And there she goes again, Jake thought, watching Erica Harris walk away, her assorted gear framing that delightful, heart-shaped ass. Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, she runs like a rabbit.
Clarence made an impatient sound from the depths of his head.
It’s not that simple, furball. If I could, I would. But human women get to tell you no, and she ain’t having it.
RRumphhhhh. An image flashed through his mind: a snarling lioness striking out with a lightning-fast paw. Clarence’s way of pointing out that at least Jake didn’t have to worry about taking a set of claws across the muzzle. MmmRRRRR.
Translated from the lion: Grow a pair.
Maybe the cat had a point. God knew, Erica Harris had tempted him from the first day she’d been assigned as their team Arcanist five years ago, back when they’d all been in the Arcane Corps.
She was damn near as tall as he was, with a lean, athletic build that contrasted sharply with her delicate features. She still wore her chocolate hair in the same short, layered cut she’d had in the Corps, probably thinking it made her look like a hardass. Epic Fail. The pixie style called attention to the gentle contours of her oval face, with those big, dark eyes and that soft, full mouth.
Jake could think of a lot of things he’d like to do with that mouth. He might have suggested a few, if it hadn’t been for the scent of pain hanging in the air, lingering like a particularly astringent perfume over the acrid stench of Carson’s madness.
She still wasn’t over Bobby. But then, neither was Jake. It wasn’t the kind of thing you got over.
Ever.
Brooding, he watched her approach Detective Grant Sawyer as the man got out of his car. Despite his muscular build, Sawyer was a hair shorter than Erica. That and his cap of curly brown hair made his handsome face look boyish. He had a habit of speaking in a low, slow southern drawl that made people underestimate his intelligence.
Sawyer wasn’t above suckering people ruthlessly in the pursuit of justice. Jake liked that about him. He was also one of the reasons they’d gotten through that mess with the terrorists a year ago without a higher body count.
Erica started to speak, gesturing as Sawyer listened intently. Beneath the professional focus, Jake thought he saw a flash of personal interest in her brown eyes.
RRRRrrrrr.
Shush, Jake told his Familiar. She’s not standing too close -- she’s giving him a report. Don’t be an asshole.
Mmmrrrrrr rrrooooollll. Mmmmrch Ooomffff. Translation: Tell it to some cat who’s not in your head. Let’s get over there before he asks her to mate.
It doesn’t work like that, Clar. Anyway, we’ve got to keep an eye on the asshole.
The gunman still sat at his feet, dirty, bruised, face bleeding from being slammed into the pavement during that flying tackle. Jake felt zero sympathy for the fucker. If they hadn’t gotten lucky, Carson would have shot up the bar with Erica in it.
I could have lost her.
Nrrroooommmm? Translation: When did you have her?
Before Jake could retort, a black and white pulled up and double-parked beside Sawyer’s vehicle. A moment later, a familiar figure got out and started toward them.
Jake suppressed a curse. Johnson. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Tall, graying, and spare, Sergeant Roger Johnson cultivated a Sam-Elliot-playing- Wyatt-Earp look, complete with ruthlessly short hair and thick mustache. Completely humorless and convinced of his own moral rectitude, he hated the fuck out of Jake.
The feeling was mutual.
Johnson stalked over to interrupt Erica in mid-word. As the sergeant started snapping questions, a frown gathered on her pretty face. Bastard was probably being his usual douchenozzle self. She always did have a low tolerance for bigots.
In the depths of his mind, Clarence chuffed.
Yeah, I’d better get over there before she tells him off and gets fired.
Reaching down, Jake grabbed Carson by one arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you in the car.”
Crazy or not, the man knew better than to push a Feral any further than he already had. He didn’t resist as Jake marched him to the patrol car parked a couple of blocks down the street.
Five minutes later, Carson was buckled in the back, sitting slumped and sullen as Jake parked behind Johnson’s cruiser. When he got out, he saw the Honda’s trunk was open again, revealing its armory to the crime scene investigator documenting it with an expensive Nikon.
