Winter Wolf (3 page)

Maybe I was closer to breaking down than I wanted to think about.

At a curt gesture, one of the paramedics handed him a bottle of water. With a twist of his wrist, he pulled off the cap and handed it to me. “We’re locking the scene down. Come,” he said, with the sharp edge of authority in his voice.

The wicked, violent part of me considered silencing him for his tone, but the rest of me was too tired and worn to argue. With a barked order, he herded those of us who had witnessed Scott’s death together and marched us out of the store.

Chapter Two

The cops took over the food court, descending on the hapless late-night crowd. With an almost-brutal efficiency, they herded everyone out, leaving us survivors to watch the exodus. I envied them; they could escape. I couldn’t. Many stopped and stared, particularly at the blood on my clothes, but with the beak-nosed detective snarling at them, they hurried away and made themselves scarce.

The cops managed keep me occupied for the few minutes it took them to clear the place out. For whatever reason, they were determined to keep us separated and quiet. I’m not sure why they bothered putting in the effort. Some, like me, had refused medical attention, but we weren’t making any efforts to talk to each other. Most of us we were too stunned by Scott’s death to do anything at all or were trying to not throw up.

All I could think about was why
Scott
had died, and not me. I was a wizard, something feared and hunted down by the Inquisition for being an abomination. It made no sense to kill him when a bigger threat—me—could have been removed. I swallowed and tried to forget, but between my blood-stained book and sticky sweater, forgetting about what happened to Scott was impossible. Worry lurked beneath my every thought. Would whatever had killed Scott come for me next? Did my presence put everyone else in the mall at risk? Why would anyone kill such a pleasant and kind bookstore employee?

Had it all been a mistake, and in the dark, the murderer killed the wrong person?

I didn’t know and that scared me most of all.

I envied those who managed to escape from the mall. Under the watchful eye of the beak-nosed detective, the cops converted the food court into a corral of witnesses. They assigned me a seat on the far side of the court, the farthest point from any route of escape. I shivered as I sat, placing my palms on the wobbling table. The cover of
Among Us
taunted me; I wasn't familiar enough with the art to tell which of the stains were real.

With my luck, Scott would come back from the dead as a vengeful spirit or walking corpse to seek revenge on those of us who still lived. Or worse, he’d come after
me
because it was my fault he had died.

I swallowed, shaking my head. What would I tell the cops when it was my turn to be questioned? They wouldn't believe I hadn't done it. I was the only one who had been close enough to kill him. I was covered in his blood. It was only a matter of time before the Inquisition investigated such an unusual, violent death, and when they did, I’d be in their sights. With a single mistake, I’d join Scott as a corpse. Maybe they were already aware of me, but had missed their mark, killing Scott instead.

The Inquisition put down those like me, who made unfortunate explorations into the world of witchcraft, awakening forbidden powers.

I lifted my bloodstained hand to touch my sweater's high collar. Through the loose-knitted yarn, I could feel my pulse. Twisting scars stretched from my neck, over my shoulder, and down my stomach in a permanent reminder of the car crash I didn't remember. But I couldn't forget the circumstances of my flight leading to my hell and my disaster.

My sister had become one of
them
.

I should have known it was inevitable; while my mother and father were Fenerec—werewolves to those who didn’t know better—they had always been careful to let my sister and I lead normal human lives. We weren’t special enough to be one of
them.
But all of that had changed when my sister had undergone some ritual. Because we were twins, she had tried to take me with her.

In my cowardice, I had fled.

When I had recovered from the car accident, spending a year in the hospital as a Jane Doe thousands of miles from home, it had been simple enough to run away. I had run to L.A. to sing away the worst of my nightmares, and I had become someone new. Someone
free
.

And I had been free, until my voice had died away, and I had stooped to desperate measures to try to salvage my crumbling career.

