Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

The SOCO team had arrived, and were bustling around us in a flurry of blue gloves and sterile bags, camera flashes casting their ethereal glow across the scene.

MacTire stood and brushed dirt from his hands before reaching over imperiously for the evidence bag. His steely gaze met mine, his lip curling into a barely disguised sneer when it wasn't immediately handed over. Yes, his 'Alpha male' personality was back on full display, and I found myself having to count slowly to three in my head, a technique I'd perfected for dealing with men who thought a missing X-chromosome somehow made them superior to everyone else, before I could trust myself to respond with anything resembling professional courtesy.

Without breaking eye contact, I carefully logged the final details into my tablet, taking perhaps a fraction longer than strictly necessary. Protocol had its uses - especially when it doubled as a subtle reminder that his dominance display carried about as much weight as the evidence bag I finally, methodically, placed into his outstretched hand. The gathered techs politely pretended not to notice our little power play, though I caught one of the SOCOs hiding a knowing smirk behind her camera as she photographed the body splayed between us.

No doubt about it, the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes told me the bastard had got the message I was sending. OK, make that smart bastard - holding the envelope up to the sun and using the light to check if there was anything actually inside it - was effective, I could give him that.

But the way his jaw clenched as he held the evidence bag aloft suggested we'd be having words later. Something to look forward to - If I wanted to drag his attitude into this century, I'd need to come up with something he couldn't easily ignore, something more... definitive.
I started to turn, ready to get back to cataloguing the scene, but wasn't fast enough to avoid seeing the way MacTire's eyes shot wide and his face drained of all its colour. OK, the scene was grim - even for a hardened detective - but he hadn't appeared to be bothered by the crime scene pics earlier. Maybe it was the smell, it was pretty rank, but what to do?

Knowing he wouldn't appreciate any sympathy on my part, I decided discretion was the better part of valour and turned back to the body which, swarmed by SOCOs, was currently being lowered with every step meticulously recorded. Lifeless eyes stared accusingly as it suffered this final indignity. I took a step closer, letting my gaze travel over what was left of the chest cavity, motioning for them to turn him over. There were a few wounds but no, no sign of that alchemical nonsense on his back either.

The Coven Killer's brutal, ritualistic signature was gone--leaving just a mess of violence and rage, all heat and no meaning. It was a departure, and that was disturbing.

MacTire's panting breaths were suddenly loud beside me. I glanced over, and couldn't put it off any longer. I was afraid that, with his face ashen and his gaze fixed looking into the distance like that, if he couldn't pull himself together he'd be throwing up all over the evidence in the very near future.

"Do you need to take a breather?" I asked, irritation creeping into my tone as I looked between the body and him.

MacTire blew out a long, slow breath, his expression frozen as he stared down at the envelope as though it were toxic. "Nothing," he muttered, apparently oblivious to my question, as he moved to tuck the evidence bag into his jacket pocket, his hand stopping short and lingering there as if he were afraid it might disappear if he took his eyes off it.

"Come on, MacTire." I scoffed, folding my arms as I caught his eye. "What's got you so worked up?"

He avoided my gaze, eyes still fixed on the envelope as though it held some unholy secret. "Sarah," he finally muttered, voice tight. "This is different. You don't understand."

"What's so fascinating about that envelope?" I snapped, irritated. Before he could answer, I leant over for a better look. The wax seal bore the Supreme Court's insignia--recognisable to any copper worth their salt. But that couldn't account for the look on MacTire's face, or that the way his hands were trembling.

"What's wrong?" I demanded, concern prickling through my annoyance. "It's just the Court's stamp, isn't it?"

He looked at me, a strange, haunted look in his eyes. "You don't understand," he murmured, voice barely audible. I could feel my patience slipping away--this constant veil of secrecy, the half-truths. I'd had enough.

"Then help me understand," I demanded, voice sharp. "If I'm meant to be part of this team, then I deserve to know what the hell's going on."

MacTire sighed, as though he'd just lost some internal battle. "Sarah, there are things... things that are 'need-to-know.' And right now, you aren't cleared to know."

I was about to argue when he held up a hand to silence me, and reached for his comms unit before it's chime had even registered with me. MacTire's face tightened as he listened, and he looked at me with a sort of resigned dread.

"We're being summoned to the Court," he said quietly, slipping the evidence bag into his pocket. "Now."

I had no choice but to gather my things and follow him, frustration simmering. I wanted answers, but all I got was more questions.

***

I'd given up trying to find out more from MacTire after the first few minutes in the car. His responses were nothing more than shrugs or grunts, leaving me frustrated and very pissed off.

The rest of the ride passed in a tense, uncomfortable silence and, frankly, I was glad to see the familiar shape of the Palace of Westminster resolving from the haze - knowing it'd only be a few moments more until I could escape the suffocating atmosphere he'd created in the vehicle.

Middlesex Guildhall, the home of the Supreme Court since its inception, sat opposite the Houses of Parliament, its Gothic Revival façade a stark reminder of the gravitas of our summons. He may have been stubbornly uncommunicative, but MacTire's hands hadn't stopped shaking since we'd left the crime scene - a detail that was becoming harder to ignore with each passing minute. I hadn't known him long, but it was clear the man built his whole persona on being unshakeable, yet here he was, wound so tight he practically vibrated.