As Jake approached, Johnson glowered at Erica. “So why did you stop this guy to begin with? It doesn’t sound like you had probable cause.”
Look who’s joined the ACLU, Jake thought. You’re never this worried about civil rights when you’re kicking a Talent’s ass.
“His aura showed the explosive white pattern that’s a known indicator of someone planning a mass casualty attack. I saw it several times during the war.” Erica’s face was so expressionless, Jake knew she was about a minute and a half from telling the sergeant what he could do with his probable cause.
Johnson curled a lip. “You saw it in his ‘aura’? What kind of magic power is that? You sure you didn’t just overhear him bragging about it?”
In the depths of Jake’s mind, Clarence growled softly. Johnson had treated them just as contemptuously until Jake’s dance with that fucking bear Feral. Funny how saving the SWAT team’s ass gave some people a whole new attitude.
Damned if Johnson was going to dis Erica if Jake had anything to say about it. “Actually,” he said with a little too much Clarence rumble, “All Talents can see auras. Harris is just much more sensitive than most of us.”
The sergeant shot him a glare of cold displeasure at the interruption, then ignored him. “How’d you get him to confess? Cast a spell?”
“No sir, I did not,” Erica said, icily respectful.
“But you Arc witches did that kind of thing all the time in the war.”
“Not to American citizens -- it’s a violation of the Fifth Amendment. Even if it weren’t, it would require a spell circle that takes an hour to cast. Besides, I doubt I could have pulled it off. My strength is in sensing and disrupting magical structures, not brute force magic.”
“Then why did Carson confess?”
Okay, that’s enough of that. Jake reached down into the white-hot core of his bond with his cat and let Clarence spill out. The lion manifested around him in a crackling surge of magic, glowing so bright even the Norms could see it. When he spoke, his voice rumbled an octave deeper than normal. “Because I scared the shit out of him.”
Johnson flinched a heartbeat before his fear morphed into anger. “Yeah, well, I’d better not hear of you using your magic in violation of department policy…” Glancing at his fellow Norm, Johnson registered Sawyer’s cool, disapproving stare and broke off.
Yeah, you’re letting too much of your hate-on show, Sarge.
“Still, you probably prevented a mass casualty event.” The praise sounded grudging at best. “Good work.”
The air around the sergeant smelled astringent with the telltale scent of deception. But was it their methods he disapproved of? Or the fact that they’d prevented a bloodbath that could have forced Potions out of business? Johnson didn’t approve of Talent-owned establishments.
The cynicism in the thought made Jake wince. The sergeant might be a prick, but he was still a cop sworn to protect the public. Even Talents.
You’re getting paranoid, Nolan.
* * *
Sergeant Roger Johnson thrust his key into his cruiser’s ignition with a hand that shook. Grinding his teeth, he checked behind him and pulled out, forcing himself not to stomp on the gas. Sawyer and those fucking Talents are probably watching.
He listened to the scratchy background chatter on his police radio as he drove out of Faraday Square. As he passed the towering statue of Colton Faraday, an image flashed through Roger’s mind: the bronze figure standing silhouetted under a bright blue sky, puddles of red smearing the emerald grass around its base.
Roger’s gut wrenched as the events of a year before reared up and smacked him with a flashback so vivid, so intense, it didn’t even feel like a memory…
The air trembled with the deep, shattering roars of the Feral terrorist, Virgil Ford, almost drowning out Steve Jenkins’ horrified scream. Twelve feet of glowing polar bear pounced on the deputy, biting right through his body armor as if it were taffy. Steve shrieked as the monster ripped him open, spilling scarlet guts on the spring grass.
Driven by his best friend’s dying howls, Roger charged out to help. Before he’d taken two steps, a thundering fusillade of rifle fire deafened him. A bullet punched his vest like the swing of a baseball bat, forcing him back into the shelter of the alley with the other cops of the SWAT team. Anguished, listening to Jenkins die, he scanned the rooftops for the witch sniper and her assault rifle. I’ve got to do something!
