Page 4 of A Match Made in Coven
As if on cue, the radio clipped to the witch’s stunner-proof jacket crackled to life, a distorted male voice reporting in. “Ramirez here. We completed the sweep of the ground floor. No sign of the suspect.”
“Same for the second floor,” a female agent confirmed. “All clear.”
Lorcan held up a hand, his head spinning. “Hold on. Suspect? What in the name of Merlin’s saggy left—”
“Mr. Black,” the cop witch interjected. “I suggest we continue this conversation downtown before you say something you might regret.” Next, the witch pressed a button on her radio. “This is Detective Callidora. I have the suspect in custody. Proceed with a thorough search of the residence.”
At the mention of her last name, Lorcan did a double take. A Callidora. The missing pieces fell into place, explaining the ill-concealed animosity radiating off her. She met his gaze defiantly, as if expecting a snide remark about her coven.
But Lorcan shrugged, unfazed. Century-old grudges held little interest for him. He had distanced himself from the drama and politics of the wizarding world, opting for the uncomplicated life of a human job.
But the tension in the air was palpable, the weight of their families’ tumultuous history bearing down on them. Lorcan, to lessen the mood, quirked an eyebrow. “So, DetectiveCallidora, I don’t suppose a quick shower is on the table before we head out?”
She narrowed her eyes, then made a show of sniffing the air, wrinkling her nose in apparent disgust at his post-workout musk. Without warning, she snapped her fingers again. A miniature whirlwind engulfed Lorcan, stripping away the sweat and grime. By the time the mini-cyclone dispersed, he smelled of roses and, as he ran a hand through his hair, Lorcan found it standing on end—like he’d stuck his fingers into a light socket.
“Much obliged,” Lorcan drawled, the polite words dripping with sarcasm. “Can I at least put some clothes on before we go?”
The detective’s gaze dipped to his bare chest, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Was that a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks?Interesting reaction.
Clearing her throat, she fixed him with a steely glare. “Make it quick. And don’t try anything clever, or I’ll have to restrain you with iron shackles. Or worse, stun you.”
Lorcan flipped his hand in a mock salute. “Scout’s honor. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
She shot him one last inscrutable look before spinning on her heel and marching out of the basement, leaving him to trail behind. Lorcan changed into a pair of sweatpants and pulled a hoodie over his bare upper body. He had no T-shirts hanging around, and the witch probably wouldn’t let him raid his closet for more appropriate clothes. As he climbed the stairs, Lorcan wondered if he should call his lawyer, but discarded the idea. He’d put his trust in the system.
***
Two hours later, after sitting in a gray interrogation room alone with no water, no food, and mounting frustration, Lorcan was rethinking his decision to trust the system. The metal chair was unforgiving—it bit into his back whenever he shifted, the table in front of him was scratched, scuffed, and depressing, and the flickering fluorescent light overhead was giving him a headache. He’d been left to stew, no doubt a classic grilling tactic to soften him up before the real questioning began.
Especially effective tonight, since he was still parched from the fluids lost during his workout and would sell his soul for a glass of water, let alone his secrets. He’d tried summoning one, but his magic was blocked in here.
Just as Lorcan was contemplating whether to pound on the door and demand his phone call, it swung open, revealing the witch who technically hadn’t arrested him but who was still holding him prisoner. She strode in, clutching a thick folder, the heels of her boots clicking against the concrete floor.
“Nice of you to show up,” he grunted.
The detective smiled coolly, sliding into the chair across from him and ignoring his remark.
Lorcan leaned back, the metal backrest digging uncomfortably just under his shoulder blades. “May I have a glass of water?”
As if she hadn’t heard him, the witch flipped open the folder, spreading out several glossy photographs. “Do you recognize this man?”
He pointedly refused to stare at the pictures. “No refreshments, then? Not even a stale donut?”
Detective Callidora didn’t look like she was in the mood for jokes. So, with a huff of defeat, Lorcan leaned forward, squinting at the images. His heart seized in his chest as he recognized the lifeless face staring back at him. The man’s glassy eyes were frozen in surprise, his mouth slack. A trickle of dried blood snaked from the corner of his lips. It was Elijah, Lorcan’s business partner and best friend.
Lorcan’s heart lurched back to life, suddenly beating at double its normal speed. Elijah was dead? Murdered, if the blood and interrogation room were an inkling.
Lorcan swallowed around his dry tongue, expecting to burst into tears. But for now, the shock overwhelmed the pain that would surely bite him later.
He stared at the detective, speechless, aghast.
She studied him back, assessing his reaction. “Elijah Preston was found dead earlier tonight in his office at Cornerstone Constructions. The medical examiner confirmed the cause of death to be a lethal stab wound at the base of the neck, inflicted sometime between nine and ten p.m.”
Lorcan’s mind reeled. A stabbing? Who would want to murder Elijah and why?
“Where were you tonight, Mr. Black?”
“I… I was at home,” he said, the words so dry they practically flaked off his tongue.
