Day Killer: City of Crows, #5

By Clara Coulson

Calvin Kinsey's just trying to have a good time...and then an injured vampire lands on his doorstep.

Cal has spent the past three months recovering from his injuries in the wake of the violent scandal that nearly tore DSI apart. Now back in Aurora after a stint in physical therapy, Cal's trying to get his life back on track, his mind back in shape, and his attitude back in check before he returns to active duty in a few weeks' time. 

But when a mysterious vampire shows up half dead at Cal's apartment, and an old rival warns him that the dangerous Black Knights are plotting a major attack against Aurora, Cal finds himself caught in the middle of an off-the-books case that has the potential to end his career—and his life.

With enemies closing in from all sides, and his DSI colleagues left in the dark, Cal has no choice but to trust his instincts, a vampire he just met, and the very man whose savage attack traumatized him forever. Because if he doesn't, Aurora will fall, and millions of innocents will fall with it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knite and Day Publishing
• Release date: Apr 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386482673

Clara Coulson

Clara Coulson was born and raised in backwoods Virginia, USA. She holds a degree in English and Finance from the College of William & Mary and recently retired from the hustle and bustle of Washington, DC to return to the homeland and pick up the quiet writing life. Clara spends most of her time (when she's not writing) dreaming up new story ideas, studying Japanese, and slowly reading through the several-hundred-book backlog on her budding home library. If she's not occupied with any of those things, then you can probably find her playing with her two cats or lurking in the shadows of various social media websites. To stay up to date with Clara's books, please subscribe to the Firebolt Books newsletter: https://www.firebolt-books.com/newsletter

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Chapter One

The new DSI building looks like a fortress.

When I sidle my truck up to the sidewalk across the street from the address I was given a few weeks ago, my first thought is that someone’s playing a trick on Cal Kinsey, team baby, punching bag extraordinaire. Because I can’t imagine what a building like this must’ve cost, especially one constructed in so short a timeframe. But the sign on the intimidating fence, complete with razor wire running along the top, does indeed say department of supernatural investigations, and as I focus my eyes on that fence, nudging my magic sense, I discover the faint auras of numerous wards embedded in the thick posts and surrounding chain links. Yup. The new DSI office, all right.

Mayor Burbank must’ve thrown a literal tantrum in order to get the budget committee to approve this.

The building is three stories, shorter than the old office, but it encompasses twice the area, with four identifiable wings pointing in each cardinal direction. The windows are considerably smaller than the regular corporate office variety we used to have, and the walls are a stern slate-gray material that appears to be some sort of actual stone, or at least a thick façade over steel bones. The garage is an entirely separate structure, and it’s twice as big as the old one, with an expanded fleet of SUVs and vans to match.

Even from the street, I can see signs of strengthened security measures around the entrances. Additional wards. High-tech scanners. Multiple guard posts.

I expected a sturdier building and more attention to office security in the wake of Delos’ assault on the old office that almost brought the roof down over our heads, but I honestly didn’t expect the city government to allow us to take it this far. It looks like somebody dropped a military base smack dab in the middle of downtown Aurora. Literally. In the middle. All four ends of the city are roughly equidistant from this location. Another tactically sound decision.

I have a funny feeling somebody named Riker might’ve had a big hand in all this.

Rapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I debate whether or not to drive up to the fence gate and say hello. I haven’t been back in the city since I was discharged from St. Bartholomew’s and shipped off to a physical therapy course at a facility two hours downstate. I lived in a short-term stay apartment there, on DSI’s dime, while some of the best doctors in the country tried vainly to figure out how to get my ruined right hand in working order again.

With a sigh, I lean back in the seat and tug my glove off. The scar on the back of my hand is about the size of a quarter. The scar on my palm is about eight times bigger, where all the bones and tendons and blood vessels in my hand got blasted into the tile on the fifth floor of the old DSI office when Commissioner Bollinger shot me after revealing his forced treachery. Even now, three months later, I remember the horror like it was yesterday. That awful, hope-leeching horror of betrayal. The horror of watching a man I admired, a man I trusted, wax poetic about how he was going to send me to my death at Delos’ hands.

