Waking the Dragon (2 page)

Since the Dixon Desegregation Act two decades ago, named for the former governor who founded the law and pushed it through Parliament, the dividing line between races began to blur, opening doors for cooperative trade and for businesses to flourish. Opening the door for even more. Humans and Morgonkind merged, throwing Gladium into a bright spotlight, whether we liked it or not.

When my sister, the eldest daughter of a powerful Gladium family, and Lucius Nightwing, the eldest son of the most powerful Morgon clan, united in marriage, our world tilted. Rumors of dissent and criticism from provinces abroad filtered into the city. Even so, professional and personal relations between the races had never been better.

But now, these Morgon murderers were specifically targeting human women. Why? There were plenty of human-only and Morgon-only provinces to reside if you didn’t care for the mixing of races. And the murders carried some odd, ritualistic traits. Like the rapes by the same six Morgon men. And the precise slicing open of the victims’ cavities. All the same. Until now.

I blew out a frustrated breath. “The bite doesn’t fit our profile. A cult or gang ritual is precise and exact, like the first two killings. This new player is the one amping up the violence.”

I stared up at the two young women smiling from their pictures on my bulletin board. One kicked the surf on the beach, mouth open wide in laughter. The other curled up on a park bench with a book, looking up as if someone just called her name. I kept them there to remind me what had been lost, what the world had lost now that they were no longer in it. And now I’d be adding one more picture to the board. A familiar anger burned through my gut. No more. It needed to stop. And if that meant me diving head-first into the Morgon world to find these fuckers, then so be it.

I sighed and turned my attention back to Macon. “The violence has escalated. We’ve got to look at this from a new angle. Figure out why the change with this victim.”

“This one is a blonde, the others were brunettes,” he added. “Another break from the pattern.”

“I don’t think our killers are seeking a particular type, except for—” I gazed back down at the comm screen, moving to more detailed close-ups of injuries.

“Except for?” Macon prompted.

“Except for the young and pretty.”

A nascent thought, a memory from when I babysat my nephew two years ago, flashed to mind. Upon returning from the Vaengar Stadium where a popular Morgon sport was played, my sister’s best friend, Sorcha, made a snide remark.
Yeah, doesn’t matter if they’re tall or short, human or Morgon. Vaengar players just like them beautiful, like that fucking blood cult.
Jessen had shushed her up, eyeing me in the corner of her kitchen. My overprotective sister had always been secretive about the Morgon world, though I never understood from what she was protecting me.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the morbid remains of the latest victim on the comm screen, one I still suspected was the result of some ritual cult. Perhaps the very one Sorcha mentioned with a slip of the tongue that time a few years ago. The signs were all there. I knew I was right. Whatever instinct policemen and detectives had, so did I. “I’m assuming her body was found in Devlin Wood. In Drakos.”

“Yep. No different than the other two victims.”

Drakos, a Morgon-only province to the north of Gladium. “And where was she last seen?”

“At the Vaengar Stadium here in Gladium.”

“Just like the others.” I combed my hands in frustration through my long hair before pulling a hair tie off my wrist and piling the dark mass into a messy bun out of my way.

“Well…” Macon straightened, his eyes following my impromptu hair-styling, “I think she—”

“These are much better photos than the others, Macon. Nice work.” I scrawled some notes inside Maxine Mendale’s folder, victim number three, then plugged my printer cord into Macon’s comm device to get still photos for my file.

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry. I interrupted. You think she what?”

“Uh, I overheard Torrance say Maxine didn’t leave with her whole party that night.”

“I know that, Macon. She was abducted from the premises, so of course she didn’t leave.”

“I mean, they interviewed some guy named Bennett Cremwell, a friend of hers. He said they stayed behind for an after-party, some kind of hush-hush event. You have to know the right Morgons to be invited.”

He had my full attention now. I stopped scanning the comm screen. “Okay. Let’s go over this step by step.”

I flipped open my journal with handwritten notes scribbled on every square inch and in no certain order. Not to the average eye, anyway.

“Why don’t you just use your comm device for all that? It’d be much more efficient.”

