“I remember this.” I looked at Wendy as we inched forward in the gigantic line to pay. “This happened back when I was in high school.”
“God, you’re old,” Wendy said.
“Thanks,” I muttered. The Davernfield Incubus had been a supernatural serial killer who’d been active roughly sevenyears prior. They’d targeted female members of the Succubi community. The psycho killed nearly a dozen before he’d been caught.
Pulling the book closer, I inspected the front cover. A mishmash of newspaper clippings of the case were plastered all across it, making it look like the crime hadactuallybeen covered by the human world. In reality, the humans never knew about this monster. All the investigations had been carried out in secret. There were, of course, mystical people of our kind who could pass for human—shifters, witches, werewolves, and others who infiltrated the human world. They’d been the ones to find the Davernfield Incubus.
Flipping the book over, I read the blurb.
During the shadowy nights of October, a treacherous entity roved the streets of Chicago. A dark presence bent on mutilation, torture, and death. For three weeks in the hidden Davernfield neighborhood, an incubus rained down horror, nearly destroying the already small succubus population. The monster almost escaped justice.
In this book, we will take you on the terrifying hunt for one of the most brutal serial killers in magical history. A man who is more animal than sentient being. A man by the name of Claude Domitius, an incubus demon of ancient lineage, driven mad by his hatred for women—and succubi in particular—forever known as the Davernfield Incubus. We will pull back the curtains of the centuries of his life and try to discover what could drive a being like him to such depravity.
We will tell you of the brave searches through night-cloaked alleys, dank sewers, and chaoticnightclubs;of the tirelesshunt by a bear shifter beat cop and a witch detective who put everything on the line to catch the killer, andlastly,we’ll explore the story of the man who truly broke the case, a brave and intrepid private investigator, a veritable legend in the magical world after this case. Declan McClintoc, a human who used his gifts of investigation to find the lair of the Davernfield Incubus. These three heroes hunted and captured the killer, all while keeping their true natures and the truth of the search hidden from their human counterparts.
We, the authors, caution you. These pages contain graphic details and descriptions of the victims and photos from the crime scene. Enter this book if you dare!
“Sounds a little?—”
“Awesome!” Wendy said, as we moved up in the queue.
“I was going to say morbid, and what is this blurb on the back? I’ve never seen something that melodramatic.”
Wendy snatched the book back. “It’s great. Really sets the tone.”
“Did this McClintoc guy write this book? It makes him sound like Double-Oh-Seven.”
She snatched the book from me and cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously? He’s only like thebestprivate investigator in the magical world. Don’t you keep up with the stories?”
“Apparently not,” I said. “Never heard of the guy.”
“You’vegotto get out more. He’s notfamousfamous, but he’s an underground legend. I heard Uncle Balthazar saying he disappeared from the public eye a few years ago, though.”
“Interesting,” I muttered, then pointed at the book again. “Are you sure you’re old enough to read that?”
“It’s fine. I used to watchThe First 48with my dad all the time, this is basically the same thing,” Wendy said, waving me off. “I’ve read advanced stuff before. I’ve read every single one of the originalSherlock Holmesbooks.”
“All of those?” I said, a little surprised she’d read something with such old vernacular and written so long ago.
She shrugged. “No big deal. I read alot. It’s what I do when I’m lonely.”
Her words pierced my heart
“Okay, but how are you paying for all this?” I said, eyeing the books and glasses, doing math in my head. “This wasn’t some trick to get me to give you a rideandbuy you stuff, right?”
She grinned and shook her head before tugging a credit card out of her front pocket.
“Nope. Uncle Balthazar gave me this,” she said. “It’s for emergencies, but gettingthese”—she held the books up—“is an emergency.”
I snorted and put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s your funeral,” I said. “Don’t blame me if he chews your ass again when he sees the credit card statement.”
Wendy shrugged. “That’s a problem for Future Wendy. Tonight, all I’m excited about is getting back home and reading the first chapter before I pass out.”
Thirty minutes later, we were back in the car, heading toward the academy.
“Aren’t you gonna read some of that book on the way home? It’s a long drive,” I said as we pulled onto the highway.
“Iwould,” she said, her voice dripping with bitterness, “But I can’t read in the car. I’ll get motion sick unless I look straight ahead. It’s freaking lame.”