I also lost a kidney in that attack, but I can function with one of those. It’s the hand that’s the problem. The doctors were great, they did everything they could, even some experimental, cutting-edge surgeries, but after months of working my hand until it hurt to twitch my fingers, I can still barely hold a gun. I can’t write worth a damn either. The only thing I can really do without too much effort is grasp a fork or spoon. Which does me a fat lot of good in a battle situation.

Of course, I knew this would happen when I gave Lucian’s gift of vampire blood to Lassiter, but Lassiter needed it more than I did. The head injury he got while fighting one of the first infected practitioners in Delos’ curse plot would’ve killed him or left him a vegetable until the rest of his body finally broke down. That wasn’t an acceptable outcome to me. So I gave him the blood. And it worked. He’s made close to a full recovery, from what I hear. He’s already back on the job, though he’s stuck on desk work for a few more months. Balance problems or something.

Even vampire blood isn’t a perfect cure-all. Its effects diminish when you apply it to older injuries. It doesn’t work on scars at all.

I prod my palm—some places have no feeling, thanks to nerve damage—and then slip my glove back on. Putting the truck back into drive, I pull away from the sidewalk and head past the DSI building. Everyone’s been sending me cards and flowers and free food and all sorts of other crap while I’ve been away, a mountain of apologies for their inability to help me after Delos falsely accused me of being a spy and tried to brainwash me, and I know if I go in that the pity train will keep on chugging. I don’t think I can handle it right now. I’m moping enough on my own.

It’s not an easy thing to accept I can’t be a detective anymore. That the next time I clock in for a shift, I’ll be escorted to a desk somewhere, dropped off like a package, and left behind to sit at a computer while everyone else runs off to save the day. But I can’t be in the field, fighting bad guys, if I can’t use most of my weapons. One hand’s not going to cut it.

I suppose my only consolation is that Riker’s stuck at a desk too.

Hey, maybe I can get a desk outside his big commissioner office, and we can brood together over our lunch breaks.

God, I can’t imagine what a bad mood Riker’s been in since he got bumped up from elite captain to commissioner…after shooting the last commissioner in the head in order to save my life. According to some of the texts and calls I’ve gotten from various people in the know, he’s been pretty close to unbearable to everyone in his immediate vicinity, including Mayor Burbank, who’s bowed to pretty much every demand Riker has made in the past three months. (See: the new, massive, heavily fortified DSI building that probably cost half the city’s yearly budget.)

On one hand, his forceful, no-nonsense attitude has pushed DSI into a much better position, giving us the chance to properly combat the rising supernatural threats to the city. On the other hand, Riker’s a scary son of a bitch when he’s mad. He’s made people cry.

(No, not me. I’ve cried in plenty of other situations though. Probably around a hundred situations since I joined DSI.)

(Damn, I cry a lot, don’t I? Must be the PTSD.)

Anyway, DSI has changed a lot while I’ve been away. And I guess I’ve changed too.

Only time will tell whether any of those changes pan out, or crash and burn.

I drive on for another ten minutes, vaguely heading in the direction of my apartment. As I do, I survey Aurora at large, looking for signs of recent supernatural conflict. But despite the glaring exception of the construction site where the Wellington Wallace Convention Center used to be, everything in the city looks to be in working order. The Methuselah Group has gone dark in the wake of Delos’ arrest, any and all remaining members moving underground so as to avoid arrest by DSI or the ICM. They’ll be back eventually, of course, once they replenish their numbers and appoint a new local leader keen on terrorizing the city.

The rest of the city’s supernatural criminals have been subdued as well in recent weeks, according to Ella. Likely the result of Delos’ curse epidemic, where over a hundred innocent people died and hundreds more were sickened. The National Guard quarantined the city. There was rioting. Looting. A curfew. A near total social breakdown. It was a massive shakeup. Threw everyone off. Even the low-brow supernatural criminals had to take a breather. I’m sure they’ll be back to committing regular acts of violence and mayhem soon enough, just like Methuselah.

On a whim, I swing into an Arby’s drive-thru to grab some dinner. Just as I’m rattling off my order, something starts ringing in the passenger seat of the truck. It’s not my phone—that’s in the cup holder—so I lean over, unzip the backpack in the seat, and slip out the iPad I must’ve accidentally left on when I was packing my stuff for move-out earlier. As I suspected, I have an incoming video call from a familiar person.