“I like paper and pen. Helps me think better.” Macon scrunched up his brows, shaking his head at me. I flipped to a clean page and wrote Maxine Mendale’s name at the top. “So victim number one, Sasha Blake, was also last seen at the Vaengar Stadium. However, her last contact with her friends was during the game itself. She disappeared when she went to the bar.”

Macon nodded and nudged his glasses up again.

I glanced at my notes. “Sasha was also found in Devlin Wood in Drakos three days after her disappearance.”

Leaning forward, he peered at my scrawl. “How can you even read that? There are arrows and dots and scratch-outs all over the place.”

“I have a system.” I blew out a short breath, moving on. “So the bruises and form of killing were the same. Victim number two, Clarice Mitchell, was last seen walking toward her car following the Vaengar Games. Her body showed up in Devlin Wood three days later.”

“Right.”

“But now, we have Maxine Mendale. Victim number three, found seven days after her abduction. I’ve checked the Vaengar schedule for who played our local team those nights—two from Drakos and one from another province farther north. Cloven.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Macon sat on the edge of my desk, crossing his arms. “Morgons from all over come to the games. It may have nothing to do with Drakos or Cloven, as far as we know.”

“Hmm. I don’t know about that. I want to do some digging on this place, Devlin Wood.” I tapped my pen on my chin, staring at the printer as it churned out photo after photo. I pulled one from the print tray, a close-up of Maxine’s throat. I peered closer. “Macon. What are these marks?”

He leaned in, examining with me several centimeter-sized scratches along her throat in varying places. He pulled the other photos from the print tray. “Look. There are more here.”

Little slashes along the inside of her wrist, even the inside of her elbows.

“On her inner thigh, too.”

“Damn.” I shuffled the photos. “They’re not killing marks. Maybe it’s part of the cult ritual. Or torture.” Acid churned in my stomach.

“Yeah, but why?”

“You think I know the inner workings of a fanatical, psychotic, sadistic Morgon mind?”

I yanked open the other files with the photos Macon had pilfered from the first two victims. I only had long angles of these crime scenes. No close-ups. That’s why I hadn’t noticed them before.

“Look! Look at her arm.” Even from the distant shot of the body, I could just make out small gashes on the inner arm from wrist to elbow. “Why the hell didn’t I see this before?”

“Because from afar it just looks like scrapes, like the others on her body she could’ve gotten from captivity.”

“Well?” I glanced back over my shoulder at Macon. “Did your boss Torrance say anything about these?”

“Are you serious? I’m an intern. The only information I get on high profile cases like this is from eavesdropping. I fetch coffee, make copies, and do what I’m told. You’re lucky I got these at all.” He thrust his hand through his hair in frustration, making it stick on end. A sure sign my faithful friend was at the end of his rope.

“You fetch coffee?”

“Stop it.”

I shrugged, turning to my desktop comm. “No worries, my coffee-fetching, copy-making friend. There’s someone else who can give us more information we need.” I started typing. “Bennett…Cremwell.” Hitting enter to scan the Net, three Bennett Cremwells popped on screen. “There are three in the Gladium Province. One is fifty-four and works at some robotics factory in the Warwick District.”

“Not him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t think she’d be hanging with a middle-aged, factory-worker at the Vaengar Games.”

He smirked, flipping his brown hair out of his eyes and leaning his wiry frame over my shoulder toward the screen.

I clicked on the next entry. “Bennett Cremwell number two is thirty-five and lives with his wife and three kids on their country estate south of the city. Not him, unless number two was having an affair.” I clicked the last name. “Recent graduate of Gladium University, currently an intern at Cade Enterprises in the technology department. Bingo.”

“How convenient you have such easy access to Cade Enterprises.”

I pushed away any hesitance. My need to interview Cremwell overrode my daddy issues.

“Isn’t it?” I winked. “Hand me my boots over there. Underneath the desk.” Preferring to work long hours in comfort, I often kicked off my shoes in my office. He picked up one boot from under the desk and tossed it, examining the other.

“Size ten? Damn, Moira.”

“Shut it.” I snatched it away from him. “I can’t help it if I’m long-limbed.”

