Graveyard Shift: Shades Below, #4

By LJK Oliva

How do you save a monster who doesn't want to be saved?

 

A wolf attack outside Babylon is more than mere coincidence. It's a message… and a threat.

 

Psychic medium Lena Alan doesn't have time for monsters.

 

Finally back in her own universe, she's still coming to terms with what she saw inside the quantum elevator. When a young woman is slaughtered outside the city's most infamous subversive club, Lena realizes she can't avoid monsters anymore. At the request of private detective Jesper MacMillian's enigmatic landlord, she and MacMillian team up to hunt down the killer.

 

Their investigation takes them deep into San Francisco's dangerous and violent werewolf scene, considered extreme even by Demimonde standards. But there's more to this crime than meets the eye. With one of Babylon's owners ready to confess, Lena and MacMillian must race to find the truth before it's too late.

 

Is Daniel Zerubbabel the monster they're hunting?

 

Can they save him from his real enemy: himself?

 

In the city's darkest shadows, Lena and MacMillian push their partnership to the brink… and make a choice that will change it forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.J.K. Oliva
• Release date: May 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201188306

LJK Oliva

L.J.K. OLIVA writes gritty urban fantasy in the Shades Below ShadowVerse. She spent much of her childhood exploring the creeks and storm drain tunnels near her house, and remains fascinated by the places no one notices. After all, that's where magic lives. When not poking the thing that lives in her closet, L.J.K. enjoys exploring the shadows of the San Francisco Bay Area and searching for faeries in every creek within driving distance. She hasn't found any yet, but thinks that's because they're better at hiding than she is at looking. She's still waiting for one to slip up.

Book preview

Chapter 1

North Beach, San Francisco - This morning

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Lena Alan stared up at the copper-green façade of The Procyon Building.

She knew it as well as any place in San Francisco at this point, had made the trip to the third floor offices of MacMillian and deCompostela, LLC in the interest of more than one case.

The surrounding North Beach neighborhood was in flux; a revolving landscape of construction and encroaching gentrification. The Procyon was the exception. It looked the same as it must have for the past century or so, from its weathered flatiron grids to its leaded windows.

The squad cars and yellow police tape that cut off the adjacent street, however, were definitely new.

Crime scene techs milled around the sidewalk like carpenter ants in matching jackets. What appeared to be half of North Beach and a sizable portion of Chinatown stood gathered on the other side of the tape, huddled in small clusters, heads bent close in hushed speculation.

Lena eased her way through, hands burning from the twin hot cups she was carrying. She took a sip from one of them as she scanned the crowd. Lady Londonderry blazed a malty, floral trail down her throat.

A familiar face jumped out at her. Lena lifted the hot cups into the air. Jes!

Jesper MacMillian’s familiar dark head jerked up from where he stood near Babylon’s glass front doors. Lena could feel the instant his eyes landed on her. He raised a hand, his curved black cane hooked over his arm.

Lena scootched around the remaining onlookers between them. As always, standing with MacMillian made her feel even shorter than she already was. He’d left his coat somewhere—his office, probably—and his button-down shirt strained over his broad shoulders. His hair was longer than she remembered; whether by design or neglect, she couldn’t be sure. The scruff on his jaw was in imminent danger of turning into a beard.

Flanking him were two other men she recognized. Aloysius Paul and Daniel Zerubbabel watched the police progress on the other side of the tape, their expressions carved in stone.

Both turned as she approached. Aloysius inclined his head. Ms. Alan.

Mr. Paul. Lena planted herself next to MacMillian. What happened here?

MacMillian’s face was grim. A murder.

Lena gaped up at him. Seriously? She craned her neck and peered over the crime scene tape with fresh interest. Anyone we know?

MacMillian shook his head. Cops said it was a woman. Early twenties. Happened sometime last night. He eyed the hot cups in her hands. Is one of those for me?

Oh. Yeah. Absently, Lena passed him one, then wiped her fingers on her red trench coat. Was Babylon open? Did anyone see anything?

Daniel shifted his weight. A deep groove formed in his forehead.

