Arcane Kiss (Talents Book 1) Read online

  “But the cops’ll speak up for him, right?”

  “I hope so, but you never know. I think it would be a good idea if the two of us stood out there with him. The press is going to ask asshole questions in hopes of getting a rise out of him, and if he gives them one -- especially one with claws -- we’re all fucked.”

  Genevieve frowned. “Why doesn’t he just have one of the volunteers read a press release? Hell, I could write it. I’m used to dealing with media. Part of the job.” She’d done a lot of interviews over the years, many with major media outlets. Her work had attracted a lot of attention, as much because of her client list as her talent.

  “The press release is already up on the website. Kurt wrote it on his cell phone while he stood watch. It’s a masterpiece of restraint. He didn’t even announce he’s gonna mount a magic polar bear head over the couch with its own glowing dick sticking out of its mouth.”

  “That was diplomatic of him.”

  “Nah, that’s what we call plausible deniability. ‘No, officer, I don’t know who shoved that sniper rifle up the terrorist’s ass and emptied the clip.’” He bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. “‘Somebody call Sherlock Holmes.’”

  Gen snickered, only to frown as her attention fell on her smudged shirt. “When’s the press conference? I’d like to go home and change first. I’m covered in more chalk than a blackboard.”

  “Unfortunately, the press conference is in half an hour, so that probably won’t work.” Kurt walked in and handed her a bundle of emerald green cloth. “But you can see if this fits. I figured you’d like to change your shirt.”

  “Hey, thanks!” Genevieve put down her coffee cup and shook out the bundle. It turned out to be a BFS T-shirt with “volunteer” printed in white lettering across the back. She smiled up at him, touched by his thoughtfulness, and checked the collar tag. “Bless you! And it’s the right size, too.”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Been helping volunteers find the right shirt since I was ten.”

  “Man of many talents.”

  Dave looked up with a grin and contributed a rimshot.

  “Actually, I didn’t even intend that as a pun.”

  He looked horrified. “First rule of comedy, kid: it’s always intentional, especially when it ain’t.”

  Gen snorted and turned to Kurt. “You want my help with the press conference? I was telling Dave I’m used to dealing with the media.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to get pretty nasty. Plus, we don’t want to make it any easier for the killers to track you down.”

  She considered the idea, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, that’s a good point.”

  “After we get done, I’ll drive you back to your house to pack your things.”

  “We can take Fred’s SUV,” Dave suggested. “I’ll go with you.”

  Gen wanted to object that that was overkill, but unfortunately it probably wasn’t. Another thought occurred to her. “I also need to check on Parvati at some point.”

  He brightened. “I’ve already been by the Cat Clinic -- I had to meet with the vet who’s doing the necropsy on Stoli. Doc Bryson said Parvati’s out of the woods. She even ate all her food for once.”

  “At least I accomplished one thing last night.”

  His smile warmed her. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  Chapter Ten

  There were cops and reporters all over the sanctuary when the three of them started for the office.

  Dave wore an orange safety vest that reminded Genevieve of the kind of thing you put on service dogs. It had his name across the sides in ten-inch white lettering; she’d seen him wear it in some of his YouTube videos.

  “I don’t want anybody to freak the fuck out,” he’d explained, balancing on his haunches as he buckled it on with manifested hands. “I wish I’d thought to put it on last night.”

  Of course, the minute he appeared in it, reporters came running.

  Dave gave his voice a rolling amplified rumble that sounded more than a little menacing. “No. Comment.”

  Every one of the reporters stopped dead and took a step back, though the cameras remained focused on the tiger as he stalked past in regal disdain.

  “Maybe we should have him do the press conference,” Genevieve murmured to Kurt.

  “The idea is to kill any rumors I was involved in Dad’s death. If I don’t answer questions, that’s exactly what they’re going to think.”

