Spell Caster Page 2

Amy makes a gagging noise. “Cut the sappy crap, Kinsey. We’ve got a murder to worry about today.”

  “Your emotional support is appreciated.”

  “He’s right, Major.” Desmond reaches around the front passenger seat and pokes the side of her head. “You should show more empathy toward a teammate’s plight.”

  “I’ll put you through some plight if you jab your finger into my—”

  “Children!” Ella turns the wheel sharply, throwing us all to the right, and takes us into a narrow back parking lot for a line of townhouses. “We’re here. So if you can put away the finger paint and crayons now, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Amy grumbles.

  The last townhouse on the row is the center of attention. Cop cars with flashing lights have formed a half-circle around the narrow deck that borders the back doors, and yellow police tape has cordoned off the short set of steps leading up to the deck. Six uniformed cops stand sentry before the deck, warding off a number of reporters and cameramen trying to accost everyone who enters or exits the townhouse. I recognize one of the reporters as a woman I rudely rebuffed last year when I first stumbled into the Etruscan case. She’s at the front of the pack, continually shoving her mic in people’s faces. Hasn’t learned her lesson at all.

  Ella parks the SUV and orders us out. As we march down the sidewalk, our black coats billow outward on the currents of a brisk wind cutting across Aurora, and the dramatic image catches the attention of the media hawks. Several of them, including the woman, break away from the police perimeter and bum-rush us, but an authoritative frown from Ella makes them stop short. It’s a pretty good impression of Riker’s frown, I must say. Maybe she’s been practicing in the mirror.

  Passing the flock of wary reporters, we flash our DSI badges to the cops in front of the deck. The uniforms let us pass with only mild irritation. While the supernatural remains under wraps in the public eye, the Aurora PD as a whole has witnessed DSI getting involved in, and helping to mitigate, a number of large-scale issues over the past year and change. I doubt most of them have guessed that all the supernatural stuff is real, but between us working ground zero after the Wellington Center collapse and helping the National Guard quarantine the city during the curse outbreak, many cops have either gained a newfound respect, or fear, or both, of DSI.

  Consequently, we waste a lot less time butting heads these days. I just wish the improvement had occurred under better circumstances.

  Keep on wishing, Kinsey, I tell myself as I thud across the well-worn deck.

  The sliding-glass door that lets out onto the deck has been left open, so the team files into the living room of the townhouse. The ground floor has an open layout; you can see the kitchen, dining area, foyer, and staircase leading to the second level from practically any position. We all take a moment to analyze the scene before us.

  Magic sense flipped on, I pan from right to left, cataloguing everything of value: Pots and pans scattered on the kitchen floor, a few tiles scuffed or cracked. A couple shattered plates and glasses on the countertop, shards glittering underneath bright recessed lighting. Bloody streaks on the hardwood floor leading to the foyer, and more on the banister of the stairs.

  Conclusion: the woman was attacked in her kitchen and ran upstairs in a panic.

  Ella glances at the sliding-glass door behind us, and then at the front door across from us. “No signs of forced entry.”

  I scan the doors and windows, hunting for wisps of residual magic. There are none. “No wards, and the locks on the doors are standard fare. The perp could’ve jimmied them open with a basic lock pick kit.”

  “So the victim was ill prepared to defend her home against committed intruders.” Desmond rubs his chin. “I think we’re in for a gruesome scene upstairs.”

  Amy shrugs. “Can’t be any worse than the other shit we’ve seen lately.”

  There’s a moment of silence, and then we all murmur in agreement.

  A novice auxiliary agent meets us at the bottom of the stairs. He’s green around the mouth, and his hands are shaking badly, but he doesn’t hesitate to lead us up to the second-floor bedroom where the victim’s body was found. He does stop short of the open doorway, however, so he doesn’t have to witness the gore again. I feel for the guy. My first few run-ins with battered bodies didn’t go over so well with my stomach either. I give him an encouraging smile as I pass by, following my teammates into the room.

  The scene’s not as bad as I expected, but it’s still not pretty. The four other DSI agents from the auxiliary team that responded to the initial callout are huddled against one wall. The captain repeatedly rubs his neck, a nervous tic, as he stares at the body lying in the opposite corner.

