Lucky Break
Page 7
He walked toward us, hands on the black utility belt at his waist. I wasn’t certain if he took the position out of habit or to remind people of the power he literally wielded.
“That Rowan?” he asked, gesturing toward the road.
Nessa nodded.
“Everyone all right here?” He glanced at my face, took in what felt like swelling. “I heard the shots.”
“The car suffered the worst of it,” Ethan said. “There was a scuffle, but they left when they heard the siren. I’m Ethan Sullivan of Cadogan House. My Sentinel, Merit. You’re Sheriff McKenzie?”
“I am.” He looked us over, then turned his gaze—flat but attentive—to Nessa. “You disappeared.”
“I started walking, ended up here. I called Vincent. He was going to let you know where I was.”
“He did, and I’ve found you. We need to talk.”
Nessa nodded and looked suddenly exhausted by the reminder of her loss. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll tell you what happened.”
3
“I’d been in town,” Nessa began, sitting on the edge of the heavy leather couch, her feet pressed together on the floor, hands worrying between her knees. “I went to the market.”
“Dunleavy’s?” Tom asked. He stood near the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantel, but his eyes on Nessa.
Nessa nodded. “Taran wanted steak, and we had nothing in the house. I got what we needed, came home, put the groceries away. I called his name, but he didn’t answer. I thought he was wrapped up in a project.”
“Project?” Ethan asked.
“He’s a professor. Was,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed, releasing tears. “Was a professor at Eastern Colorado Tech. He taught history, night classes, and studied exploration in the West—cartography, natural history, Native American societies. He was working on a book.”
She cleared her throat. “I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I walked into the living room. That’s when I found him. I thought”—she looked up at Tom—“for a moment, before I saw the blood, I thought he’d tripped, that he’d just fallen down and was about to get up again, but he didn’t. He didn’t.” She pressed fingers to her eyes.
“You touched him?” Tom asked.
“I shook him, I think. I told him to wake up. ‘Wake up, Taran!’ But he was gone. He was obviously gone. His body—” She looked up at us. “Shifters are warm. So warm. But he was cold. Cold like we are.”
“How did he die?” Ethan quietly asked, shifting his gaze to Tom.
“The medical examiner is still looking, but it appears to be trauma,” Tom said. “He was hit on the head. We haven’t found the weapon yet.”
“What about the house?” I asked. “Was anything disturbed? Anything taken?”
Tom’s brows lifted with surprise at the question.
“We assist the Chicago Police Department and Ombudsman’s office with investigations sometimes,” I explained.
“Her grandfather is the Ombudsman,” Ethan added.
That seemed to impress the sheriff. “You don’t say. Lot of talk about his office in the law enforcement community, as we’re learning how to deal with supernatural problems.
“And to answer your question, no. We didn’t notice anything out of place—at least, nothing obvious.” He looked at Nessa. “When we’ve finished, it might be a good idea for you to take a look around. See if anything looks out of place to you.”
Nessa nodded. “I don’t see what anyone would want from us. Certainly not that they’d kill for.”
Tom nodded. “Just think about it. Anything else unusual lately? Any trouble with Taran at school or at home?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing. It was a very quiet winter. We were grateful.”
“A quiet winter?” Ethan asked.
“The feud,” Nessa said. “Like I said, I thought it was over. There hasn’t been an incident, a volley, in over a year.”
“Closer to two, I think,” Tom said, and Nessa nodded.
“And before that, how often were there conflicts?” Ethan asked.
Tom sighed heavily, scratched his temple. “It depends on what they’re reacting to. Both sides enjoy confrontation equally. But they go about it in different ways. The McKenzies are more up front; the vampires are more subtle.” From his tone, it was clear he didn’t consider that a compliment. “There could be days between strikes. Weeks. Months. Tempers are often high, and slights are taken very personally.”
“You’re a McKenzie, yes?” Ethan said.
Tom smiled lightly. “By affiliation. I was adopted into the family, grew up with this generation, but on the outside.”
“They didn’t have qualms about bringing a human into the family?” I asked.
“Humans aren’t vampires,” Tom said, “and they definitely aren’t Marchands.”
“Unlike me,” Nessa quietly said.
“Tell me about the last incident,” Ethan said.
Nessa nodded. “It was October or November, the year before last. We woke to find blood painted across the door.”
Ethan frowned, looked between them. “I’m not familiar with the symbolism. Does that mean something here?”
“It’s an insult to Taran,” she said. “An accusation that he’d been blooded, that he’d given up his true nature to me. But Taran talked to Rowan, and there’d been nothing since then.”
