Green-Eyed Envy (7 page)

My spider sense started tingling. I plucked the graycovered book from the shelf, noting from the magical
buzz
shooting up my fingers that no expense had been spared to protect its pages by magical means. Interesting. Not all of the arcane-centric books on the shelf had been so well preserved. In fact, most of them
hadn’t
been, or my skin would have started crawling the moment I got close to the bookshelf. Considering that magical preservation along with the book’s subject, I started thumbing to the table of contents.

Like most cops, I could speed-read with the best of librarians. I ran my gaze along brief but pithy chapter titles such as “History of the Bastai,” “Worship of Bastai in Ancient Egypt,” “Prominent Pharaohs and Their Ties to the Anupu’mesu,” and so on. About halfway down the page, however, my eyes widened and air whistled out through my teeth. Oh. My. Gods. “Bastai Counting Coup and Anupu’mesu Response to Same.”

My pulse picked up speed. That title could mean one thing and one thing alone: the Bastai proclivity for ripping out enemy tongues and the Warhound reciprocation using catnip. The fact that one of Harper’s exes had
this
particular book could have been coincidence. Or a mere stroke of luck for me since it could provide invaluable insight into the killer’s mind. But what
was
Paul Meritton? Innocent bystander who just happened to own a rare treatise on an equally rare kind of serial killer’s MO? Or bitter ex-lover who variously lusted after and scorned women, and had gone over the edge after discovering that his
whore
of an ex had started sleeping with the enemy?

My fingers tapped the table of contents page while a dozen thoughts raced through my mind. One way to get a feel for which theory might be closest to the truth presented itself, causing me to turn and stroll back to Meritton’s desk, expression oh-so-casual. I waited for an end to their discussion—which had been winding down over the past couple of minutes—and took advantage of a lull in the conversation.

“Quite a collection you’ve got over there, Paul.” It almost hurt me to call him that like he wanted, but I took one for the team. I even smiled and subtly batted my eyelashes at him, and that hurt a hell of a lot more. Scott’s eyes narrowed and fire lit inside, until I shifted slightly so he could read the book’s cover. Then realization set in and his anger dissipated.

Meritton blinked at the abrupt change in topic, and then
he
caught sight of the book in my hands. His reaction—pleased recognition and an eager grin—wasn’t what I expected. “Oh, yes, I see you’re a bibliophile after my own heart.” He stood and stepped toward his bookshelf, seeming interested in his collection as a whole rather than the specific book I held. “Spent a pretty penny collecting these—all first editions, of course. You won’t find a private collection to rival mine, and very few arcane museums house such a treasure trove of magical culture and history.”

“So you’re a—closet historian?”

His eyes sparkled with the first sign of true warmth I’d seen since walking into his office. “My undergraduate degree was in arcane anthropology. I switched tracks in graduate school to an MBA, which was when I met . . . Harper.” His tough-guy façade cracked enough that I realized he actually had, in his own way, loved her during their time together. Maybe still did. Enough to kill over her, despite how shocked he’d sounded at that suggestion just moments before? Perhaps that had been his intention all along. Maybe he was, even now, playing me.

Still, he either didn’t immediately recognize the book I held or didn’t want to tip his hand by reacting. And that
could
work to my benefit.

“I have a bachelor’s in history as well as criminal justice. I’ve seen a lot of the public collections you just mentioned—and a few of the private as well.” I waved the one in my hand as if it were an afterthought. “The others in the Magical Crimes Unit would salivate to get their hands on even
one
of these books.”

He smiled and made a magnanimous gesture. “Then you must take the book as a gift. Consider it a donation to start the MCU’s own private collection.”

Wow, that was easy enough.
“Oh, I couldn’t . . . ” I kept my voice eager, with just a hint of flirtatiousness.
Oh Jack, how I’ll need you to wash away this dirty feeling later . . .

“Truly, I insist. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure my accountant writes it off come tax time.” He winked and walked toward me. Took a lot of willpower not to back up as far and fast as possible. “Besides, I have to show my appreciation to the Boston Police Department for being so diligent in watching out for its citizens, arcane as well as mundane.” He said that with a straight face and not the slightest trace of irony. Man, he
was
a good actor.