He’d attended the Academy with Steve, busted up bar fights, chased drug dealers, even been Steve’s best man. But if he broke cover, he’d never even get to the bear before the sniper gunned him down.
Another roar whipsawed over the bear’s, and Roger’s heart leaped. Jake Nolan barreled past, running hard in full lion manifestation, all glowing muscle and inhuman power. Bullets smacked into his magical shell, but he never even broke step as he hit the bear like an eighteen-wheeler, knocking him away from his limp victim.
He’d still been too late.
Four people had died that day: Steve Jenkins, Deputy Al Keller, and two civilians. The butcher’s bill would have been much higher if not for Nolan and his Feral buddy, Kurt Briggs. They’d fought Ford to a standstill, and Nolan had damned near died doing it.
Roger had been helpless. His gun and his badge and all his experience hadn’t been worth shit because he was a mere human. Nolan had saved lives because he’d been born with abilities Roger would never have, no matter how he worked and sweated. Roger had never liked Talents. Never trusted them. But Faraday Square had taught him how dangerous they really were.
Humans couldn’t afford to just sit back and let Talents keep taking over their military, law enforcement, government -- even entertainment, for Christ’s sake. They had to be stopped. Even if that meant innocent Talents paid the price.
He frowned as he drove toward the Laurel County Sheriff’s Office. Even if that meant innocent Talents paid the price… His stomach twisted.
No. No way. She wouldn’t have…
Fuck. Yes, she would. There wasn’t much Virginia Laurel wasn’t capable of.
Roger drove downtown until he found a local park, empty and dark this time of night. A perfect place for a conversation he didn’t want anyone to overhear. Plucking his private cell phone off his belt, he thumbed in her number. It was close to ten, and he half hoped she wouldn’t answer.
No such luck.
“You’d better have a good reason to call at this hour.” Virginia’s low drawl was all well-bred southern matron, though her tone was frosty with disapproval.
“We narrowly avoided a mass casualty event at Potions tonight. Thought you’d be interested.”
“What happened?” She didn’t sound particularly concerned. Not that she ever did.
He sketched the situation out in a few clipped sentences as devoid of emotion as he could make them. She’d often told him she didn’t want color commentary. “So it’s a good thing Harris can see auras, or we have a lot of dead and wounded.”
“Dead and wounded who pollute their bodies with magic. Perhaps it would have taught the survivors a useful lesson about being more careful with whom they associate.”
He asked the question before he had time to think better of it. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
The icy silence that followed made clear he’d overstepped. “Are you actually asking me if I sent that lunatic to murder the citizens of Laurel County?”
A bead of sweat began to roll down his spine. He forced any trace of doubt from his voice. “Of course not.”
“I’m relieved. It would be political suicide if such slander ever got out -- for both of us. Or have you given up on running for sheriff?”
Roger swallowed. Damn it, I should have kept my mouth shut. If he had any intention of running against Gable next year, he needed the support of the Humanist Party. Virginia Laurel could make that support a reality… Or she could block it completely. Her connections went all the way to the White House. “No, ma’am.”
“Then you certainly don’t want our party associated with a hate crime.”
“That goes without saying.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The Humanists are doing a lot of good with our education and anti-poverty programs. It would be a shame to hand the Constitutionalists the ammunition to stop us.” Her voice took on a silky note. “And it wouldn’t do your aspirations a lot of good either.”
He licked his lips. “No, ma’am.”
“In the meantime, I suggest you keep an eye on those Talents of yours. All of our lives would be a great deal simpler if they could be encouraged to find some other line of work.” Her voice dropped to a growl. “Especially that ‘hero,’ Nolan.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Work harder.”
His phone screen flashed CALL ENDED.
Blowing out a breath, Roger tucked the phone back into its belt holster.
And tried very hard to believe South Carolina State Representative Virginia Laurel had nothing to do with sending Richard Carson to commit mass murder.