Nah. Babylon’s closed on Mondays. No witnesses. MacMillian took a sip, winced. Tea?

Lena swapped the cups. Do you know anything else?

Aloysius spoke up. By the time we knew anything had happened, the police had the whole area cordoned off. His usually impeccable suit was noticeably wrinkled. Dark bags shaded the skin under his eyes. He heaved a sigh and straightened his tie. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go prepare for the mountain of paperwork this is going to cause. Should probably draft a press release, while I’m at it.

Lena nodded, only half listening. Her focus zeroed in on the trash bins on the other side of the tape. They’d been knocked over, their contents strewn up and down the sidewalk. Amid the scattered trash was a woman’s running shoe.

Even from where she was standing, Lena could see it was spattered with something dark and brown. Her stomach lurched.

Another familiar figure caught her attention. He noticed her at the same time. Lena’s mouth went dry. She pasted what must have been a too-bright smile on her face and lifted her hand in a wave.

Who are you—oh. MacMillian followed the line of her gaze. What the hell is he doing here?

Lena kept her smile firmly in place. Now’s our chance to ask him. He’s coming over.

Inspector Mark Durbin picked his way through the trash and forensics techs. His expression darkened with each step.

Lena rocked forward on her heels and tried in vain to quash the apprehension tightening in her chest. It’s good he’s here. This is good. Maybe he can give us some answers.

MacMillian didn’t answer. Lena tore her eyes from Durbin and looked up at him.

He took a long, slow sip of his coffee.

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She was wearing the ring.

MacMillian stared at it as Durbin ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. The plain copper band gleamed on the fourth finger of Lena’s right hand. It had been months since he’d slipped it on that finger. Months since he’d pulled her from the quantum elevator. Months when it should have tarnished, weathered.

It hadn’t.

Which meant she wasn’t just wearing it. She was polishing it.

Durbin joined them with a sigh. Figures you two would show up.

MacMillian tore his eyes from the ring. Sure does. Seeing as how I work here and all.

He felt the look of censure Lena aimed at him. Ignored it.

Durbin didn’t so much as snort. Closer inspection revealed the lines in his face had deepened. So had the bags under his eyes. For the first time since MacMillian had known him, he looked… old.

He wasn’t at all proud of the petty satisfaction that gave him.

Durbin stripped off the latex gloves he was wearing and dragged a hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair. I suppose you’re after the particulars.

Lena nodded. Anything you can tell us.

He gave her a loaded look, then blew out a breath. Vic is a 23-year-old female named Christina Kyle, formerly of North Beach. Looks like she was out for a jog. The display on her wearable fitness tracker was frozen at 10:45 pm.

MacMillian frowned. Dead jogger doesn’t seem like your usual. Why did you get called in?

Durbin’s gray eyes met his. Because a wolf attack in the middle of San Francisco apparently counts as weird.

MacMillian raised an eyebrow.

Before any of them could say anything else, a woman’s sharp voice cut through the crisp morning air.

Why the hell is this body still here?

Durbin’s shoulders tensed. He rolled his eyes skyward, as if in prayer. Fuck.

MacMillian looked past him in time to see one of the techs point in their direction. Next to them, arms crossed, stood an African-American woman he recognized. Just like the last time they’d met, her black hair was pulled into a knot. A badge was clipped to the front of her trousers.

She followed the tech’s pointed finger before he could look away. Their eyes met. The woman’s frown morphed into a scowl.

MacMillian rolled his eyes skyward. Fuck.

Chelsea Chandler crossed the street, stopping on the other side of the crime scene tape. Her sharp black eyes narrowed. I should have guessed the Spook Squad would come sniffing around this one. If it isn’t Inspector Mark Durbin and his... she looked from Lena to MacMillian, psychics.

Lena gave her a bland look. MacMillian swallowed a smirk.

Chandler’s eyes came to rest on him. Haven’t seen you two since you crashed my crime scene. What was that club called again? She snapped her fingers. That’s right. Hell Maus.

MacMillian had no doubt she remembered just fine. He kept his face carefully casual. How did that go, by the way? Ever find who did it?

