Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Franklin
I glanced at my phone. It was sitting in the cup holder, ringing like a banshee at 3:43 a.m. Nothing good came from calls that time of morning.
“O’Hare,” I answered.
Detective Harrison’s tired voice rippled across the line. “Sorry to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” I answered immediately. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a body, definitely homicide, one that I think you’ll want to be a part of.”
My curse was muffled as I ran my hand over my face. “Another shredded soul case?”
“I…I don’t think so. The bullet in the forehead doesn’t exactly fit the MO of the others. Plus, this guy’s human.”
I was confused. “So why are you calling me?” A thought occurred, since I was the closest one to Boone, maybe this was a case Harrison wanted Boone’s expertise on. “You want me to bring Boone?”
“No.” That singular word jumped through the call. Harrison softened her voice and said, “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Not on this one.”
A tingle of unease settled in my gut. “Why not? What’s so special about this victim?”
Harrison sighed. “Mostly the name. Bart Livingston ring any bells?”
“Christ on a cracker. Bartholomew Livingston?”
“The one and only. Two late-night lovebirds found him. His body was tossed in the woods, not far from a common walking trail. Someone wanted this guy found, or at least they didn’t go to a lot of effort to hide the body.”
I stared at Boone’s house, the lights off and the place serenely quiet. No one had tried anything since I’d curled up in my car and hunkered down for surveillance duty.
“Sorry, O’Hare. I know you were due for a day off.”
Any alcohol from the one beer I’d had over six hours ago was gone. “Text me the details and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“On it,” Harrison said before ending the call.
I stared at the ceiling and wondered what the hell was going on now.
T he body was fresh—maybe two, three hours old. It looked like Bartholomew Livingston went a few rounds with his attacker before the metal slug in his brainpan ended his life.
Crouched beside the body, I used my pen to lift Livingston’s shirt, staring at what Harrison’s phone light revealed. “Are those claw marks?”
“That’s what it looks like to me.”
“Shifter?” We didn’t get a lot of shifter attacks and when we did, the Magical Usage Council typically took over the case. Either that or the shifter community doled out their version of justice. Fairy law supported individual communities policing themselves. Some species took more policing than others. With the exception of weres, the Vampire Council probably saw more activity than most.
I frowned. I’d never seen a shifter murder where a bullet was involved. I pointed to the obvious hole in Livingston’s head. “That doesn’t square with shifter violence. Plus, Livingston’s a human, or at least he was.” Bart Livingston wasn’t one of those individuals I was eager to claim within the human species, but it was what it was.
“That’s what I thought. Hell, that’s what any detective with a month of training would think.”
“Then what the hell happened?”
“Beats me. This is one for the coroner.”
I started to suggest we get Boone out here to haul this asshole’s soul back, but then I remembered how vehemently Harrison had declined the offer.
“You don’t think Boone did this, do you?” It was the only reason I could think of that Harrison wouldn’t request his services.
“Not really, but think about the way it looks. The guy who’s been leaving threatening messages on Boone’s phone, possibly trying to break into his house, and also possibly following him on the freeway winds up dead. You’ve got to admit that seems a bit sketchy.”
“By that reasoning, you might as well accuse me too.” Harrison was well aware of my feelings for Boone and that we’d moved our relationship past the bonds of professionalism.
“I did consider it, but not for long. This isn’t your style, O’Hare.”
It wasn’t, but having me anywhere near the case might be seen as a conflict of interest. I could have brought that up, but Harrison was a good detective. There’s no way she hadn’t considered it.
With a heavy exhale, Harrison pointed at the body and said, “You’ve been investigating this guy, yes?”
“I have. You want my files? Becks has most of it also. She’s the one that did the heavy lifting.” Thinking of what Becks had found, I said, “Mr. Livingston ran with a lot of shady individuals and owed money to more of them than was healthy. Given the condition of his body, I’d say one of those individuals decided it wasn’t worth keeping Mr. Livingston alive.”
“Was he involved with shifters?” Harrison asked.
I shrugged. “He was involved with a lot of things. Trafficking mostly, and from what Becks could find, he didn’t care much what that something was.”
