Darkest Misery by Tracey Martin Page B

“First Mitch and I are kidnapped. Now Olef is killed. If we’re trying to be discreet, I’d say we failed.”
    Tom’s frown deepened, but he didn’t disagree. “I’ve got to let Ingrid know. They can finish the meeting today without us.”
    Lucen laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I think they’re finished already.” He grabbed my hands as Tom returned to the room. “Are you sure you want to go?”
    â€œPositive. I liked Olef, and let’s be realistic. We needed whatever he was researching. I have to go.”
    He bit his lip. “I only ask because you’re upset, little siren. I don’t want you more upset by visiting the crime scene.”
    â€œI can handle it. I want to be a part of this. I want to find whoever did this, and I want to kill them.”
    Before they could kill anyone else involved. Like the satyr in front of me.
    Since I was leaving with Tom, I was spared the annoyance of being tailed by my satyr bodyguards. We said very little on the drive. There wasn’t much to talk about yet, and I didn’t have much to say regardless. The nausea and dizziness of shock had worn off, leaving me with the awful empty numbness of grief and a slow, simmering anger.
    Just as all preds lived in Shadowtown, the magi grouped together in their own neighborhood known as The Feathers. It was the very opposite of Shadowtown in every conceivable way, from the bright colors to the overwhelming filth.
    Tom had to find parking a couple streets away, and we traipsed down the crowded sidewalks. The cacophony of bike bells and car horns and the cheery flags flying from the streetlamps got under my nerves. It was all too happy and normal. My emotions had been easier to control in the sterile, bland hotel, and again in Tom’s meticulously clean, gray car. I had to refrain from snapping at the people who brushed by me as we walked.
    Thanks to the Gryphon SUVs outside, and the cop car that was pulling away from the curb, it was easy to figure out which building was Olef’s. It stood smack in the middle of a row of enormous Victorians that had been converted into apartments, a green-and-purple monstrosity complete with a turret.
    It was also too garishly cheerful.
    The front door was propped open, and I counted three mailboxes next to it. A cop met us in the tiny foyer. We flashed him our badges, and he pointed past a beat-up bike into a set of dimly lit stairs that had seen better days.
    â€œSecond floor. Your buddies are already here.”
    The stairs creaked mood-appropriate background noise as we climbed, but voices soon drowned out the plaintive sound. The door atop the landing had been propped open, and I slipped inside the apartment after Tom.
    Sadness hit me anew. This place was quintessentially Olef. Exactly as I’d have imagined it. Bookshelves lined every foot of wall space in the living room, each overflowing. More books cluttered the small tables, one of which was overturned, and still others were spread across the floor.
    Overturned.
    I paused, taking a closer inspection. Magi were generally a slovenly lot, but this seemed very not Olef-like. The books weren’t neatly stacked, but strewn everywhere, lying open, spines bent upside down, pages crumpled. Olef was a librarian, and he loved books too much to treat his in such a way, even if he shared the magi predilection for untidiness. “Whoever did this was searching for something. But did they find it?”
    â€œLet’s hope not,” Tom said, and it was the last word he got out before two new Gryphons and an unknown woman appeared around the corner.
    I ignored the woman, who was either plain-clothed PD or from the coroner’s office, and my eyes settled on one of the Gryphons. My unhappy stomach sank further. As if this situation wasn’t unpleasant enough already.
    â€œJess.” Agent Andre Pagan gave me an awkward smile. “Good to see you.”
    Andre had been the