werewolf, and judging by his size in human form, he would be a big monster when he transformed.

  “He won’t transform until closer to midnight, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Arthur snorted. “Yes, because that’s all I have to worry about. We have three hours until the giant angry man turns into a giant angry wolf and goes on a rampage.”

  “He shouldn’t,” Priscilla said. “If he’s taking wolfsbane. That’s what the smell was. Werewolves dose themselves with it leading up to the full moon so they retain full consciousness when they shift. He’d just be a big overgrown dog if that were the case. I know what I smelled. He’s been taking the wolfsbane.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel any better.” Arthur’s hand strayed down to rest lightly on the butt of his gun. They’d been lucky that one of the older men on the force, Jonathan Darby, had family all the way out in Montana and had a small selection of tranquilizer guns that they could borrow. These were meant for the bears that plagued his daughter’s neighborhood, but it would do the trick.

  Priscilla wished she could allay his fears, but to be completely honest the coming confrontation had her stomach in knots. After three and a half centuries she should have a better handle on her emotions, but her fear of shapeshifters had never truly gone away. Not after being stalked by one when she was a very young vampire.

  And Garrett being in his right mind due to wolfsbane injections wouldn’t stop him from attacking if he had a mind to do it. All it did was give him control. It seemed like he could very easily lose it, if his temper at Blackthorn Field had been any indication.

  Arthur pushed the door of the tavern open and strode in with a confident swagger. Priscilla wondered where he’d summoned the courage from. It made sense though. The best thing you could do when faced with most predators was stand your ground and make yourself larger than you were. Wolves, in particular, weren’t likely to attack a human they perceived as a danger.

  The tavern looked much as it always did, if not a bit better lit than usual. There was an oil lamp set up in a far booth. The floor was plain, unvarnished wood, and the tables were similarly unpolished. If one wasn’t careful, it would be easy to get a splinter here.

  A fireplace dominated one wall, currently unlit. Thank goodness. The place was a fire trap as it was. The barkeep, Charles Ross, greeted them with a smile. Some of his teeth were missing.

  “Can I get you folks something?” he asked.

  “No, thank you, Chuck. We’re here to talk with some friends.”

  Charles nodded his acknowledgement and returned to cleaning a whiskey glass. Priscilla sometimes wondered if that was all he did all day. Branigan’s was usually left a little dusty and allowed a reasonable number of cobwebs to build up in the corners to impress tourists. Clearly, he was not spending his day cleaning anything else.

  Charles’s ancestors had inherited Branigan’s along with a sizable chunk of land after the Branigan family had died. As their closest living relatives, the Ross family had kept the place open for nearly a hundred years after the Bellmare Massacre. Charles was getting up there in years now, and had no children to Priscilla’s knowledge. Who would the tavern pass to after Charles died?

  And why was she thinking about the fate of this place when they were walking up to a creature that could probably tear it down around their ears?

  Garrett didn’t notice their approach at first, too absorbed in conversation with the young woman who sat across from him. The skinny blonde looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until they got close enough to see her profile that Priscilla recognized her.

  “Luna Sheppard?” Arthur said in a tone of unflattering surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  Luna looked away from Garrett with a startled expression. “Arthur? What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing as you, I’d imagine,” Priscilla said.

  “You’re on a date?” she asked, glancing between them.

  Priscilla would have blushed if she’d been capable. She’d been trying to quash the rumor that had been circulating for a month that she was dating Arthur. She’d gone out with Arthur once the month before. It hadn’t been serious, and it had been in service of finding a killer whom she suspected might strike at a party. She’d been right. Someone had been killed. But no, people didn’t choose to over-focus on that, did they?

  She just hoped Luna wouldn’t start spreading this around. She didn’t want to have to explain, yet again, that she and Arthur had a strictly professional relationship.

  “No,” Arthur said flatly. “We came to talk to Mr. McKnight here.”

  Luna glanced between her date, who was currently staring daggers at the chief, and Arthur. “Should I go?” she asked.