* * *
Dropping her phone into her lap, Virginia curled her fingers around the cut crystal glass of Kentucky bourbon. She lifted it to her lips, drained the glass, and then sat back in her armchair. Listening to the fire crackle, she stared sightlessly at the portrait over the fireplace. Her great-great-great-great-great grandfather William Laurel stared coolly back, his oil-painted features stern under his tricorn hat and powdered wig, looking every bit the Revolutionary War hero he’d been.
At one time the Laurel family had owned most of the county that bore their name. Their sprawling plantation had included thousands of acres used to grow everything from tobacco to indigo, then later, cotton. The family had been among the richest in the state.
But that had been before the Civil War. Before General Sherman torched the plantation and freed hundreds of slaves. Before Alexander Laurel had been forced to sell thousands of acres to that carpetbagger Colton Faraday, who’d used the land to lure his fellow Talents to Laurelton.
More than a century and a half later, the descendants of those magic-users were still here. Still using their powers against normal people to cheat, enchant, and kill. And pose as heroes.
But they weren’t going to stay here if she had anything to say about it.
Her jaw tightening, Virginia punched a button on her phone. “Call Adrian.”
The cell beeped a series of tones, obeying. He answered on the second ring -- as well he should.
“Is there a problem?” Adrian Fleming’s voice was smooth, cultured, without a trace of an accent to reveal his origins. Which amused her, since she knew he could sound like he’d just crawled from the depths of a trailer park. He was very good at pretending to be whatever the mission required.
Just now, though, she was less than happy with him, and she damn well wanted him to know it. “Carson failed. It seems he encountered the department’s one witch deputy, who was able to divine his intentions just by looking at him. Evidently she sees auras. She and the Feral stopped him before he even got in the door. Will he talk?”
Adrian laughed, nothing at all cultured in the harsh bark of amusement. “Not after the spell I cast. The more they question him, the crazier he’ll get.” Fleming paused a moment, considering. “But I’ve still got some of his blood. I can always induce a heart attack.”
Virginia made a mental note to ensure he never got his hands on any blood of hers. “Would the magical tampering show up on an autopsy?”
“Only if the pathologist is also an Arcanist. Unless the FBI takes an interest, that’s doubtful.”
“What about the witch?”
“She got lucky. Next time, she won’t.”
“If she does, I expect you to take care of the problem.”
“That is what I do.” He hung up the instant before she could.
Disquieted, Virginia stood and began to pace the library, watching the silken peach skirt of her nightgown kick around her slippered feet.
Like all Talents, Fleming was a magic-using snake, but he’d come highly recommended by those who knew the best tool for the job. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have hired him.
Once she’d never have lowered herself to work with any Talent, no matter how highly recommended. The events of Faraday Square had taught her that squeamishness was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
As she turned to pace in the other direction, Virginia’s gaze fell on the photo of Victoria hanging over her desk. Her granddaughter’s eyes were as big and blue as her own had been in her youth. Just four years old, the child was all blonde curls and chubby hands, her innocent spirit blazing in her joyous smile.
Even in Virginia’s current grim mood, something about that smile made her smile back.
Her granddaughter deserved to live in a world free of Talents. Free of people who could use their powers to hurt her, steal from her, or lord it over her because she didn’t have magical abilities. Free of those who had robbed her of her birthright.
Virginia meant to ensure her grandchild got the world she deserved.
* * *
Erica’s field training officer had told her once that police work was forty percent boredom, two percent stark terror, and fifty-eight percent paperwork. On nights like this, she realized his figures were off.
The paperwork was closer to eighty percent.
“Look at the newbie!” Katilia Sharp sauntered over. Slim and short, black hair pulled back from a sharp-boned face, the young deputy grinned, flashing white teeth against dark skin as she presented her knuckles. “Saving lives and kicking ass. Good job.”
Erica grinned at her friend and gave her a fist bump. “Thanks.” Katilia had the zone adjoining hers; she, Jake, and Erica frequently backed each other up in situations where more than one cop was needed.
Katilia turned the grin on Jake, who sat at the desk next to Erica’s in the Alpha shift bullpen. “I hear Lee Harvey Asshole thought you were going to eat him.”