True, not many human girls were six feet tall, but I liked that it gave me an intimidation factor with unwanted men. And annoying women. Fortunately, I was also born with an innate empathy for others—very necessary as a journalist for people to trust me with their stories. Part of getting people to talk was being a quiet, compassionate listener.

Boots on, I hopped up and grabbed my gray, wool coat off the corner rack. Macon followed me to the door. “Can I tag along?” He raised his brows, looking even more like the puppy dog he resembled.

I tilted my head and smiled. “I don’t think that’s wise. He might recognize you from the precinct.”

His brow pushed together in a frown. “So how will you tell him you found his name?”

“I’ll think of something.”

I locked the door to my office. Macon shadowed me as we veered out of
The Herald
wing of the Literary Arts Department. Just as we reached the bottom of the steps, he pulled me to a stop. “Moira.” His voice reflected the gravity in his eyes. “Please be careful. Don’t get too caught up in this one. This isn’t like the car burglaries or even the campus drug ring you covered.”

I slipped my leather gloves on, wiggling my fingers into the tips. “Macon, if I plan to land one of the elite and rare positions on
The Gladium Post
next year, I’ve got to prove that I’m a serious journalist.”

“Yeah. But at what price? Your own life?” His voice cracked with emotion. He really was afraid for me. Rightfully so.

I placed a hand on his shoulder for reassurance, giving him a friendly squeeze. “I know. I’m not stupid. I won’t do anything without protection.”

“I suppose you could always have your brother-in-law’s security team trail you while you do your investigating.” He chuckled. “Now that would be something to see.”

I gave him a bright smile. “What a fabulous idea.”

Nightwing Security, my brother-in-law’s company, would come in quite handy if I managed to persuade him to help me out. That would mean persuading Jessen, too. Quite a feat.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Don’t you worry your pretty little cranium.” I pecked a kiss on his cheek. “I have a dinner date at my sister’s tonight. And she owes me about a billion favors in babysitting dues.”

Macon tucked his hands in his pants pockets and watched me go, the winter wind blowing his hair in disarray. I jogged to my car at the curb and zoomed into the city toward Cade Enterprises. I needed to hurry and pay Bennett Cremwell a visit before he disappeared from prying, journalistic eyes.

As I sat at a light, a Morgon woman with slender silver wings stood outside of a shop next to a human girl. The human, a curvy blonde, gestured wildly with expressive eyes and a smile on her face. The delicate-boned Morgon tossed her head back and laughed, wings fluttering, her flaxen hair shimmering in the sunlight like golden silk. Friends. Just a decade ago, this would’ve never happened. Even with desegregation laws, the races merely had tolerated one another for business purposes. But not anymore.

Squeezing into a parking spot on the curb, I stepped out and cinched my coat tight, staring up at the towering skyscraper of Cade Enterprises situated in the center of the human business district. Who was I kidding? It
was
the center of the human business district. The lighthouse and beacon to which all other businesses aspired from afar, hoping to one day reach if they had a modicum of the success of corporate king, Pritchard Cade. My father.

I stepped through the revolving glass doors onto pristine, white tile and approached the receptionist’s desk, wishing with all my might that I didn’t run into him. I hadn’t visited the premises in a few years, not since my financial separation from my father and an inherent need to avoid his towering kingdom altogether. My sister had cut herself off from him when she had married Lucius. Father was one of the few public figures who had rejected the intermarrying of the races. Of course, after my brother, Demetrius, married Shakara Icewing, my father had mellowed in his anti-Morgon ways. Demetrius had never told me all that had transpired during his courtship to Shakara that somehow softened my father’s resolve. Though the animosity between both my siblings and our father had diminished over the past few years, resentment and old wounds still festered between them.

While my differences with him stemmed from refusing to accept his mandates to climb the corporate ladder he’d put in front of me, we still managed to have a civil relationship. The best way to avoid arguments was to steer clear of anything that might bring up his overbearing dominance and my willful disobedience. This is why I rarely stepped foot in his place of business. But nothing was going to keep me from my goal today.

I stepped up to the lobby receptionist’s desk. “Hi, Cara.”