  “I could always eat a reporter.” Dave gave the nearest camera his best terrifying smile. “That’d get rid of the bastards. The cops won’t care; they hate ‘em worse than we do.”

  “Don’t tempt me. They’ve been calling all morning. I’m not even sure how they got my personal cell.”

  They circled around to the office’s back door and ducked inside. Sawyer waited for them at the end of the corridor in a dark blue suit, though judging by the shadows under his eyes, he hadn’t gone to bed at all. He shook Kurt’s hand with a searching look. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  “No, but it doesn’t particularly matter whether I am or not.”

  “I’ve already emailed your statement out to all the reporters. I’d suggest restricting your comments to describing the kind of man your dad was, why he did what he did, that kind of thing. If they ask you any questions about the crime itself, I’ll handle it.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a lot to do today.”

  “You and me both.” The detective turned to Genevieve. “Are you participating in this thing?”

  “Not this time. I’m going to hang back and wait.” She gave Kurt a smile. “Moral support.”

  * * *

  Kurt took a deep breath and opened the door, then stepped back to allow Sawyer and Dave to walk out onto the porch ahead of him.

  A soft hand touched his forearm. “I’ll be right here,” Gen said softly, her blue eyes steady and level. “If you need me.”

  “Thanks.” Damn, he wished he could afford her calming presence at his side, but she was in enough danger as it was. He was going to have to hold it together unassisted. And by God, he would. He’d handled a lot worse in combat under a lot more pressure. No matter how ugly their questions got, none of the reporters were literally trying to kill him. He could handle them.

  To Stoli, he added, And for God’s sake, keep quiet. They want us to get mad, and if we do, we’ll all pay, including the cats.

  Kurt visualized being forced to watch the animals packed up and trucked away, maybe even euthanized. Stoli’s building rumble of anger cut off as if he’d shut it down with a switch. The knots between his shoulder blades loosened fractionally as he stepped out onto the porch.

  If he could just keep the consequences in mind, he might be able to get through this. He followed Sawyer to the cluster of mics attached to a stand. Four separate television cameras pointed at them, manned by people in shirts with TV station logos. More formally dressed on-air reporters clustered among them, along with several local newspaper and radio reporters -- even a couple of bloggers he’d met before. Except for the cameramen, everybody had a cell aimed in his direction.

  Sawyer swept his gaze over the crowd. “At 11 PM last night, the owner of Briggs Feral Sanctuary, Fred Briggs…” He stopped to spell the name, “was attacked in the BFS arena by another Feral, who assumed the manifestation of a polar bear…” He summarized the incident in as little detail as he could, including Kurt’s becoming aware of the attack thanks to Dave and his bond with Stoli.

  “Dave Frost and Kurt Briggs, in his Familiar’s body, attempted to come to Fred Briggs’ rescue. Kurt’s Familiar was shot and killed by a gunman, and Fred Briggs suffered fatal injuries and died on the scene. Dave attempted to pursue the killers, but they escaped. My officers have spent all night searching the park. I’m requesting that anyone who knows anything about these murders, please contact the Laurel County Sheriff’s Office…” He rattled off the department’s phone numbers and email addresses.
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br />   Then the questions started, and Kurt tensed.

  “We’ve heard reports that Briggs was a human sacrifice,” one of the reporters yelled. “Were the killers Satanists?”

  Sawyer didn’t turn a hair. “I can confidently say there is no satanic involvement in this crime.”

  “There’s a lot of security cameras around this place, not to mention a ton of web cams,” another reporter called. “Is there surveillance video of the attack?”

  Stoli snarled, and Kurt tensed at the thought of watching his father’s murder over and over and over again on television. He drew in a deep breath and blew it out again, concentrating on combat breathing.

  “We are not releasing the video at this time,” Sawyer said.

  “How was he killed?”

  Questions flew hard and fast after that, many of them answered with “No comment.” Kurt focused on breathing and imagined what would happen to his cats if he lost control.