Jake looked up from his laptop. “He had nothing to worry about. I’m on an asshole-free diet. They give me gas.”
“And sighs of relief sound all over the department.” Katilia chortled and gave them a wave. “Well, I’m done for the night, folks. See y’all Monday.” She frowned. “I think it’s Monday. I lose track.” She wandered out.
As they finished off the paperwork, other cops stopped by with a thumbs up or a slap on the back. It gave Erica an unaccustomed warm and fuzzy feeling.
Speaking of warm and fuzzy, Clarence kept brushing against her legs or sniffing her hair, blowing ghostly lion breath over her nape, keeping her entirely too aware of his Feral partner. A matchmaking lion. God help me.
Sawyer stuck his head in the bullpen door. “Nolan, Harris -- could you two give me a hand? I’m getting ready to question Carson. I’d like to know what he lies about.”
Jake hit a button and stood, stretching his big body. It took all Erica’s willpower not to stare in yearning at the curve of his ass. “What do you have in mind?”
“Just sniff for bullshit. Shake your head when he gives me any.”
“Yeah, I do know that smell. After two years as a cop, I’m practically a bullshit connoisseur.” He inhaled noisily. “Ah yes, smells like grass-fed Holstein with notes of Longhorn.”
“Yippee ki-yay.”
* * *
They questioned Carson in Interview B -- a small room furnished with a table bolted to the floor, a pair of chairs, and a camera set up in one corner of the ceiling. Television cop shows notwithstanding, there was no one-way mirror. Instead, Erica and Jake stood against the rear wall while Carson lied about the same thing he’d lied about before -- only louder, faster, and even less believably.
This time he claimed the man who’d sent him to shoot up Potions was named Tommy Miller rather than Andy Kelly. He also swore on a stack of Bibles he didn’t know any Andy.
Sawyer rolled his eyes, and Erica knew what he was thinking. The minute a suspect started swearing on Bibles, he was lying his ass off.
The detective questioned him skillfully, circling back to the information he wanted, asking the same questions in different ways.
Carson went right on lying. That is, when he wasn’t babbling, ranting, or quoting so-called Bible verses Erica knew didn’t exist. Apparently his mother hadn’t made him read the Good Book as often as Erica’s had.
The whole time, orange patterns of deception spun through his aura like swirls of sherbet racing through the lemon yellow of his fear. She watched the energy flow intently, trying to match what he was saying to the color shift to determine which statements were lies. It wasn’t easy -- his aura was seriously weird, swirling from his chest to his head and back again. She’d never seen anything like it. Which was why she spent more than two hours shrugging at Sawyer’s inquiring glances, aware Jake was doing the same.
Finally, the detective called a break and they all retreated into the hall, leaving Carson sitting with his handcuffs bolted to the table in front of him. His restless jittering made them rattle and clank against the metal table.
“As my DI used to say, that man is crazy as a shithouse rat,” Jake muttered as they all collectively slumped against the wall. Interrogations were exhausting even without using magic.
“Which doesn’t make him legally insane. If he didn’t know right from wrong, he wouldn’t be lying his ass off.” Sawyer leaned one muscled shoulder against the wall as he scrubbed both hands over his face. “Thoughts?”
Jake raked his hands through his blond brush cut. “I smelled so many lies, I couldn’t tell which was which.”
Erica nodded. “If we had a roster for Human Heritage and rattled it off at him, I could probably narrow down who was involved.”
“Assuming the asshole in question is an HHer,” Jake pointed out.
“Is it possible there is no Andy or Tony or whoever the fuck he says it is?” Sawyer asked. “This is a guy who thinks a witch is telling him to shoot up an elementary school. He could have imagined ‘Andy’ too.”
Erica considered that. “Possibly, but the fact that he knows he’s lying about the guy’s name suggests there is a guy.”
Sawyer grunted, his expression brooding. “I don’t like the way this situation smells. It’s one thing if a lone gunman does something like this. It’s something entirely different if someone put him up to it.”
Jake gave Erica a smile. “Either way, we’re damn lucky Harris stopped him.”