I dig a wad of cash out of my pocket and pull up to the window to pay. While the lady is busy counting my change, I hit the answer prompt on the tablet screen, and a pretty blond appears. Look who’s awake way too early in the morning, I drawl, again.

Cooper, who’d been eying something off screen, jumps at the sound of my voice. Then he purses his lips. My sleeping habits are much better than yours. You don’t get to judge. I just work weird hours here.

Here is a secret facility on the outskirts of Omsk, Russia that Cooper was unceremoniously shipped off to as punishment for helping me escape the DSI office when Delos came to arrest me. At first, I planned to do everything in my power to get Cooper back on American soil, but when it became clear that I’d be out of the field for several months, we decided it might be best for Coop to play out the six-month term as a researcher, like the project leaders wanted. He’s making a crap-ton of money, and the work interests him. And despite being in the literal tundra, he seems to be pretty content where he is.

I have a feeling he’d have ended up much less happy if he’d been here to witness my shitty behavior in the first few weeks of my rehab course. It was a good call, on Ella’s part, suggesting he stay in Russia. I never did thank her for that. I’ll make sure to do it first thing when I finally drum up the courage to walk into the new DSI building.

Grabbing my change, I drive up to the second window and wait for my food. Yeah, yeah, weird hours researching weird stuff, I say to Cooper. Any cool tidbits you can tell me about today?

He shakes his head. Sorry, all top-secret stuff today. If I speak a word of it, I’ll probably end up in a shallow grave in the permafrost. He chuckles, but there’s something about the sound that isn’t quite genuine. I take in his expression. Relieved, like usual, to see me in relative good health. Happy but also mildly irritated, like usual, because we can only talk for a short time each day, due to the great distance between us. Tired, like usual, from an erratic work schedule, the project leaders always redirecting the focus of whatever experiments they’re running based on milestone results.

At first glance, Cooper seems to be in his normal mood. There’s an edge to it, however, that I can’t identify. It’s not exactly fear or worry. Maybe apprehension.

Something happen? I say, reaching out the window to snatch my food bag. I drop it into my lap, pull away from the restaurant, and seek out a place I can stop to eat so I don’t have to juggle food and a video call while driving. Last thing I need is a reckless driving citation my first day back in town.

Can’t slip anything past you, huh? Cooper nibbles on his lip, eyes downcast.

Nope. Not at this point. I’ve gotten really good at reading your face, since that’s pretty much all I ever see. I say the words in a ribbing tone, rounding back to a joke we’ve been beating to death for months. Because the Omsk project is so secretive, all the employees’ outside communications are heavily monitored. So Cooper and I can’t get away with anything even remotely sexual without creating an amateur porno for some guy at a security desk. As a result, we’ve been stuck in a somewhat…frustrated state, nothing passing between us but cheesy romance lines and wink-wink hints about future sexual encounters. Bah. Long-distance relationships suck.

Cooper smiles, but again, the expression is weighed down by whatever he’s hesitating to tell me. Well, I could give you a nice show, but I’m not fond of peeping toms, so I’m going to have to pass.

A nice park two blocks down catches my attention, and I head toward it. All right, Coop. Stop beating around the bush. What’s bothering you?

He scratches the back of his head. It’s not that anything bad has happened. It’s just that I’m slightly uncomfortable with the direction some of the research topics are taking. Especially as we move further from theoretical stuff and closer to actual applications. I don’t think the project heads are ‘up to anything,’ of course, but I think in some respects, a good portion of the work being done is creeping toward morally dubious.

The tension in my back eases as I parallel park next to the sidewalk that borders the park. Is that all? I ask, picking up the tablet so he can get a better view of me. Look, if you feel uncomfortable with the stuff they’ve assigned to you, then lodge a complaint. Maybe they can move you to some other work. I’m sure they won’t force you to keep going a direction you can’t support, if you make your objections known.

I dig around in the Arby’s bag and grab my sandwich. Hell, maybe they don’t even realize that what they’re doing might be construed as reprehensible. Those scientist types can wear blinders sometimes. Tell them what you don’t like, make sure they’re aware of the possible issues, and be firm in your convictions.

Cooper nods along to my words. Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I haven’t voiced my opinions yet. I guess… He sighs. I got comfortable being kind of bold at the DSI office, around people I knew and worked with every day. But over here, with all these distant acquaintances, most of whom are way older and more experienced than me, I guess I lost my nerve.