I shook my head to clear it. The past wouldn't help me now, not when the cops would come calling for me, demanding to know how I had murdered Scott. Would they believe me when I told them the truth? I didn't dare speak of the occult, and my speculations that
something
was out there, in the mall, waiting to strike again. If there were Inquisitors among the police, they’d learn I wasn’t the normal human I pretended to be.

Normal people believed witches, wizards, and werewolves didn't exist, but a werewolf could've easily killed Scott, though I couldn't tell the detectives about my fears. My mouth twisted into a scowl. Werewolves hated their informal name, though I couldn't remember who had told me that. My father probably told me a little, though I had learned more about my pedigree from a
book
than I did from my family.

Fenerec, I guessed, was a more noble term for the vicious beasts wearing human skins.

I stared down at
Among Us
, working up the courage to touch the cover. I shuddered when my fingers trailed over the patches of dried blood. The texture was rough and cracked where it hadn’t been able to seep into the glossy cover of the novel.

The clearing of a throat startled me. I twisted away from the sound, swallowing back a startled gasp.

A police officer stared down at me with dark eyes. “Please come with me, ma'am.”

I blinked, but did my best to compose myself. It didn't work very well. To my credit, I didn't throw up on him. My legs trembled as I stood. The cop didn't say another word, gesturing with his chin towards the other side of the food court, which had emptied while I had been lost in thought, leaving only me and a few lingering officers.

“Ma'am?”

I flinched and took a tentative step after the officer. When my knees didn't buckle beneath me, I hurried to catch up, staring at his shiny shoes. Did all cops wear polished shoes, or had I been cursed with someone with more vanity than sense? Did it matter? I cringed a little at my superficial worries about a cop and his shoes.

“Do you have a car, ma'am?” The cop spoke in a low, soothing voice, as if I were some abused kitten in need of comfort. I don't know why his tone angered me, but I lifted my chin, and narrowed my eyes at him.

“It's parked out front,
sir
,” I growled back. Maybe my hoarse voice hindered me more often than not, but there were perks. When I wanted to sound vicious, all I had to do was cease my efforts to keep my words smooth and mellow. Maybe I was a fool, but it gave me courage pretending I could swallow shrapnel, chew it up, and spit bullets.

The cop's eyes widened. To his credit, instead of backing down, he nodded. “If you give me your license plate and model, I'll make sure it is taken care of.”

‘Taken care of’ could mean a lot of things when said by a cop. I hoped he meant my car wouldn't get towed and I wouldn't be fined an exorbitant amount for parking after hours at the mall. With my dubious relationship with Murphy’s Law, I suspected my car would be impounded and I would have to fight the city in order to get it back.

Maybe if they did take it, I'd just let them have it. That'd serve them right. Instead of expressing my opinion on what I thought would happen, I gave the cop the information. He wrote it down on a note pad, ripped the sheet out, and handed the page to one of the other cops standing guard.

With brisk efficiency, the cop herded me to a waiting police car, and to my surprise, he opened the front door and gestured for me to slip inside. I nodded, mumbled my thank you, and climbed in.

The beak-nosed detective waited for me inside. “Buckle up,” he ordered. Then he hesitated, inspecting me from head to toe. “Please don't touch anything.”

I considered rebelling, but I obediently reached over my shoulder, grabbed the seat belt, and buckled in. It was something I did whenever I drove, although being told to do it left a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I valued my life, and dying because I hadn't worn my seat belt was one of the last ways I wanted to go.

Then again, a mundane, normal death was better than what waited for me if the Inquisition found out that I existed. I grimaced at the thought. Right now, worrying about the Inquisition was the least of my concerns.

I had to survive my interrogation first. Maybe, if luck decided to side with me, I’d understand why the killer had chosen a young bookstore employee instead of me.

“You can call me Detective Harding,” the cop said, starting the car after I clicked my belt into place. He paused, and there was a sickening expectation in the silence.