“Living species?”
“To a degree. Again, nothing provable, but an unhealthy dose of guilt by association. The way I see it, this could be one of his colleagues or it could be revenge.”
Harrison grunted. “A friend or relative of one of his victims found out Livingston’s involvement and—”
“Decided the guy wasn’t worth the air he breathed.” I wasn’t typically this judgmental regarding homicide victims. I also usually didn’t have this amount of premeditated intel either. Plus, this guy had threatened Boone. Forgive me if I didn’t give a single fuck that he was no longer capable of making good on those threats. Did I kill him? Hell no. Was I sad Livingston was dead? Another hell no.
“It’s a possibility.”
Exhaustion didn’t creep up on me—it hit me like a freight train. It was the kind of tiredness that a hundred cups of coffee couldn’t derail.
“You need to go home, O’Hare.”
“You’re the one that called me out here at this hour,” I argued.
“Yeah, and given how you look, I don’t think I woke you up with that call. You were camped out in front of Boone’s house again, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer. “We’re human, O’Hare. Sleep isn’t a polite suggestion, it’s a necessity. Now go on home, collapse into bed, and come back to work when you’ve got more than one brain cell and a shit ton of caffeine to rub together.”
I grinned. “You’d make a great captain.”
Harrison rolled her eyes. “And here I thought you liked me. That’s dirty, horribly vicious talk if I’ve ever heard it.”
Being captain could be a thankless job, and one I never wanted either.
“In all seriousness, go home. No matter how it happened, it looks like Boone’s got one less threat breathing down his neck. Maybe it’s time for you to take a breather. You’re no good to anyone on thirty-six hours of no sleep.”
She was right. “You’ll let me know what happens with Livingston?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. Now go home before I call our actual captain and she makes it an order.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I offered a two-finger salute before heading back to my car, hoping beyond hope that I made it home without falling asleep behind the wheel.
B oone stared at the body, not that he could see anything. Bartholomew Livingston’s corpse was neatly draped with a white sheet. Dr. McCallister was out, and one of his assistants watched over the grim scene. Captain Cicely okayed Boone’s presence and had even left her office to attend the proceedings.
Detective Harrison was on the opposite side, standing to the captain’s left. Boone and I shared one side of the body, Livingston’s corpse acting like a coffee table between us.
Boone seemed twitchy and ill at ease. He’d been like that the closer we got to the morgue.
“You okay?” I asked, leaning in a little closer. He’d obviously taken a shower before coming in and smelled clean and crisp. His hair was still damp near his scalp.
Boone gave a jerky nod before he changed his mind and shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He clasped his hand over his chest and rubbed. “I, uh… Are you sure this one isn’t related to the other cases?”
My head snapped up and I shared an equally-concerned look with Harrison and the Captain.
“No, we’re not certain,” Harrison answered, thankfully. “But it doesn’t exactly fit with the other victims.”
“O-okay,” Boone stuttered before shivering. Without thought, I shrugged out of my suit jacket and draped it over his shoulders. Boone had arrived wearing his typical worn t-shirt, cargo shorts, and tennis shoes. At least he wasn’t in flip-flops. The morgue was chilly, but I wasn’t sure that was the only reason for his shaking.
“Mr. Boone, is there a reason you believe this case may be related?” Captain Cicely asked, her arms crossed and gaze sharp.
Scratching the back of his neck, Boone gave a curt nod. “The soul doesn’t feel right.” He frowned before adding, “Not quite like the others, but similar. I…I’m not really sure what I might bring back if I try.”
Captain Cicely blinked and said, “Care to explain that?”
“I’m not sure I can, not until I bring Bart back.” Boone’s head was down, his gaze fixed on the area under the sheet where Livingston’s head should be. “I can still do it, if you’d like. I’m just warning you that it feels wrong and I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”
Captain Cicely hummed and her fingers danced along her arm. Charmed rings caught in the fluorescent lighting, shimmering as she drummed them. “It’s your call, Detective Harrison. The case is yours.”
Harrison looked from Boone to me before she asked, “Will doing this cause you injury?” she asked Boone.
He shrugged. “Nothing permanent.”