Natural light flooded through the arched windows as we entered, catching the polish of the floor and highlighting the elaborate woodwork. We passed through security with our badges, but instead of heading toward the public galleries, MacTire led us deeper into the building. Each checkpoint stripped away another layer of access until we reached a quieter section where even our footsteps seemed muffled by the meticulously crafted carpets. Here, the weight of centuries of legal tradition pressed down like a physical force, the air thick with it.

A clerk appeared - one of those efficient, ageless types who probably knew more state secrets than most cabinet ministers. "I'm afraid there's been a slight delay," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, perfectly matched to the contemplative silence of the space. "Please wait in the antechamber. Someone will fetch you shortly."

MacTire's jaw clenched at the word 'delay,' but he just nodded. The antechamber was exactly what you'd expect - all dark wood panelling and velvet curtains, with oil paintings of stern-faced justices gazing down from ornate frames. The modern coffee machine tucked discretely in one corner seemed almost sacrilegious among the historical gravitas.

I watched as MacTire poured himself a cup, noting how the fine bone china rattled against its saucer. Whatever was in that envelope, whatever had prompted this summons to the highest court in the land, it had rattled him to his core. And now we were being made to wait.

"Bathroom!" I blurted out suddenly, half as an excuse to get out of the room, and half because my morning's coffee marathon was finally staging its rebellion. I darted from the room, following the discrete signs along the wood-panelled corridors. Two rights and a left... or was it two lefts and a right? The building's layout seemed designed to confuse, and I found myself in a section that looked identical to where I'd started, yet somehow completely different.

I rounded another corner and collided with a familiar figure.

"Detective Marchant?"

"Raven Chen?"

We spoke simultaneously, then shared a brief, surprised laugh that echoed off the ancient walls.

"What brings you to our hallowed halls?" Raven asked, with barely disguised suspicion.

"Summoned with my new MCD partner," I explained, shifting from foot to foot. "But right now, desperately seeking a bathroom."

"Ah, this is home for me," she smiled, though the wariness hadn't quite left her eyes. "Come on, Detective, I'll show you the way. The layout can be a bit... challenging for visitors."

As we walked, she maintained a casual conversation. "So, you're with the MCD now? Who's your partner?"

"MacTire," I replied, noticing an odd glint in her eye at the mention of his name.

"That old wolf?" She chuckled, though something in her tone caught my attention. "Didn't know he was still knocking about. Haven't seen him in years." She paused at an intersection of corridors. "Be good to catch up with him... How you finding working with us others?"

My bladder was making coherent thought increasingly difficult, so most of what she was saying washed right over me... but there was something about the way she'd phrased that question that caught my attention.

"Working with... who?" I asked, risking my bladder to satisfy my copper's curiosity.

Raven waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, you know. The Court's special division. Though I suppose it's all a bit overwhelming at first - especially for someone coming straight from regular police work." She gestured toward an ornate door. "Bathroom's just through there, by the way."

"Special division?" The headache that had been threatening all morning suddenly pulsed behind my eyes.

"The supernatural crimes unit," Raven said matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather. "I mean, that's what the MCD really is - the Magical Crimes Division. The Court's liaison with the Met - though I know some of the older ones still call it the Midnight Court Division."

She tilted her head, studying my expression. "The brands on the victims? Pure alchemy. Not the historical kind - the real deal. Proper power in those symbols."

My mouth went dry. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on, you must have noticed something odd about MacTire by now." Raven's eyes sparkled with amusement. "The way he gets all twitchy around strong scents, how good his hearing and reflexes are, that thing he does with his head when he's tracking someone?" She laughed. "Could have been worse mind you, fair warning - he gets proper grumpy round the full moon, but at least his nose is useful." Her tone was light, matter-of-fact. "Werewolves, right?"

The world tilted slightly. My headache exploded into white-hot pain as the words 'werewolves' and 'alchemy' bounced around my skull, trying to find purchase in my reality.

"Were... werewolves?" I managed to croak.

Raven's expression shifted from amusement to concern. "Wait. Didn't they brief you? About the Court, the supernatural community, any of it?" She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "About why they really recruited you?"

"Recruited me?" The corridor seemed to be spinning now. "I was transferred. After the incident with the pepper spray. After interviewing you..."

"Oh, shit." Raven's face went pale. "Oh no. No, no, no. They didn't tell you anything, did they? And I just..." She ran a hand through her hair. "MacTire is going to kill me."

As if summoned by his name, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. "Sarah? Where the hell did you-" MacTire rounded the corner, freezing mid-step as he took in the scene. His nostrils flared - actually flared - as his gaze darted between us. "Dammit, can't leave you alone for two minutes..."

"MacTire, I'm so sorry," Raven started. "I thought she knew. I thought-"

"Oh, now you've gone and done it." He growled - actually growled - at Raven. "Wiping her again is out of the question unless you want to fry her brain..."

I pressed myself against the wall, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Wiping? My brain? The headaches... had they... had they done something to me before?

The corridor lights seemed to pulse in time with my racing heart as reality itself seemed to crack around the edges.