  “No,” Arthur said. “It’s probably best if you stay. You’re not completely out of the running either.”

  “Out of the running for what?” Luna asked, eyes wide.

  “For who might have murdered Aaron,” Garrett said, a hint of a growl to his voice. Priscilla shuddered at the sound. “He’s accusing us of murder. Again.”

  Luna began to tremble. “We haven’t done anything.”

  Arthur slid in beside Luna, which only seemed to further irritate Garrett. Priscilla took a step back from the table when he turned his glare on her. She hadn’t intended to sit beside Garrett during their little talk, and that look made her want to bolt right out the door.

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Arthur said. “After all, you both have a motive.”

  “And what’s that?” Garrett asked.

  “Holly Burke made it nearly impossible for your girlfriend to get a job,” Arthur said, pushing a coaster along the table with his finger. “And she wouldn’t let you help her around the house, or with her son. In fact, she went begging to her ex-husband for money rather than take your help. That must have made you feel emasculated.”

  Garrett’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a half snarl. “So what? You think I killed him because he was a useless father?”

  “I’ve seen people kill for less than that,” Arthur said. “But there’s more.”

  “Oh, do tell,” he said in a dangerous whisper. “I’ve got to hear this.”

  Arthur turned in his seat to look at Luna. “I’m not saying that you’re necessarily the killer. We won’t be able to determine that with a blood test. And I’m personally of the opinion that Anger Management Dropout here is the more likely culprit. But if you’re hiding what he did, you’re aiding and abetting a felon.”

  “He didn’t do anything!” Luna cried. “I swear it to you. Garrett was with me during the parade. We both ran. You can see photos of us on the course.”

  “You could have rejoined the parade after the murder,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Sorry, but photographs aren’t enough.”

  “Talk to anyone in the crowd,” Garrett said flatly. “We were there and we didn’t leave to go anywhere else.”

  “Give me someone in particular to talk to. Because right now, all my evidence is stacking up and it says that my killer is probably you, Mr. McKnight.”

  “Oh, and what evidence is that?” he sneered. “That Aaron’s crappy insurance wouldn’t pay for an injury he intentionally inflicted on me? Yeah, I was pissed, but that’s no reason to
kill him. That I tried to confront him about his crappy treatment of Luna? Yeah, that pissed me off too. But I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Arthur began ticking down on his fingers. “Here’s what I do know. You don’t have anyone who can confirm your whereabouts during the parade. You have a history of violent exchanges with the victim. You had a motive. And, according to some very reliable supernatural sources, werewolves have notoriously short tempers. It looks like you fit the profile for my killer.”

  Garrett scoffed. “Oh, come on! You think I can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy? Fangs, Fur, and Fury is fun, but it’s not worth killing over. What kind of man do you think I am? I’m not a basement-dwelling nobody with delusions of grandeur. I work a steady job and I know damn well when I’m playing a game.”

  “We’re not talking about a game,” Priscilla said quietly, speaking up for the first time since Arthur had sat down. “We’re talking about the real thing, Garrett. You don’t have to hide it, you know. We’re not going to hurt you unless you shift.”

  “Shift into what?” he snapped. “A wolf? That’s completely nuts, you know. Werewolves aren’t real.”

  “So you don’t mind if I touch you with this?” Arthur asked, holding up a silver cross on a delicate chain. The necklace had belonged to Emily, and Arthur had once used it to burn her skin, in order to get her to stop feeding after a near-fatal poisoning.

  Priscilla half expected Garrett to recoil. Silver was an irritant to vampires. It could cause them to break out into violent rashes. If silver was embedded in in a wound, the skin couldn’t heal until the irritant was removed. But it was nothing to what silver could do to a werewolf.

  It was a poison, as deadly as aconite. Something in their biology reacted to it badly. If injected into the bloodstream, silver could kill a werewolf in minutes. If werewolf skin was exposed to silver, it burned on contact, the same way a vampire exposed to a holy item would.

  Garrett stared at it in disbelief. “What, is that thing supposed to frighten me?”