“That Rowan?” he asked, gesturing toward the road.
Nessa nodded.
“Everyone all right here?” He glanced at my face, took in what felt like swelling. “I heard the shots.”
“The car suffered the worst of it,” Ethan said. “There was a scuffle, but they left when they heard the siren. I’m Ethan Sullivan of Cadogan House. My Sentinel, Merit. You’re Sheriff McKenzie?”
“I am.” He looked us over, then turned his gaze—flat but attentive—to Nessa. “You disappeared.”
“I started walking, ended up here. I called Vincent. He was going to let you know where I was.”
“He did, and I’ve found you. We need to talk.”
Nessa nodded and looked suddenly exhausted by the reminder of her loss. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll tell you what happened.”
3
“I’d been in town,” Nessa began, sitting on the edge of the heavy leather couch, her feet pressed together on the floor, hands worrying between her knees. “I went to the market.”
“Dunleavy’s?” Tom asked. He stood near the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantel, but his eyes on Nessa.
Nessa nodded. “Taran wanted steak, and we had nothing in the house. I got what we needed, came home, put the groceries away. I called his name, but he didn’t answer. I thought he was wrapped up in a project.”
“Project?” Ethan asked.
“He’s a professor. Was,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed, releasing tears. “Was a professor at Eastern Colorado Tech. He taught history, night classes, and studied exploration in the West—cartography, natural history, Native American societies. He was working on a book.”
She cleared her throat. “I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I walked into the living room. That’s when I found him. I thought”—she looked up at Tom—“for a moment, before I saw the blood, I thought he’d tripped, that he’d just fallen down and was about to get up again, but he didn’t. He didn’t.” She pressed fingers to her eyes.
“You touched him?” Tom asked.
“I shook him, I think. I told him to wake up. ‘Wake up, Taran!’ But he was gone. He was obviously gone. His body—” She looked up at us. “Shifters are warm. So warm. But he was cold. Cold like we are.”
“How did he die?” Ethan quietly asked, shifting his gaze to Tom.
“The medical examiner is still looking, but it appears to be trauma,” Tom said. “He was hit on the head. We haven’t found the weapon yet.”
“What about the house?” I asked. “Was anything disturbed? Anything taken?”
Tom’s brows lifted with surprise at the question.
“We assist the Chicago Police Department and Ombudsman’s office with investigations sometimes,” I explained.
“Her grandfather is the Ombudsman,” Ethan added.
That seemed to impress the sheriff. “You don’t say. Lot of talk about his office in the law enforcement community, as we’re learning how to deal with supernatural problems.
“And to answer your question, no. We didn’t notice anything out of place—at least, nothing obvious.” He looked at Nessa. “When we’ve finished, it might be a good idea for you to take a look around. See if anything looks out of place to you.”
Nessa nodded. “I don’t see what anyone would want from us. Certainly not that they’d kill for.”
Tom nodded. “Just think about it. Anything else unusual lately? Any trouble with Taran at school or at home?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing. It was a very quiet winter. We were grateful.”
“A quiet winter?” Ethan asked.
“The feud,” Nessa said. “Like I said, I thought it was over. There hasn’t been an incident, a volley, in over a year.”
“Closer to two, I think,” Tom said, and Nessa nodded.
“And before that, how often were there conflicts?” Ethan asked.
Tom sighed heavily, scratched his temple. “It depends on what they’re reacting to. Both sides enjoy confrontation equally. But they go about it in different ways. The McKenzies are more up front; the vampires are more subtle.” From his tone, it was clear he didn’t consider that a compliment. “There could be days between strikes. Weeks. Months. Tempers are often high, and slights are taken very personally.”
“You’re a McKenzie, yes?” Ethan said.
Tom smiled lightly. “By affiliation. I was adopted into the family, grew up with this generation, but on the outside.”
“They didn’t have qualms about bringing a human into the family?” I asked.
“Humans aren’t vampires,” Tom said, “and they definitely aren’t Marchands.”
“Unlike me,” Nessa quietly said.
“Tell me about the last incident,” Ethan said.
Nessa nodded. “It was October or November, the year before last. We woke to find blood painted across the door.”
Ethan frowned, looked between them. “I’m not familiar with the symbolism. Does that mean something here?”
“It’s an insult to Taran,” she said. “An accusation that he’d been blooded, that he’d given up his true nature to me. But Taran talked to Rowan, and there’d been nothing since then.”
