Graeme calls Cassian as we’re heading back to the pack house, and Cassian gestures for Marcus to turn off toward the detective inspector’s rental.
Jack Rudolph beats us there, looking haggard. He has a stack of loose papers, a small notebook and the largest thermos of coffee I’ve ever seen in one hand and he’s texting with the other, all while agitatedly pacing the alleyway.
Graeme lets us all in, and we crowd around his kitchen table just as we have before.
“Mr. Rudolph, your reputation precedes you.”
Jack claps Graeme on the back. “And you yours, detective inspector. Pleasure to finally meet you, but I’m not sure what I can do for you.”
Graeme flips on his electric kettle and leans against the kitchen counter. With my pack and the journalist here, it’s a tight fit, but Jack seems content to stand—and pace.
“You seem to have more latitude, shall we say, in some of your investigations,” Graeme begins. “The leash I’m on is long, but I’m still on one. I can’t get a single police department to cooperate with me on the Saint Jasper killings, and the Royal Bureau won’t get me the warrants I need to force their hands. I’ve heard from my sources around the country that we’re looking at more than two hundred victims, and I haven’t seen a single mention of them in the press.”
Simon looks up from his laptop. “That’s because there hasn’t been. Police reports about the killings are being deleted off encrypted police servers, so that’s great.”
Jack abruptly stops his pacing, nearly running straight into Graeme. “It’s being covered up by law enforcement too? Saints, I’ve been tearing my hair out over these killings. There were fifteen in New Brunswick alone, eight of those on Deer Island. I’ve been working my own channels and I’ve submitted five pieces to my newspaper. Every single one of them has been spiked, and I’ve been thrown on administrative leave.”
Graeme jerks just as he’s picking up a mug from the dish drainer beside the sink, and it falls to the linoleum floor, shattering on impact. He stares down at it glumly and then flicks his scribe, quickly cleaning up the pieces and depositing them in the trash. “And I would guess you’re not the only journalist that’s been chasing this story.”
“Every journalist I know that’s written about the case has been removed from active duty. Some were fired outright. If I hadn’t won so much favor for my exclusive with these two—” he nods to me and Cassian “—I’d probably be out on my ass, too.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Graeme says absently. “Congratulations, you two.” He turns back on Jack, a frown furrowing his brow. “This is worse than I thought. Our free press has been a bastion of justice, and for it to be suppressed… Oh, this is very concerning.”
“And you’re both sure it’s the Soldiers of Saint Aldous?” Marcus asks. “I realize everything points to it being them, but for it to have been possible, they would have had to have a considerable amount of inside knowledge.”
“We don’t know how much Alan Cadigan was able to pass along before he was outed as our mole,” Ian says. “But he knew everyone in our chapter of the resistance. And I imagine he wasn’t the only mole; I don’t doubt that other chapters are dealing with interlopers of their own. But to Mr. Haley’s point, you’re both sure?”
Graeme purses his lips and closes his eyes tightly. “There was… compelling evidence supporting it.”
Distraught revulsion pours off the detective inspector, filling my thoughts.
She shouldn’t hear this.
I look up at him sharply, and he realizes he’s been caught, that I’ve read his thoughts, even if unintentionally.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
“Ah, fuck,” Graeme mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples. “Most of those slain were alphas. In almost all cases, their omegas were left alive. The magical signatures of omega traps were found at the crime scenes, and all the omegas had the wounds you yourself bear the scars from. Forensics suggests… fuck. Forensics suggest they were made to watch their mates being killed.”
No.
No.
Bile rises in my throat, and I squeak out, “Bathroom?”
“First door on the left,” Graeme says, and I dash for it, throwing the door shut behind and making it to the toilet just in time to lose the contents in my stomach. I cry as I heave until I have nothing left inside me and then slump against the cool porcelain.
Cassian knocks on the door a moment later, his scent sharp with worry.
I crawl out of the way of the door and pull it open, and my mate drops to his knees the moment he sees the tear tracks on my reddened face. He fights his own tears as he cleans my face with a tissue and helps me stand so I can swish some water in my mouth.
I should have known what the Soldiers would do. Saints, I’ve worried enough about my own men. But to trap an omega and make her watch while her mate is slain? It’s beyond the pale, but not beyond what I can imagine the Soldiers doing.
I wobble on my feet, and Cassian catches me, picking me up and tucking me close against him. He carries me out to the row house’s tiny family room and sits down on the couch, adjusting me so I’m laying across him. His purr rumbles to life as he rubs my back, and I can’t speak. I can only stare.
Graeme Miller has the saddest Yule tree I’ve ever seen in the corner of his living room, and I stare at the lights and baubles until I’ve calmed. He must not have a mate, I realize. Saints, was he alone for Yule? The thought just makes me sadder.
But it means he’ll never be slain before her eyes.