No, actually. But it’s still an open case. Chandler’s gaze turned razor-sharp. Any new piece of information could lead to an arrest.

The implications couldn’t have been clearer. MacMillian clamped his mouth shut.

Durbin finally cleared his throat and turned. Inspector Chandler. So kind of Homicide to lend their support. And my team and I find the name ‘Spook Squad’ offensive.

Take it up with HR, Durbin. Chandler’s voice could have cut glass. You’re not used to the big leagues, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised there’s still a murder victim cooling on the sidewalk. In a properly-run investigation, we try to get the bodies out of sight of the general public as quickly as possible.

A muscle ticked in Durbin’s jaw. Thank you, Inspector. As soon as we’ve managed to gather all the pieces, I’ll get right on it.

Chandler didn’t flinch. Messes are part of the job. I don’t know how it worked down in General, but in Homicide, we don’t use that as an excuse. She looked Durbin up and down. Stick to ghosts, Inspector. The real monsters in this city are human.

With one final glance at Lena and MacMillian, she turned on her heel and marched back up the sidewalk.

MacMillian unclenched his hand from the head of his cane. Lena released a breath. Wow.

Durbin rubbed the back of his neck. Rumor is, she’s been tapped for a transfer to my department. If it goes through, I might have to retire early.

Chandler’s barked orders echoed off the surrounding buildings. A few minutes later, a pair of techs wearing OCME jackets rushed up with a rolling stretcher. MacMillian watched as they carefully lowered it to ground-level. After a flurry of activity, they raised it again, this time bearing a figure covered in a black plastic sheet.

Durbin’s expression turned hollow. Not gonna lie, I’ve never seen anything like this one. Poor kid was practically ripped to pieces. Reminded me of Little Red Riding Hood, in that red jogging jacket.

MacMillian’s gaze fell to Lena’s red trench coat. Acid rose in the back of his throat. He didn’t realize he’d tightened his grip on his coffee mug until the cardboard sleeve groaned.

Durbin shook himself. Well, I’d better get going before our intrepid Inspector Chandler tries to put this down to something simple, like PCP. He ducked back under the police tape and jogged after the stretcher without a backward glance.

Thought he’d never leave.

MacMillian jerked as Daniel straightened from where he’d been leaning against the building. Shit. Forgot you were still here.

From the rattled look on Lena’s face, so had she. She took a gulp of her tea.

Daniel looked even worse than he had earlier. His shaggy brown hair was too messy to be intentional. His brown eyes were sunken, the hollows of his face deeper than usual. His pale green polo and khaki slacks looked like they’d been slept in.

He glanced at the police still crawling over the sidewalk, then jerked his head in a come-with-me motion. Let’s go inside. There’s something I need to tell you.

Chapter 2

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Even before meeting MacMillian, Lena had always wondered what was on the top floor of The Procyon Building.

Now, finally, she was going to find out.

The elevator doors dinged open, and she followed MacMillian and Daniel into a surprisingly lux hallway. The lush, wine-colored carpet would have looked at home in a five-star hotel. Understated sconces cast a glow over black wood-paneled walls hung with fine paintings. Not one of them looked like a replica.

Daniel led the way to the first of two closed doors, and knocked. Aloysius’ voice rumbled through the wood.

Enter.

Daniel pushed open the door, then held it as she and MacMillian went inside. Lena tried to decipher his expression. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Aloysius Paul’s office was even more lavish than the hallway. The black wood paneling continued inside, matching the ornate admiral’s desk towards the rear of the room. A pair of black leather club chairs claimed the center of the floor, a black marble table placed strategically between them.

Along one wall, black shelves displayed an expensive-looking assortment of fine liquor bottles. They ended in a custom-built humidor, also black. Only the wine-dark red of the carpet broke the monochrome.

The smell of cigar smoke filled the air. Behind the desk, Aloysius had removed his charcoal pinstripe suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The top two buttons were undone, his tie loosened. Pinched between two fingers was a cigar. Smoke wafted from the glowing cherry at the end.

He took a final puff, then stubbed it out in an ashtray on the desk. What’s wrong? The cops need something else?