  That body belongs to a woman in her late twenties, with short, reddish-brown hair and what were vibrant hazel eyes. The hair is spattered with blood now, and the eyes are vacant and glazed. Whatever fear she felt as she fled up the stairs was drained from her as her killer stabbed her three times—once in the abdomen, once in the chest, and once in the neck—causing catastrophic blood loss. She would’ve fell unconscious quickly, judging by the size of the red puddle soaked into the carpet. No extended suffering. A small mercy.

  “Have you finished the basic victim profile?” Ella asks the auxiliary captain.

  The man jumps at being addressed, and quickly tugs his phone off his belt clip. He pulls up a list of notes he typed up and reads off the key details. “Sarah-Jane Coble. Twenty-nine. Employed as a kindergarten teacher at Gardner Elementary on Twenty-Seventh Street. Was enrolled in a part-time PhD program for English Literature at Waverly College. Parents deceased. No siblings. No known significant other. No known problems with exes. No known enemies of any kind, in her private or professional lives, according to the neighbors we interviewed during the initial canvass, with whom she was very friendly.”

  “She got any actual friends?” Amy says. “Maybe they know something her neighbors don’t.”

  “We’re running them down now,” he replies. “From her phone contacts. Would you like us to begin interviewing them once we get address confirmations?”

  Ella nods. “That’ll be your assignment until further notice. I want to know all the little details about this woman’s life.” She gestures to the door. “You can take a break now and pick up with work once those addresses come in.”

  Relief sweeps across the captain’s face. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll do that.” He shoos his teammates out into the hall, all of them visibly relieved to be leaving the scene of a bloody crime.

  Amy waits until they’re out of earshot before she says, “New recruits are getting kind of weak in the knees, aren’t they?”

  “We can’t afford to be too picky. We need more boots on the ground.” Ella moves closer to Coble’s body and kneels just past the edge of the blood puddle. “Also, bear in mind we didn’t change the academy requirements, so if they’re dressed in black and they’ve got a badge, they’re qualified to work for DSI. It’s just a matter of disposition. Not every agent on every team is suitable for homicide work. Which is fine. We need manpower for plenty of other things.”

  “If you say so.” Amy peeks over Ella’s shoulder at the body. “What’ve we got here?”

  Ella opens the camera app on her phone and starts snapping shots. “Besides the obvious, I’m not sure. What do you guys make of the wounds?”

  I draw closer to the body and hunch over to get a better look. Up close, it’s easy to tell the puncture marks weren’t made by a knife. They’re rounded, about two inches in diameter. “Perp used some kind of stake or rod, maybe?”

  “Are we sure this murder is supernatural in origin?” Desmond scratches his head. “I don’t see anything here that couldn’t have been done by a normal human. Anything strike you as magical, Calvin?”

  “I didn’t sense anything obvious downstairs, but whatever or whoever attacked her might not have used any magic until they cornered her in this room.” I step back from the body and
focus on my magic sense again. Heels digging into the carpet, I perform a slow pivot and break down the room into discrete chunks, analyzing each one for even the faintest hint of magic energy.

  Nothing on the carpet. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the furniture. Nothing in the air. The room appears totally inert, and I’m about to shove my magic sense onto the backburner again when I catch sight of something glowing in the corner of my eye. I turn to find it’s an object in a small trashcan next to the armoire opposite the bed. That almost looks like…a cork?

  I cross the room and crouch in front of the trashcan to get a better look. The object is, in fact, a cork. The kind you’d find sealing a variety of bottles. The bottom of the cork is emanating a faint dark-blue aura, even though the rest of the cork is untouched by magic.

  Baffled, I tug an evidence bag from a pouch on my belt and carefully pluck the cork out of the trashcan with my gloved fingers. As it slides into the bag, I wonder what kind of bottle the cork belonged to. Something that contained a potion? A medium for some kind of spell?

  I don’t know enough magic theory yet to make an educated guess.

  “Find something, Cal?” Ella says.