Scott was between Meritton and me before I could blink. He made it look natural and smooth and
not
as though he was marking his territory to keep the interloper away, waving his PDA in the air. “It’s all set, Meritton. My cousins will be in the lobby by five o’clock to rendezvous with you. They know the details we discussed. All I ask is that you don’t try and give them the slip, and they will keep you safer than a newborn kitten in its mother’s care.”

Ha! Look at that—Scott was actually learning diplomacy, using a feline analogy instead of canine. I’d say I was rubbing off on him, but honestly, I was still working on that whole diplomacy thing myself.

Shocking, I know.

Meritton nodded at Scott. “Believe me, this Cat prefers to use as few of his ninety-nine lives as possible. And I have no intention of seeking out Bast’s final embrace anytime soon.”

I reached into a pocket and pulled out one of my fancy-schmancy MCU business cards, holding it out until he accepted it. “My cell number is on there, Paul. Please feel free to call me if you think of anything that could be helpful to my investigation, or if you notice anything out of the ordinary.” I nudged Scott’s arm with my shoulder. “You’ll be in good hands with the Shadowhounds, speaking as a former client. They’re the best at what they do.”

His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile, but he simply said, “Indeed. Now then, I have a meeting I need to prepare for so please forgive me if I leave it to Clara to show you out.”

A dismissal if I’d ever heard one. Not that I minded. Meritton might have been a looker, but my ears had gotten more than enough of that chipmunk voice. “Thank you for your time. And please, don’t hesitate to contact me should you need to.”

He made his smile and voice feel like a sleazy—and unwanted—caress. “Certainly, Chief Holloway. You’ve not heard the last from me.”

Unfortunately, instinct told me that was all too true. The sole question I had, however, was whether he would be speaking as a potential victim or the killer himself.

EX-LOVERS 5 AND 6 HELD TRUE TO MY trading-up theory: Both were, impossible as it seemed, even better looking and more successful than Paul Meritton—thankfully minus the squeaky voice and misogynistic tendencies. Though they took more convincing than Meritton to accept the offered protection. Ex Number 5, Aaron Vega, because the former Marine (yes, folks, they allowed us to kill and die for them long before they accepted us as full-fledged members of mortal law enforcement) worked private security himself. Ex Number 6, Beacon Hill tycoon Ward Rockefeller (yes, distantly related to
those
Rockefellers) just seemed blasé about the whole situation. Too blasé.

“What do you mean, that won’t be necessary?” I tried to moderate my tone as I stared across the table at the corporate shark who could have given Andre Carrington a run for his money in moral ambiguity. Tried, but failed, since I couldn’t understand his refusal to grasp the seriousness of his situation.

“Simple, Chief Holloway. I have neither the time nor the inclination to be followed around and spied upon by anyone—whether official police officers or”—he smiled apologetically at Scott—“mercenaries working on the police department’s dime.” His hand shot up to forestall my next point. “Or even on my own dime. It’s simply out of the question.”

Scott and I exchanged wordless glances that said a lot. Like,
Either this guy’s a moron, or he knows something we don’t. Or both.
I turned back to the moron. “Mr. Rockefeller—”

“Please, Chief, call me Ward.
Mr. Rockefeller
is and always will be my father.” His lips curled around the
Mr. Rockefeller
, and he made his voice upper-crust snooty to the extreme. “I
do
appreciate your concern, but again, my answer is no. You have delivered your warning, and I choose to refuse your offer of police protection. Last I checked, that was perfectly well within my constitutional rights. Even as an
arcane
. ”

Interesting. The way he spat out that last word indicated extreme displeasure. I was willing to bet with the mortal authority, though no big surprise there. Half the time
I
was pissed off with the mortal authority, and I worked for them. Still, it was worth noting.

Scott brought that point up himself when we were en route to Harper’s downtown condo. “Rockefeller seemed remarkably
un
concerned by the news he could wind up our serial killer’s next victim, don’t you think?”