Daniel said he had something to tell us. MacMillian shifted so he was beside Lena. Both hands moved to the head of his cane. So? What is it?

Daniel stared at an invisible speck on the carpet. This was no wolf attack.

Lena’s mind raced. But Mark said—

I know what he said. He’s wrong. Daniel took a deep breath. This was no wolf attack. This was a werewolf attack.

Aloysius didn’t speak. Lena traded glances with MacMillian. Apprehension tightened familiar coils around her chest.

MacMillian leaned into his cane, an unreadable look on his face. Okay.

Daniel blew the breath back out with a whoosh. It might have been me.

Aloysius’ expression hardened. MacMillian blinked.

Lena fought to stay composed. Might have been?

I don’t know for sure. I can’t remember what happens when I turn. Daniel looked at MacMillian. His mouth twisted. You remember what I was like last time the Wild Hunt was in town. I don’t control my wolf. He controls me.

Lena’s pulse sped up. The fine hairs on her arms prickled. So you’re not a shifter. You’re—

A lycanthrope. I try not to let it get around. Daniel’s shoulders sagged. I’ve looked for a cure. I’ve tried everything.

Lena crossed her arms as warring sides of her fought for control. No more monsters. But Daniel didn’t look like a monster. At least, not like the monsters she’d met. He looked... tired.

In spite of herself, sympathy prickled in the base of her throat.

I thought I was maintaining. I mean, I haven’t had an episode in a while. But lately… Daniel stared down at his hands. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore.

Werewolves. Shit. MacMillian rubbed the back of his neck. But if you had killed that woman, you’d have her blood on your clothes. Do you? Did you?

My clothes tend to get… lost… when I turn. It’s usually not on purpose. Daniel looked up at Lena. His nostrils flared. Your heart’s racing.

Goosebumps rushed over her. Lena took a deep breath and willed her heartbeat to slow. You really think you did this?

I think that woman was killed outside where I work. I think I have no idea where I was or what I was doing. Daniel’s voice grew rough. I think I should go downstairs, find that cop you were talking to, and turn myself in before I hurt someone else.

Now, wait just a moment. Aloysius planted his hands on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. MacMillian is right. Even without your clothes, you’d have been covered in blood when you came in. You weren’t.

So you say, Daniel muttered. Would you tell me if I was?

Aloysius spoke through clenched teeth. You weren’t. And as both your friend and business partner, I’m not going to let you commit ritual suicide for something you don’t even know you did.

I don’t know I didn’t. A flush traveled up Daniel’s neck. Damn it, Si, you can’t keep hiding me from myself. I know what I am.

Aloysius leaned forward. You know what you think you are. It’s not the same.

The atmosphere in the room crackled. Lena shivered. Guys…

Daniel took a step towards the desk. If I want to turn myself in, you can’t stop me.

Aloysius snarled. Black flames leaped up from the floor around him. His eyes flashed molten gold.

Daniel’s eyes flashed pale blue. His answering growl didn’t sound remotely human.

Enough. MacMillian’s sharp voice sliced between them. Both of you.

Aloysius blinked. The flames receded. His eyes returned to normal. He stared at MacMillian as if seeing him for the first time. Of course. He cocked his head. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

MacMillian’s brow furrowed. Think of…?

Aloysius turned to Daniel. We’re not throwing you to the mundanes just yet. Not until we know you did something wrong. He turned back to MacMillian. Fortunately, we have a tenant whose business is finding out such things.

MacMillian coughed. Now, wait just a minute. I didn’t mean… His head swiveled from one of them to the other. At last, he turned to Lena.

She didn’t even have to think about it. Of course.

One dark eyebrow lifted. I didn’t even ask yet.

Lena met his gaze. You don’t have to.

MacMillian didn’t speak. His eyes remained on hers, steady and unreadable. A lifetime’s worth of conversations hovered between them. Lena swallowed. Heat licked under her collar.

Finally, MacMillian turned back to Aloysius. Excuse us. We have some things to discuss.

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MacMillian didn’t let himself breathe again until they were in his office.

He’d always known there was more to the men he shared his building with than met the eye. Hell, he’d seen Daniel when his… condition… overtook him. But somehow, it had all seemed distant. Fantastical, even.