  I hold up the bag with the cork inside. “Residual energy on a cork. No idea what it means, except that it confirms there was a magic presence here recently.”

  Ella takes the bag and holds the cork up to eye level. “Well, she wasn’t killed by a magic potion. But I’m sure there are countless potions practitioners can use on themselves, not to mention numerous other expressions of magic that can fit into a bottle.”

  “Don’t know if there’s any way to differentiate based on a magic signature though.”

  “Is the residual energy at least strong enough for you to match to an active aura?”

  “Well, it’s only a wisp, but the color is pretty distinct. I should be able to ID the source, if we catch them in the act of casting.”

  “Good.” She tucks the evidence bag into her coat pocket. “We’ll book it in when we get back to the office then. Since it appears to be the only evidence we have that something supernatural was even in the home.”

  Amy scoffs. “This is going to be one of those cases with a lot of legwork, isn’t it?”

  “No need to sound upset, Major.” Desmond nudges her arm. “In my opinion, a regular old mystery will be a welcome break from the practically nonstop combat we’ve been engaging in for the past year.”

  Amy scrunches her nose. “I happen to like punching things. Relieves my stress.”

  “Then go beat up trainees in the gym. We are short on combat teachers after all, thanks to the recent increase in academy class sizes.” Ella gestures for us to exit the room and head back downstairs. “Anyway, I agree with Desmond. I think it’s far past time we get a long, relaxing break between fights to the death. So let’s all hope and pray whoever killed this poor woman is just some practitioner jerk with a personal vendetta. Someone we can take down and lock up without too much effort. Someone we can win a definitive victory against.”

  Amy shakes her head as she slips into the hall behind Desmond. “You’re being a little too optimistic there, Captain.”

  Ella sighs. “There was a day when a case like that would’ve been a big deal.”

  “Oh yeah?” I follow Desmond and Amy toward the staircase. “What happened to those ‘simpler’ times?”

  Ella takes one last look at the body of Sarah-Jane Coble before she moves away from the bedroom door with plodding steps. “Guess they went out with the new millennium. We’re in a different era now.”

  Chapter Two

  Most people don’t eat lunch immediately after visiting a murder scene.

  DSI elite detectives are not most people.

  After leaving the Coble apartment, we hunker down in a popular new grill restaurant that recently opened in a trendy neighborhood a quarter mile east of Waverly College. The neighborhood is mostly populated by college students and young professionals, so our presence in the corner booth bordered by two big windows draws a few looks, both from the other grill patrons and the passersby on the street. Government mooks in long black coats carrying an assortment of weaponry are an eyesore even on the gloomiest days, and today is bright and sunny, a rare treat for early winter, so we stand out even more than usual.

  We ignore the stares and whispers, however. We’re used to them.

  Despite the bustle in the restaurant, the waitress swings around to take our orders in a quick minute. Since my homemade burger went kaput, I opt for a juicy double cheeseburger and a basket of fries, and everyone else follows my lead and picks a hearty meal that’ll keep the juices flowing over the course of a tedious afternoon running down vague leads all over town. After the waitress scribbles down our orders and hurries off to the kitchen, we all lean toward the center of the table and discuss the Coble case in hushed tones so none of our nosy neighbors can overhear the grim details.

  “Has Captain Whoever sent you any results from interviewing Coble’s friends yet?” Amy asks Ella.

  “Captain Byers, and no.” Ella shakes her head. “I sent him a text to nudge him along as we were walking over here, but I haven’t gotten a response yet. Think that poor guy might’ve been kicked up the promotion ladder a little too soon. He seems awfully nervous about making mistakes, especially when it comes to working alongside an elite team.”

  “He’ll acclimate, I’m sure.” Desmond winds the paper wrapper from his straw around his finger. “And this sort of scenario, doing the basic casework for an elite team’s murder investigation, might be exactly the sort of training wheels he needs to get situated in his new position.”

  Amy scoffs. “I could do a better job than he did in Coble’s apartment.”

  “You could certainly yell at people better.” Ella scrolls through her email inbox on her phone, skimming the subject lines of the new arrivals. “But barking orders to your subordinates isn’t always the best move. Sometimes you need a more delicate touch.”

