Three left feet? That meant at least three victims. “You’re thinking serial?”
“Don’t say that too loud,” John said, his gaze flashing to a passing pair of crime scene technicians headed toward the dense old-growth forest. “No official determination yet, but, yeah, I’m thinking serial.” His grizzly bear–sized form sagged further and his mustache twitched as he frowned.
The mustache had been a thick red accent to his expressions as long as I’d known him, but in the weeks since he’d woken from a spel -induced coma, slivers of gray had joined the red. He pushed the flap of the body bag closed. “Park rangers found the first foot yesterday morning when they were checking the paths after the recent flooding. We got wardens and cadaver dogs out here, and the second foot turned up. When we found the third, I pul ed some strings to hire you as a consultant.”
“Do you want me to stick around? Wait and see if your guys find more of the body?”
“Actual y”—John rubbed a hand over his head, wiping away the sweat glistening on his spreading bald spot—“I was hoping you’d join the search.”
I hesitated. I probably even blanched. Wandering around with my shields down sensing every dead creature most definitely was not my idea of a good— or safe—time.
John didn’t miss my pause. “You’ve located DBs before,”
he said. DBs as in dead bodies. “And the paperwork you signed covered the possibility of searching the swamp, so you’l be paid for your time.”
I opened my mouth to respond—while I might have qualms about opening my psyche to whatever might be in the floodplain, we both knew I’d risk it—but I was interrupted before I could answer.
“What’s wrong, Craft?” Detective Jenson, John’s partner,
“What’s wrong, Craft?” Detective Jenson, John’s partner, asked as he stepped around the side of a black SUV.
“Don’t want to get those tight pants dirty tramping through the swamp? Got another TV appearance to run off to? Or maybe your magic eye license doesn’t al ow you to do any good old-fashioned legwork.”
I glared at him, and I had to unclench my gritted teeth to answer. “Way to be hypocritical, Jenson, insulting me and in the same breath asking me to use magic to help.” The term “magic eye” was derogatory slang for a witch PI.
“I’m not asking you for anything.” He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest. “And I think this city has seen enough of your magic lately, what with the way they keep rebroadcasting that interview with you getting al touchy-feely with a ghost.”
“What’s wrong? Jealous?” I asked, cocking a hip and tossing curls out of my face. Okay, so I was goading him, but he was being an ass. A few days ago I’d participated in the first studio interview of a ghost, and to keep said ghost visible I’d had to remain in contact with him, but I’d most certainly not gotten “touchy-feely” or any such crap.
John cleared his throat. “That’s enough.” He glanced between us, then turned to his partner. “Get Alex some hip waders and let the wardens know we’l be joining them.”
Jenson sneered at me—an expression I returned—and said, “Sure. Boots for the two-legged corpse hound. I’l get right on that.” He disappeared around the side of the SUV.
I stared at the spot where he’d been standing. “What a jerk.” Things hadn’t always been so antagonistic between us. In fact, we’d almost been friends. Then a month ago his attitude had gone to shit. The change coincided perfectly with John’s taking a spel ed bul et aimed at me.
Coincidence? Doubtful.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” John said, turning back toward me, “but let’s not forget we’ve got three severed feet and no leads. Now, before we go in there, I suggest turning your shirt inside out.”
there, I suggest turning your shirt inside out.”
“You what?”
John waved a tech over to take custody of the bagged foot; then he scooped my purse off the ground, where I’d set it earlier. He handed the red bag to me and nodded toward his car.
“The park rangers warned us when we started searching that the local fae delight in leading hikers astray. The unwary can end up wandering through the same patch of land for days. Pixie-led, they cal it. Turning your shirt inside out is supposed to confuse their magic.”
I glanced down at my tank top, the shirt clinging to me in the afternoon heat. “Are you thinking fae are involved in the murders?”
John’s mustache twitched. “That’s another thing you shouldn’t say too loud.”