  Finally, Sawyer cut them off when they started repeating the same questions. “I’ll be releasing more information when we have it.” He turned to Kurt and gave him a slight nod.

  Kurt stepped up to the microphones and began to read a statement. “I’m Kurt Briggs. My father, Fred Briggs, was a veteran of an elite Arcane Corps team in the 1990s. He and his lion, Lahr, participated in missions around the world, including Desert Storm, where he was awarded an Arcane Service Medal.

  “When my father left the service, he learned that several of his fellow Ferals couldn’t find homes for their Familiars.” He grimaced. “Turns out people aren’t crazy about big cats moving into the neighborhood, military veterans or not. So he converted the farm that had been in our family for a century into Briggs Feral Sanctuary, intending it as a home for retired Familiars like Lahr.

  “Then when I was about ten years old, we went to the circus. It was the kind where the performing animals were kept in tiny cages. Dad was appalled anyone would keep cats that big in cages that small. He was even more appalled when he got a good look at one of the lions and realized the marks across its shoulders and flanks were whip scars. My father pulled out a camera and took pictures.

  “We found out why the cat was scarred in the big top that night, when the lion tamer used a whip on his animals.” Kurt remembered the rage on his father’s face, and his own bewilderment.

  He glanced around. The reporters were scribbling furiously. “Not all circuses beat their animals, but that one did. When we got home, my father reported what he’d seen to the US Department of Agriculture, photographs and all. The USDA went in and shut the circus down after discovering that many of the animals had suffered similar abuse. Dad offered to take the cats in, though BFS had never housed non-Familiars before. He had to take out a loan to do it, since our grant provided for Feral cats, not natural animals. That was why we had to start conducting tours of the sanctuary to raise money, because otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to take care of them all.”

  Kurt’s eyes had begun to sting. He blinked, impatient with himself. “Dad was an idealist, intelligent and passionate about ensuring that animals who’d been abused or neglected could live out the rest of their lives in safety. As he told me, he knew how it felt to be an animal.

  “Now he’s dead. Murdered. Gutted by…” He broke off. “My father deserved better. He was a hero who fought and bled for this country. We’re devastated by his loss, but BFS will continue as a sanctuary for the cats Dad loved.”

  Pausing, he scanned the attentive faces ranged around the porch steps. “I ask that anyone who knows anything about this crime report it to the Sheriff’s Office. But please be aware these are dangerous individuals, and do not underestimate them.”

  One of the reporters called, “So one of the attackers actually shot and killed you -- or rather, your Familiar?”

  In a flash, Kurt remembered the slamming impact of the bullet, the blazing anguish of it. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “So you saw them? Could you describe them?”

  “They were wearing magical camouflage. I never saw their faces.”

  “Did your father have any enemies?”

  “Of course. There were a lot of people Fred worked to shut down. Abusers who breed tigers for sale to mall photographers for use as props, or owners of traveling circuses who mistreat their animals. There are also canned hunts where wealthy people pay a lot of money for the opportunity to hunt and kill captive tigers. Often these animals were raised by humans, and walk right up to the people who shoot them to mount their heads on the wall.”

  He shut his mouth, realizing his voice had taken on a deep thrumming growl.

  Dave stepped to the edge of the stairs.

  Instantly every one of the cameras swiveled to the tiger as he smoothly took up the story. “No matter how many enemies he had, Fred also had a lot of friends. I’m proud to be one of them. I owe him and his son more than I can ever repay. I was trapped in my cat when I was killed in action during a mission in Afghanistan. Kurt served with me on the same Feral team, and he asked his father to take me in. I am incredibly grateful to them both, because this place gave me a reason to live, a home where I’m accepted, and a place where I can help both Familiars and natural animals.”

  The tiger scanned the crowd, his tone for once lacking its usual note of cynical humor. “Fred was a decent man, like his son. I’m going to do everything I can to help the police catch his killers. And I ask you to do the same.”