  “Says the lady who beats me up three times a week in the gym.” I tug off my gloves and slap them against the tabletop. “You know you broke my nose on Monday, right? Shoved the whole thing out of alignment. I had to wrench it back into place so it could heal straight. That freaking hurt, Ella.”

  “Good.” She shoots me a critical look over her phone. “Maybe if I do that a few more times, you’ll stop running off to save the world on your own—and getting killed by vampires in the process.”

  Heat creeps up my neck. “That was a one-time thing.”

  “You better hope so.” Amy elbows me in the ribs. “Because if you go gallivanting around town with a vampire lord again without telling anyone, I’ll be the one who kills you.”

  “Look, I told you, Foley is not a bad guy.” I raise my hands, fingers splayed. “I mean, yes, he’s a bloodsucking creature of the night, but as far as vampires go, he’s a decent person.”

  “You’re just saying that because you think he’s hot,” Amy shoots back.

  “What? No.”

  “So you don’t think he’s hot?” Desmond asks.

  “Stop it!” I smack my palms on the table. “Foley’s looks are not relevant to this conversation. I didn’t help him because I thought he had a pretty face. I helped him because otherwise, the Black Knights would’ve taken over House Tepes and used it as a stepping-stone to take over the world.”

  Ella chuckles. “You know they’re teasing you, right?”

  “That fact doesn’t make it any less annoying.”

  Amy and Desmond flash me identical mischievous smiles.

  The former is about to open her mouth and take another dig at me, probably about Lucian or something, when the waitress blessedly comes around with our orders on a big tray. As she doles them out, our gears shift from idle chitchat to wolfing down our food in time to make it back to the office before our one o’clock meeting to discuss the case with all the agents roped in from the various departments to help us. I tear into my burger, cook
ed to perfection, and lose myself in the taste of melted cheese, beef, and ketchup, topped off by spicy fries. It’s been too long since I’ve had a truly good meal like this. I miss Cooper’s home cooking. A lot.

  In between onion rings, Desmond says, “Has anyone done a next of kin notification yet?”

  Ella stuffs the last bite of her chili dog into her mouth and pats off her mouth with a napkin before answering. “According to the latest case notes”—she checks her phone screen again—“Coble’s closest relative is an elderly aunt with end-stage Alzheimer’s holed up in a hospice in Detroit. Not someone we should notify over the phone. And considering the media attention, we don’t have enough time to send anyone out for an in-person meeting. No matter how much pressure we apply to the networks, Coble’s identity will be public knowledge by the five o’clock news.”

  “Disrespectful asshats,” Amy grumbles, grabbing a handful of waffle fries. “I swear they get worse every—”

  Ella’s phone buzzes to life with an incoming call.

  The rest of our phones start squawking a few seconds later—with the emergency alert.

  “Oh, that’s not good.” Ella snatches her phone off the table and swipes the answer button before she smacks the speaker to her ear. “Byers? What’s going on?”

  A muffled scream comes across the line, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Byers’ panicked voice cuts in a moment later, his words so rapid I can’t untangle them at the low volume. Ella, with the phone glued to the side of her head, dissects every syllable in a matter of seconds and rearranges them into a full-fledged idea of the situation developing at the current location of Byers’ team. She asks no questions whatsoever, and gives only two commands: the first for Byers to clear the area of any civilians who might get caught in the crossfire, and the second for Byers to fall back with his teammates to a safe position. Then she hangs up the phone and says, “We’re leaving. Now. Byers’ team is under attack.”

  Desmond tosses a few large bills on the table to cover our food as we all scramble out of the booth and race across the densely packed restaurant, nearly trampling servers and patrons alike. We burst out the exit at a hard sprint and cover the distance to our street-side parking space in under twenty seconds. At half a minute, we’re all in the SUV, the engine is rumbling, and Ella is shifting the gear into drive. The vehicle peels out of the parking space at a sharp angle, almost throwing me into Desmond, but I hang on to the door handle for dear life as Ella floors it and my body changes direction, falling back against the seat cushion.