“I don’t like this,” I said, unable to keep my professionalism intact. Right now, I was the concerned boyfriend. “You still haven’t fully recovered from the others, and you’ve been pushing yourself with your typical clientele. We’ll figure this out the old-fashioned way.”
“O’Hare.” Captain Cicely’s tone was cautious. “There’s another angle to consider here.” She inhaled and dropped her arms to the side. “Some might say that Mr. Boone is hedging because he knows if he brings back Livingston’s soul, it will say something he doesn’t want known. Something incriminating.”
My fingers painfully clenched as I attempted to reign in my fury. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can and I am. You know how lawyers are. It will be a legal loophole. One a defense lawyer won’t be afraid to happily jump through.”
Boone cut off my building tirade. “She’s right, Franklin.” His fingers gripped my shoulder, squeezing and grabbing my attention. “You know she’s right.” Lips tilted in a soft grin, Boone leaned into me and added, “Although I appreciate your consideration. You don’t know how much it means to me.”
Probably not, although I had a semblance of an idea.
Quiet descended until Captain Cicely said, “It’s still your call, Harrison.”
“Yippee,” Harrison muttered before her apologetic gaze landed on me. “Sorry, O’Hare, but the captain’s got a point.” Inhaling, she turned to Boone and said, “I’m sorry to ask, but I think we need to you to bring back what you can. We need to document what happens.” To that end, Harrison opened up her tablet and hit record.
Stepping away from me, Boone’s eyes slid closed and a moment later he said, “Bartholomew Wesley Livingston, I call your soul back to—” Boone crumpled, bent over and gasping.
I lunged, grabbing him by the shoulders and holding him up. “Boone? Erasmus, what’s happening? What’s going on?”
Boone was shaking so hard I thought his limbs might fly apart. He wasn’t the only one shaking.
Captain Cicely and Harrison took two steps away from Livingston’s body as it convulsed. The sheet tumbled to the ground, revealing Livingston’s remains. He lay there, flopping on the gurney like a landed fish. It was macabre. There was no screaming, no coherency at all.
Boone’s weight pulled at my arms as he gave in and sank to the ground. The sound of retching reached my ears before the smell of Boone’s sick hit my nose. I knelt beside him and carded the sweat-soaked hair from his face.
“Let it go,” I urged, voice soft but firm. “Let him go, Boone.”
Between gasped breaths, Boone stuttered, “R-relea-se.”
Livingston’s remains twitched before stilling. His arms hung akimbo, and one leg flopped over the edge of the table, bare toes dangling to the side.
Captain Cicely scrambled around the gurney, squatting beside Boone. I was impressed with her ability to valiantly ignore the stench coming from nearby.
“What happened? Necromancer Boone, tell me what the hell just happened. I’ve seen you bring souls back before and I’ve never witnessed anything like that.” Captain Cicely hadn’t been present the last three times, although I had to agree, even those hadn’t been as bad as this. At least there hadn’t been any screaming—from the corpse.
Swallowing thickly, Boone gently shook his head before leaning heavily against me. I easily took his weight, steadying his still-trembling body. His hair was thick with sweat and I slicked it back, pushing the strands out of Boone’s pale face.
“Harrison, could we get some water?” I asked.
“On it.”
I barely registered her leave the room. She was back within a matter of seconds. “All I could find were these tiny cups.”
The container was barely larger than a Dixie bathroom cup. Regardless, I held it too Boone’s lips and ordered, “Drink,” before asking, “Did you bring any candy?”
Instead of answering, Boone waved a hand at his back pocket. I didn’t hesitate to root around and snag a piece of hard lemon candy. Unwrapping it, I put the piece between his lips and watched it disappear inside his mouth. Looking away from Boone’s pallid lips, I shot a glance Captain Cicely’s way, visually begging her for patience. Boone needed time to recover.
With a faint nod, Captain Cicely told Boone, “When you’re ready.”
We waited, the silence of the morgue an oppressive, physical entity. As the clock on the wall ticked the seconds off, Boone gave a final shake before stilling. His pallor had improved minutely. With a wan grin, he turned large, green eyes my direction and said, “I think I need to ask Pops to make me a few antinausea charms. Sorry about the mess.”