The scene on the sidewalk below brought reality crashing in.

Lena strode across the room and slung herself into the chair behind his desk. It squeaked in protest. So? What’s there to discuss?

MacMillian took the walk more slowly. Did she realize how easily she took over his space? Doubtful. She leaned back, wrists draped over the arms of the chair. The copper ring winked at him from her finger.

Deep in his belly, something stirred.

It took him a moment to realize she was still speaking. We need to take this case.

A different, darker feeling stirred inside him. MacMillian stopped in front of the desk. It’s too soon.

Lena’s vivid blue eyes tracked over him, far too perceptive. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. Too soon for who? Me, or you?

MacMillian exhaled heavily. Both. The lip of his socket jabbed into his groin. He started to pace. You can’t tell me you’re seriously ready to go out and hunt a werewolf. You’re still recovering.

I’m as recovered as I’m ever going to be. Lena’s eyes sparked. If you have any ideas how to recover from getting sucked through a hole in space, I’m all ears. She turned her head so her ear was facing him. Anything? No?

MacMillian’s eye dropped back to the ring. An image leaped into his mind: Lena in a darkened room, surrounded by ghosts, held by… him.

A him he didn’t know. A him that wasn’t him at all.

He chose his next words carefully. You still haven’t told me what happened in those other universes.

Lena’s eyes grew distant, the way they often had since her return. MacMillian waited.

She blinked, and was back. I can’t spend my life in another universe. Her voice sounded tight. Not when there are people in this one who need my help.

MacMillian opened his mouth, shut it again.

Daniel needs us. You saw him up there. He’s a mess. Lena leaned forward, face serious. I don’t think for a second he’s a murderer.

MacMillian kept his eyes on hers. What about a monster?

Uncertainty flickered over her face. Maybe.

That doesn’t bother you?

Of course it does. But it doesn’t matter. Resolution hardened her features. Just because he’s a monster, doesn’t mean he’s guilty. We have to help him. No one else will. He certainly doesn’t seem inclined to help himself.

Damn, he wished she wasn’t right. MacMillian groaned.

Lena’s expression turned smug. She leaned back in his chair. I knew you’d come around.

I always do. He didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he made a show of checking the time on his phone. I have to go. Got an appointment.

Lena wrinkled her nose in a way that threatened to make him forget all about it. Now?

I scheduled it before all this. MacMillian wet his lips. Obviously.

Lena nodded. Of course. She stood. Well, then…

Suddenly, the thought of her leaving turned the inside of his mouth sour. You could stay.

Lena’s eyebrows went up.

MacMillian scrambled. I won’t be long. An hour, at most. He cleared his throat. If you wanted to wait.

Lena sighed. Thanks, but I should probably stop by The Wayfare. Cyrus will want to know what’s happened.

Right. He didn’t want to examine the sinking feeling in his stomach too closely. Want to meet back here, then? After lunch?

Lena’s lips twitched. She strolled around the side of the desk, brushed past him on her way across the room. MacMillian flexed his grip on his cane.

Lena paused at the door. Her eyes found his over her shoulder. There was a twinkle in them he hadn’t seen in a long time.

It’s a date.

Chapter 3

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Businesses often came and went in the central part of downtown.

The tirrúmo on Maiden Lane hadn’t changed for as long as MacMillian could remember.

The gaudy red exterior stuck out in the narrow side street like an inflamed thumb. The neon sign glowed determinedly in the window:

MADAME MARY - PSYCHIC READER

Palmistry, Tea Leaves, Advice

One of the M’s had begun to blink. MacMillian made a mental note to have it fixed.

He stepped through the door, and the knot of tension in the center of his chest loosened. The lights were dimmed, and voices filtered from behind the curtained-off reading room in the corner. MacMillian sat down on the faded, sagging couch and closed his eyes. The smells of incense and candle wax washed over him. And was that cabbage?

His mouth began to water.

Behind the curtain, his grandmother’s voice raised dramatically. And here, this line. I see a great love for you. Is there a man in your life?

MacMillian didn’t hear