“Nicole Thomas,” I murmured. While all I wanted was to retreat and find a hole to bury myself in and cry, I couldn’t. I had to answer questions for the police, and I had to do so without them figuring out I wasn’t a regular human. Maybe if I focused on Scott, and poured all of my compassion into helping the police find his killer, everything would work out. And if detectives found Scott’s killer, I’d be safe.

If the mask I showed the world wasn’t perfect, if I didn’t hide myself flawlessly, I would die. The Inquisition would surely find me, if Scott’s killer didn’t come for me first.

The world believed Nicole Thomas knew nothing of the Inquisition, so I’d play that part.

He said nothing as he pulled the car out of the parking lot, leaving me to my thoughts. I glanced at the speedometer. He drove just under the legal limit, came to a complete halt at every stop sign, and signaled at every turn. He ignored the mounted laptop dominating the center console of the car, and while he listened to the dispatcher on the radio, his eyes never left the road.

Maybe it was the shock of Scott's death, but the buzz of the electronics in the police car didn't bother me too much. While the temptation to siphon way some of the energy and make it my own was there, I resisted it with little effort.

It reminded me of the feeling I had after a full day on the movie set, satiated and tired enough I didn’t need to charge the devices around me. Even my cell phone behaved, my awareness of its hunger reduced to a faint whisper in the back of my head.

We arrived at the police station, and Officer Harding parked. Before I finished unbuckling, he managed to get out and circle his car to open the door for me. I thanked him with a nod, although I couldn't quite force myself to smile.

“This way, Miss Thomas,” he ordered, gesturing to the police station. I followed several steps behind him.

I had never been in a police station before, and it took all of half a minute for me to hope I'd never have to step inside one ever again. There was something about the place, an unpleasant charge in the air. It wasn't electricity, but something else, something far more sinister.

It chilled me from the inside out.

The reception room was surprisingly sterile, with bolted-down chairs and bullet-proof glass protecting the officers from any unruly visitors who might be tempted to break into the station. A steel door guarded the back, and Officer Harding led me to it without as much as a glance at his fellow cops or the few waiting.

Those people, I noticed, were in handcuffs. All of them, except for a wild-eyed woman wearing bedraggled designer rags, were Hispanic. I didn't have long to stare, wondering at the unfairness of so many white cops delivering judgment on others. When I hesitated, Officer Harding seized my elbow, dragging me down a hallway and into an elevator.

He selected the second floor. We rode in silence, broken only by the whirr of the elevator and the metallic swish as the door opened.

Hallways, apparently, were commonplace in police stations. I could hear the muted murmur of conversations behind pairs of closed doors. To my surprise, the doors were made of glass, allowing me to see where pairs of cops were questioning people.

Through the first door, I recognized Laura, who spoke energetically to a pair of women.

“These are our questioning rooms. We use them to talk to witnesses and suspects, so they can have privacy. As you can tell, they're sound proofed, so no unauthorized individuals will be able to listen to our discussions,” Harding said, gesturing towards the room Laura was in.

I expected I would be questioned, over and over again, until I was sick of repeating myself. I'd seen enough cop shows on TV to have at least some idea of what to expect. It was easy for me to imagine an overbearing detective towering over the victim seated on one of those uncomfortable chairs as they were interrogated. I struggled against my growing unease as I was led down the hall. It opened up to a glass-shielded room full of cubicles and police officers.

Officer Harding opened the door at the end of the hall and gestured me inside. The room had an empty, unwelcoming feel to it, furnished with a dull metal table and three folding chairs, more plastic than metal. I said nothing, but nodded to acknowledge that I had seen his gesture.

When the detective left me alone, I systematically emptied my pockets, pulled out my ID, and waited in silence. Pacing like a caged animal wouldn't help anything, although it may have helped diffuse the restless energy building up within me. Once again, I was aware of the thrum of electronics. A hidden camera nestled in one corner near the ceiling. The intercom devoured electricity, surprising in its hunger. Several smaller devices littered the walls, though I couldn't guess what they did.