  They pelted him with questions, which he answered with uncharacteristic patience.

  “If Mr. Briggs was a human sacrifice, what was the spell supposed to do?”

  “We’re still investigating that,” Sawyer said, stepping back to the mic. Dave melted back with obvious relief. “We’ll keep you posted when we have more information.”

  “Have there been any other sacrifices?”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Dave muttered, “while the getting’s good.”

  Kurt opened the office door, and the two of them escaped while the reporters tried to pry a few last bits of information out of the detective. Gen gave him a smile and whispered “You did good.”

  He dredged up a smile of his own, if with an effort. “At least I didn’t eat anybody.”

  * * *

  “You sense anything?” Kurt asked Gen as they pulled up in front of the house.

  She frowned, studying it with narrowed eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Nice place,” Dave commented from where he lay, curled across the back seat.

  And it was. Genevieve’s house was a mix of traditional and contemporary styles, with clean lines that reminded Kurt of a Spanish mission -- not a common look for this part of South Carolina. White and gray stone covered the lower third of the façade, with white wooden siding above that. Stone fronted the arched porch, and the big windows were framed in steel. The black roof had just enough pitch to shed rain.

  Huge azalea bushes flanked the porch and circled the massive trees of the front yard. During the spring, they’d be bright with pink and white blooms, but now their leaves were a deep, glossy green.

  “Let’s get it done. I need to get those wards up.” She opened the SUV door and got out.

  Kurt frowned and drew his weapon from the holster at his hip. “I’m going to need to clear the house first.”

  “I told you, I didn’t sense anyone.”

  “I’d rather not find out you’re wrong the hard way. Stay out on the porch with Dave.”

  “And if they planted booby-traps, all you’d be able to do is trip them.”

  Well, he couldn’t argue with that.

  Inside, the house fairly vibrated with magic in a constant tingling stroke across Kurt’s skin he found almost arousing. He had to fight to ignore the sensation as he checked for unwelcome visitors, his magical senses extended. The only Feral he sensed was Dave, pacing around outside the building checking for scents or magic that didn’t belong.

  As he worked his way through the house with Gen right
behind him, one part of him registered the decor. It was as deliberately simple as the exterior, with pale gray walls accented by white baseboard and trim. Pewter gray curtains hung at the windows, and the floors were a silvery wood. The furnishings had modern, geometric lines, thickly upholstered in white, black, or shades of silver.

  But what grabbed his attention was the art that hung on every wall. Not just pastels, but oil paintings, watercolors, and pen and ink sketches. Looking around, he realized the house was designed to complement the art, not the other way around.

  The colors were vivid -- deep greens, yellows, reds and blues in countless shades. The subjects were just as eclectic: portraits, nudes, and landscapes. He spotted several fantasy images featuring mermaids, dragons and knights, a little too wild and dark to be kitsch. Most of the work was Genevieve’s, but there were other artists featured as well.

  He cleared the house in the familiar routine he’d used to check for would-be ambushers during the battles with the Caliphate. Gun leading the way in a two-handed grip, he moved rapidly through every room, checking closets and under beds, magical senses alert for any whiff of energy that didn’t belong. “There’s no one here.”

  “I told you that before we walked in the door.”

  As he holstered his gun, Gen strode into the bedroom, where a king-sized bed with a cherry frame stood beneath a pile of pillows and a comforter in dove gray and metallic silver. The floor was a short-piled gray carpeting with a dark steel-gray pattern.

  A huge painting of a forest scene sprawled across the wall over the bed, the emerald green of the leaves drawing his eyes. As he stared in fascination, he saw animals amid the trees: deer, squirrels, a raccoon, an owl. A big gray wolf stared out from a cluster of leaves, yellow eyes glowing like a Feral’s.

  As Kurt studied the painting in fascination -- what he’d first taken for a lightning bug turned out to be a fairy -- Gen started packing.