“The only reason I care about the mess is because you feel ill,” I reassured.
“Ditto to what O’Hare said,” Captain Cicely agreed. “Besides, it was easily remedied.” She wiggled her fingers and I realized the captain was correct and Boone’s vomit was gone. “Being a witch has some perks. Now, do you feel well enough to explain what that was all about?” Captain Cicely pointed toward Livingston’s disheveled body, the sheet lying in a pile on the floor. A few more convulsions and I had a feeling Livingston’s body would have joined the sheet.
“I’ll tell you what I can,” Boone answered. “A little help, Franklin?”
Boone made to stand and I hefted him up by his armpits. It wasn’t particularly graceful, but it was effective.
“Thanks,” he said, that singular word indicating how out of breath he was. “Is there somewhere to sit down?”
Dr. McCallister had a desk in the corner, a lone chair situated in front of it. Guiding Boone in that direction, I sat him down and planted my ass on the desk’s surface.
“Thanks again.” His voice was a little steadier.
Captain Cicely and Detective Harrison formed a semi-circle around us. Harrison had her tablet open and was recording again.
Wiggling, Boone scrounged another piece of candy out of his back pocket and popped it in his mouth. He didn’t wait for it to dissolve before he said, “There wasn’t much left.”
I shared a look with Captain Cicely before she asked, “Wasn’t much of what left?” I think we all knew, but clarification was important.
“His soul,” Boone expectantly answered. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but it was worse than the others. There weren’t just pieces missing. It’s as if Bart Livingston’s soul had been ripped apart. I know we’ve been referring to the other victims as shredded souls , but compared to Bart’s, theirs were far more intact. Most of Bart’s soul is just…gone…” Boone’s eyes glazed and turned distant. They were shimmering emeralds, brighter for the unshed tears glistening on their surface. Distantly, I wondered if anyone else would truly shed a tear for Bart’s passing.
Captain Cicely glanced back at Livingston’s quiescent body before zeroing in on Boone again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think there are a lot of species out there that can do that sort of thing.”
He shook his head. “You’re not wrong. I wasn’t sure at first, but through my contacts, I can confirm that we’re looking for a necromancer, a warlock working with a necromancer, or maybe a djinn.” Boone shrugged. “I think the fairy queen might be able to do it, but I don’t see that happening. Same with brownies. There’s always the chance of a rotten apple here or there, but if we’re playing the odds, I think a necromancer has to be involved.”
Harrison’s complexion turned ashen, but she kept recording, the tablet barely quivering within her hands.
Captain Cicely quietly nodded as she considered Boone’s words. Inhaling deeply, her eyes slipped closed before she asked, “Do you know of any other necromancers, besides yourself, that are capable of doing something like this?”
Boone flinched and his shoulders sagged. “No, but that hardly means anything. Necromancers are…” Boone waved a hand in the air, “I’m not sure how to describe it. Loners? Secretive? Hermits? Most prefer to distance themselves from society. We don’t have a club or a membership rooster. Necromancers aren’t licensed and there’s no official accounting either. Even if a necromancer walked through that door, I couldn’t tell you his level of aptitude. I’ve been led to believe that my abilities are better than most, but I can’t confirm that from any personal interactions.”
Sadness filled those words. Necromancers were not only abandoned by their fathers, but by each other. I wanted to wrap Boone up, take him home, and never allow another soul to utter a negative word within his hearing distance.
“I see. That’s unfortunate.” Captain Cicely’s tone was frigid. “If that is the case, then I am afraid I must ask that you have no further involvement with this investigation.”
My feet hit the floor as I leapt from the desk. “What? You can’t be serious. Boone is our—”
“By his own admission, necromancer Boone is the only known individual capable of doing what was done to not only Bartholomew Livingston’s soul, but the other victims. I cannot keep him on the case, O’Hare. Use the brain in your head, not the one between your legs.”
Anger flushed my cheeks and loosened my tongue. I was gearing up to say something that would probably get me suspended or fired when Dr. McCallister’s angry voice saved my stupid ass.
“What have you done to my morgue?”