“Considering the crime scene photo I tried to spook him with, hell yeah. That photo would have sent most executives crying
wee, wee, wee
all the way home.”

“And yet it barely fazed him.”

I tapped the manila folder on my lap and pursed my lips. “Had it been Aaron
Semper Fi
Vega, I wouldn’t even think twice. But coming from Ward the businessman? Definitely weird.”

“Could be he watches gory slasher flicks when he’s not dismantling companies to sell for sickening amounts of money.”

“Maybe. And maybe he’s not worried because he knows he has nothing to fear.”

We exchanged another pointed look before he turned his attention back to the road and I pulled out the little steno pad I kept on hand. Most of the pages contained brief notes written in shorthand and doodles in the margins. The last page with writing, however, contained my so-far-sketchy list of suspects.

1. Harper’s family—all of them. Have Trinity research most likely culprits.

2. All the Banoubs except Ellie (probably) and Penn (maybe). Research myself.

3. Paul Meritton—misogynistic and had book on coupcounting. Coincidence or wreaking vengeance on woman who dumped him?

My fingers tapped the notepad while I considered. Adding Paul to the list—despite the fact he was a potential victim—didn’t make me feel bad in the slightest. I could easily picture him in the role of teaching an ex-lover a bloody lesson about rejecting his sexist ass. The thought of adding Ward Rockefeller to the list for the mere fact he’d been amazingly unworried about the Cat-murdering serial killer had me hesitating for some reason.
Because he’s a high-and-mighty Rockefeller? That didn’t stop you from putting the Banoubs on the list.

But there had also been his outright disgust with the mortal authorities. A slim thread to hang suspicions on, but better to consider him and clear his name than to write him off now and be blindsided with his guilt later. Like I’d done with Stacia . . .

Thinking about my former mentor brought a scowl to my face. I scribbled Rockefeller’s name as Suspect Number 4 on the list out of sheer spite but couldn’t push away Stacia’s ghost so easily. Stacia Demetriou, an Elder so old she’d probably been around when they first erected the Palladium (the arcane version, not the mortal), had taken on my Fury training when my mother couldn’t. I only found out a few months ago
why
my mother disappeared and left me an orphaned, Fledgling Fury: Crazy-ass Stacia had manipulated a group of mortal scientists into abducting my mother, experimenting on her, raping her, and ultimately getting her pregnant with the first male Fury. My half brother, Mac.

I softened slightly at the thought of my baby brother. Thankfully he’d broken through the brainwashing Stacia and her cronies pulled on him and busted my mother out of the prison they’d held her captive in for two decades. Only with his help—and my mother’s—had we tracked down my missing best friend and sister Fury, Vanessa. Too late to save her life, but just in time to rescue her bred-in-captivity daughter, my adorable niece, Olivia. My brother and his wife, Jessica—Vanessa’s biological sister—were in the process of officially adopting Olivia as their youngest daughter. Big sister Cori, just shy of sixteen years old and showing every sign of following in the footsteps of
both
her aunts, heartily approved.

And I know, it all sounds like a soap opera—or Jerry Springer episode. Arcanes have all the angst, betrayal, and drama that mortals do. Just add magic, stir, and watch the fireworks explode!

There’s a reason the powers-that-be gave Furies so many souped-up powers—and bound us to them through blood, oaths, and the Sisterhood: to even the score of us being outnumbered by all the other arcanes out there we were supposed to keep in check. But even with my super strength, speed, and shape-shifting abilities, I’d barely managed to take out the traitor who had miraculously taught herself to channel both Fury and Harpy abilities without going batshit insane. She’d claimed—before I killed her crazy ass—I had the same strength of will that allowed her to ride on the other side of Rage as a Harpy without giving in to insanity. Forgive me if I wasn’t in a rush to test that little theory.

Not only were Harpies the mortal enemies of Furies, they murdered their Amphisbaena when Turning from Fury to Harpy and morphed into white-haired, yellow-eyed shells of their former selves, losing all ties with the Sisterhood and their mortal families. Yeah, not in a rush to lose everything that means anything to me, thanks.

Especially not now that I had won back the thing that meant the most to me of all—my relationship with Scott.