“Yeah, but I’d be happier if he doesn’t have friends.” Sawyer frowned at them, his gaze concerned. “It’s not a good time to be a Talent in this town. Too many people are scared, and that makes them mean. Some of those people are cops.”
Erica eyed him. “You mean Johnson.”
“And his buddies.” Sawyer scrubbed his knuckles over his jaw meditatively, then sighed. “Look, you’ve got good instincts, Harris. You played tonight’s situation just right. You didn’t get anybody killed, not even the asshole suspect.” He grimaced. “Whether or not he needed killing.”
She rolled her shoulders, a little uncomfortable with the praise. “Thank you, Detective.”
“My point is, the same thing that makes you an asset to people like me will make you a threat to anti-Talent types. You and Nolan would do well to watch each other’s backs.”
Watching Jake’s anything isn’t exactly a chore, chimed in small voice in the back of her head. She told it to shut up. “We’ll keep that in mind.”
Sawyer nodded and straightened away from the wall. “I think I’ve dug as much out of Carson as I’m going to get. I’ll tackle his friends and family tomorrow, see if they’ve got any ideas who put him up to this. In the meantime, we need to get him booked into the county jail.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jake said.
Erica pulled out a dog-eared notebook out of her back pocket. “What are we charging him with?”
“None of the weapons he had were registered, and possession of tear gas grenades is illegal. So let’s start with that.” Sawyer rattled off a string of charges as she scribbled them down. “The Solicitor’s Office may add or subtract some after they interview him and look at your body cam footage. I’m going to call the ATF on the grenades tomorrow. The Feds may want a crack at him too.”
“Works for me.” Erica flipped the notebook to a clean sheet and scribbled her cell number, ripped it off, and handed it to him. “By the way, I’m off for the next three days. If you’ve got any questions, feel free to give me a call.”
Sawyer took the sheet, giving her a warm, pleased smile. “I’ll do that. See you, Harris, Nolan. Nice work tonight.”
“Thanks.” Erica watched the detective stroll off toward the Violent Crimes division. He did have nice shoulders. Maybe not as nice as Jake’s, but not bad, either.
From the corner of one eye, she saw Jake fold muscled arms, his body tensing, a frown darkening his face. Before she could ask him what his problem was, his cell rang. He plucked it off his belt, looked at the screen, sighed, and put it to his ear. “Hi, Mom.”
Erica’s lips twitched.
Jake grinned back, self-depreciating humor bringing out a dimple. “Mom, I survived the Caliphate War. Some HHer fruitcake is not going to hurt me. He was way too busy begging me not to eat him.” He laughed, his voice deep and rich. “Yeah, yeah, you are what you eat…”
Erica grinned, remembering getting calls like that from her own mother…
Her smile faded. She’d never get one again. Dropping her gaze from Jake’s laughing eyes, she looked down at her shoes.
“I’ll tell her. Have a nice night, Ma.” He thumbed off the call and clipped the phone to his belt. “I wish I could talk her into not watching the eleven o’clock news.”
“She worries.” And you have no idea how lucky you are she’s around to do it.
“Yeah, but she doesn’t need to. I’m a lion Feral, for God’s sake. They don’t call us Tooth Tanks for nothing.” He shook his head, then added, “By the way, she said to tell you ‘Good work.’”
“Thanks. Let’s go put Carson in a cage.”
As they started toward the interrogation room, her stomach gave a demanding rumble. Jake lifted a blond brow at her. “Was that you? Because it sounded more like Clarence.”
Erica grimaced. “I’d planned to stop off at Potions for a burger earlier tonight, but Carson had other ideas.”
“You want to stop by The Cauldron after we get Batshit Boy booked?” The question sounded casual, but there was a gleam in his eyes that suggested otherwise.
Erica hesitated, looking up into his handsome, angular face. The gold of his eyes reminded her far too much of his brother’s. “It’s a little late.”
“So? I know you, Harris, you’re a night owl. Besides, I need to talk to you about Johnson.”
Well, she couldn’t disagree with that. “The Cauldron it is.”