I smile. Hey, that’s understandable. Don’t beat yourself up.

He gives me a flat stare. You did not just say that to me. Not Cal ‘I cry when I can’t save everyone’ Kinsey.

Dude, I say, drawing out the word, low blow.

He raises an eyebrow. Am I wrong?

I hold my tongue. Because there’s no point in answering. We both know he’s not wrong. I’m a self-sacrificing idiot who takes the weight of the world on my shoulders despite knowing it’s one day going to crush me like a bug. Depending on how you look at it, that’s either my biggest strength or my biggest flaw. Either way, it’s the reason I always end up in the hospital, and the reason I always end up in tears at the end of a major DSI investigation. Death, destruction, and devastation suck ass. They hurt my poor little heart.

Cooper adjusts his tablet to give me a better angle of him. So, first day back. How’s Aurora?

Well, no one’s dying from the plague today.

An improvement.

And nothing’s on fire—that I can see.

A miracle.

I take a big bite out of my sandwich and speak with my mouth full. And the new DSI building looks like a freaking castle on the outside.

Cooper looks impressed for a second. Then he narrows his eyes. What about on the inside?

I stick the straw for my soda into my mouth and slurp loudly.

Cal, he says, you didn’t even go in, did you?

I can’t deal with it, Coop—I chew on the straw—those guilty looks they all give me. It was bad enough having visitors while I was downstate. I can’t imagine how smothered I’ll feel when surrounded by them, all those agents, people I know and people I don’t, tiptoeing around me like they think a loud sound will make me fall apart. They all act like they played some crucial part in my ‘downfall’ and they have to pay penance in the form of endless gifts and hushed murmurs and pitying smiles. I hate it. I fucking hate it.

I know you do. Cooper smiles sadly. Not in a patronizing way, but in a way that shows he truly understands how I feel. He’s never said so, but I’m pretty sure he got treated the same way by most of his DSI acquaintances after being kidnapped and nearly killed in the Etruscan Underworld. Considering that most people thought Cooper was a weak, spineless archivist back then, his treatment might’ve even left him feeling worse than I do now. And I feel like a dog that got hit by a car and narrowly avoided being euthanized.

But Cal, he continues, you’re going to have to face them all sometime. And it’s best to rip off the band-aid, you know. Do it fast. Storm in there and show them you’re still Cal Kinsey, the same brash, wise-cracking ass of a hero you were before. Force them to accept you’re not some kicked puppy who needs to be carefully petted. Demand the respect. Demand they treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

I blink. Like an…ass?

Exactly.

I’m sorry. I set my sandwich down. When did that become a compliment?

It’s not a compliment, he replies. You were looking for practical advice on getting everybody to treat you the same way they did before you got shot. If you want advice on a personality lift, you’ll have to pay me more lip service first.

I gawk at him, offended yet also amused. Damn, Cooper, tell me how you really feel.

I always tell you how I really feel. He rests his chin on his hand, grinning. Ever since that day I dragged your moping butt out of your apartment and forced you to go on a date with me. See, I learned my lesson, Cal, back during the convention center case. If I’m not blunt with you about the way I feel, you’ll steadfastly ignore every hint that I have strong feelings for you because you’re paranoid that you’ll screw up a relationship. So, yeah, I do think you’re an ass sometimes. His grin widens. A lovable ass though. And quite a nice ass too.

I slap my hand over my face, a deep laugh rumbling in my chest. You’re awful. I love you.

Cooper’s blue eyes soften. I love you too. And—

A knock sounds off behind him. He swears and looks over his shoulder, calling out for someone to wait.

Got to go? I ask.

Yeah. He pushes his chair back from the desk where the iPad is sitting. I have to review some test results from yesterday afternoon and then get started on several more lines of research based on what those results are. That’s why I’m up so early. Testing ran late yesterday, and if we don’t finish this stage by tonight, we’ll be behind on the overall schedule. Anyway…

I’ll see you later. I pick up my sandwich again and wave it at him.

You better. He reaches forward to press the end call button but pauses. And Cal, try to take it easy, will you? It’s your first day back in Aurora. Don’t go looking for trouble.

I never go looking for trouble, I say. It comes looking for me.

