Brax turned to Clay, “Increase the number of patrols and pull in the wolves not on duty. I don’t want to lose any others if we can help it.”
Clay nodded as Brax stood.
Guess that was our cue to leave.
“Any possibility of grabbing snacks before we go? Maybe chips?” I asked hopefully. The blood had taken care of my blood lust, but now I was craving something salty.
The two ignored me.
I took that as a no. Maybe I could get him to stop somewhere for fries.
*
The first crime scene was a bust in terms of potential clues. This wasn’t a huge surprise as Jason’s house—the scene of his violent death—had been thoroughly cleaned months ago. The house lay empty, any helpful information picked clean by Brax’s people. All of Jason’s records had been removed and his possessions placed in storage.
The place where the kelpie’s body had washed ashore was near the Alum Creek reservoir and was equally unhelpful as it wasn’t where the murder had taken place.
Brax remained quiet and uncommunicative as we visited each scene, not sharing his observations.
That was fine by me. It let me think, and the silence was welcome. It had been a long time since I’d interacted with other people this much. It was taking some getting used to. I’d never been a particularly social person, preferring most of my interactions in groups of three or less. I was what you’d classify as an introvert. It drove my sister, Jenna, nuts as she was an extreme extrovert.
Brax made a right off High Street into the Park of Roses. The park was a nice little oasis of nature in the middle of Clintonville, an up and coming neighborhood on the border of the city. The houses were charming but overpriced and every young twenty something couple in the city wanted to live there due to all of the trendy restaurants and shops in walking distance. It was hip but had poor schools, which was why it was forever on the up and coming list. If you didn’t have kids, the neighborhood was great. Those with pint sized replicas who still craved houses with old world charm tended to gravitate to the more upscale neighborhoods of Upper Arlington and Grandview.
The park was right behind a branch of the Columbus Metropolitan Library and backed into the Olentangy River. Bike paths threaded through the woods, and for those who wanted something a little tamer, they could take a walk in one of the largest rose gardens in the U.S. which featured nearly 400 varieties. Or so the description on the sign said.
It was a popular venue for senior photos and weddings. It was also home to a tribe of dryads, one of which was the victim of our murderer.
Brax drove slowly through the park, watching the trees carefully. There was a small building on the hill that served as a reception hall or meeting place for those who reserved the venue.
Tonight, we weren’t here for the roses. The tree of this particular dryad had been close to the large pond next to the park. The dryad’s tree was large and shaped like a mushroom. Even in the dark, I could see its bare branches, which should still be cloaked in vivid red leaves. Without the Dryad that was tied to it, the tree would continue to wither and eventually die.
Brax parked in the closest spot he could. He dropped his keys into the cup holder next to him.
“Aren’t you going to take them with you?”
“We’re just going right there.” He pointed at the tree. It wasn’t far, but I’d been raised with security always at the forefront of everything I did. Leaving your keys in the car was just asking for trouble.
“Still.”
“No one’s going to steal the car,” he said. “Right now, there’s no one besides us in the park. I’ll hear anybody coming a mile away.”
He shouldered open the door and got out. I unclicked my belt and followed. It was his car. If he wanted to risk it, that was his business.
We crossed over the grass to the tree. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my borrowed jacket and tilted my head back.
The tree wasn’t very old, probably no more than fifty years. The normals were probably puzzled at the inexplicable slow decline.
“This was the third death we know of,” Brax said.
“Do you know where the dryad was found?”
He gestured with his chin, “It would have been right next to the pond.”
That was a big area to search. Neither of us bothered with flashlights as we circled the area. We had superior night vision and didn’t need the additional light giving our movements away.
If I remembered correctly, the dryad had died at the beginning of August. With October drawing to a close, I doubted we would find anything useful.
I paused at a stone marked with several late blooming flowers. They grew so they framed the stone perfectly. It was strange to find this so far from the rose garden. From my limited knowledge of flowers, these were probably wildflowers and looked untended by any gardener’s hand. Despite that, they thrived, growing in a riotous explosion of color despite the late season.
