Page 47 of Tested
All I know is that the Santa Ana winds are playing hell with my hair and there are way too many plants.
It’s easy to find where the LAPD homicide squad has set up operations. Smith is on the periphery, as usual, and there’s a small army of people. I don’t really want to shift, and without Trajan, I probably shouldn’t try. I do circle the area, catching as many scents as I can. Connor talks with the lead detective who grudgingly gives permission for me to come close to the victim.
About as eager as I’d be for a root canal, I follow the detective to where the body is lying. Her name is apparently Kitten Fletcher, and she’s in a heap under the wing-shaped pergola extending from the main building, surrounded on all sides by folds of cloth.
Not cloth, I realize. Wings.
She’s a fairy, or she was.
Fairies are rare, even in a city as crowded as LA. Supernatural creatures tend to travel to places where people believe in them, which is why there’s always such a hodgepodge in a big city. There are never many true fairies, though, despite Disney’s best efforts at making them seem real.
I squat down and wave in a hopeless effort to get people to back off, then do my best to sort through the scents they’ve left.
Human. Yeah, lots of human. Something smoky and strong, a scent I’m coming to associate with Smith. Fairy, which smells like talcum powder and roses.
I straighten, stretching out the kinks, and wave at Connor. He comes over and since I’ve been focusing on scent, I get caught in a wave of whisky and leather. It grabs me, and deep down I know something else is true. He’s a good person, worthy of the affection Trajan and I have for him.
He might get lost sometimes on the way to the truth, but he’s not evil.
With that little dose of maturity in hand, I relay the information I’ve gathered to him and to Smith. I’m ready to Uber back to the house, but Connor stops me.
“Smith asked if we could talk to the victim’s wife.”
“Why?” I’m sincerely confused. I mean, I’m here because of my nose, and even if I’d tried to dress up, these skinny black jeans are nowhere near professional.
“He’s got a long list of people to contact for this one, and the victim and her wife were estranged. Her wife’s living in a condo not far from where we’re staying.”
But still… I shrug, totally unconvinced this is a good idea. “Trajan’ll be up in another hour or two.”
“It won’t take long. Smith already broke the news to her and he needs our help.”
So now he’s making me feel like an asshole. “Sure. Let’s get it over with and get back home.”
Connor gives me the address and I call an Uber. It’s a strained ride, mostly because the last twenty-four hours have been a lot and I’m not sure what to say. When we get to the house, a neat stucco building a little bit west of Sunset Boulevard, I follow his lead and hope to hell he has a plan.
The victim’s wife answers on the first knock, as if she’s been waiting for us. Like the three victims, she’s on the downhill side of middle age, and like the victims, she’s a supe.
Succubus, unless my nose is lying like a rug.
Connor introduces us and we follow her into the house. The floor is tile and the walls are black and when we reach the living room, the windows look out over the city. The sunset is washing everything with amber, a fairly stunning and unexpected view. She invites us to sit, like this is a social call, and I perch on the edge of a swooping mid-century chair, keeping my mouth shut so Connor can do the heavy lifting.
“I’m sorry about your wife—” he begins.
“Ex-wife.” She’s made the correction before he can finish the word.
“I am sorry to be disturbing you in such a difficult time.”
He’s so composed, and so sincere, and so very, very handsome. My heart gives a poorly timed flip anddamn. I must have exuded some kind of pheromone because the succubus looks over at me with an eyebrow raised.
“I didn’t expect two of you,” she says, her comment aimed at me. She clearly expects an answer, so I try to untangle my tongue.
“I work with Mr. MacPherson on certain cases where my, uh, skills would be useful.”
“Ah…” She settles into an overstuffed chair, her loose silk gown draping gracefully around her. “You’re a wolf. Did you smell anything funny when you saw my ex?”
“Actually no, I didn’t.”
Connor hushes me and I give an apologetic shrug. “We can’t really speak to the investigation,” he says, “as it’s still in the early stages.”