He rolls his eyes. Sure it does.

The call ends, and the screen goes blank.

Ah, Cooper. I do love you. And I mean that too. I was so hesitant to let myself get fully attached to him in the first few months of our relationship, even when he was practically living in my apartment. I was so worried something would go wrong, and he’d be snatched away from me by some awful stroke of fate, or I’d die and leave him grieving, or a hundred other terrible things would happen. But I realized, that day in the storage room, when Cooper first told me he loved me, while he was in the process of saving my ass at the cost of his own, that I was being a pathetic coward.

If Cooper is willing to go the distance, let himself feel deep and potentially dangerous emotions for me, regardless of the consequences, then I owe it to him to be just as genuine. Suppressing my feelings because I’m afraid of them and the potential they have to hurt me and others isn’t an act of heroism or mercy or any other feel-good action I can cook up. In fact, the complete opposite is the heroic thing to do. Being honest. With myself. And with those around me.

And the truth is that I love Cooper Lee. In a dramatic, whirlwind, world-shaking, love-conquers-all sort of way? Perhaps not. But you don’t need any kind of epic love story to strike up a genuine romance with somebody. And you don’t need some raging bonfire of emotion to form a powerful bond. Sometimes, I believe, it’s the small, steady flames that burn the longest, and as a result, provide light when it’s needed most.

Okay, so I read that last line in a self-help book.

Sue me. I suck at relationships.

But I’m trying, all right?

Once I finish my dinner, I slip the iPad back into place in my bag. As I’m moving to zip the bag closed, my fingers brush something. A letter. My gut twists at the feeling of the grain of the paper, because I remember clenching it tightly, fingers crinkling the edges, as I read the message several times in a row after it arrived in my temporary mailbox downstate.

The letter is from Erica, and it describes her first few months under the care of Omotoke Iyanda, and the work she’s being pressed into at the behest of the High Court for her indiscretions in Aurora. Erica tried her best to sound, if not happy, then indifferent, making the most of her situation. But I could read between the lines. She hates being there. She wants to come home.

But she can’t. Because she helped me stop Delos, and in so doing, revealed herself as an associate of DSI outside the ICM’s purview. Now she’s being punished.

I lie back against the seat and sigh deeply, then glance at the time on the console. The sun is sinking low, but it’s not too late yet. I have time to fulfill an obligation I’ve been unwillingly neglecting these past weeks. So I head away from my apartment, toward a neighborhood not too far from the half-built skeleton of what will someday be a new Wellington Center.

When I park, I don’t immediately get out of the vehicle. I observe the occult shop, windows dark, blinds drawn, no activity inside, with a keen eye, and search the surrounding streets for untoward witnesses. Finding nothing suspicious, I cut the engine, hop out, and walk over to the alleyway between the shop and the bistro next door. I stand at the lip of the alley for some time, waiting for, I don’t know, Lucian to show up and make jabs, or a body to fall from the roof, or a dozen other awful things that have happened to me in alleyways repeat themselves. But, of course, nothing happens.

It’s a slow day in Aurora.

That and nobody knows I’m back.

I mosey on over to the side door and slip Erica’s key from my pocket, then quickly unlock the door and enter the shop. I close the door and relock it behind me. Because I’m paranoid like that.

I carefully make my way through the little storage area next to the door and emerge into the expansive back room of the building, where Erica keeps all the real magic items. The merchandise in the front is just a collection of tourist-trap trinkets. Stuff like mystic gems and power crystals and prayer stones and harmless plants that’ll supposedly bring you good luck if you burn them under a full moon. You know the spiel.

The public face of the shop is a front that allows Erica to operate an easily located supplier for practitioners in Aurora. Oh, and a way for her to hide the sale of real magical items under the guise of fake stuff so that the IRS and Uncle Sam don’t give her the stink eye. The upper echelons of the federal government accept the existence of the supernatural underworld, but that doesn’t mean they have to like it. They’ve been known to hassle practitioners with legit magic-related businesses, simply because they can.

I find a light switch and flick it on, a soft yellow glow filling the room. Spread throughout the room are groups of burlap sacks stuffed with various dried plants, buckets filled with jewels that might well be priceless, hundreds of vials on dozens of shelves, each of them labeled in multiple languages, animal body