Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

New Scotland Yard, London - DI Marchant

I followed MacTire to what he called the 'breakout room', though it was hardly the drab cubicle-strewn office space I'd expected. The room was surprisingly modern, with sleek chairs, large windows, and even a coffee machine that looked like it belonged in a high-end café. He made a point of flicking it on and gesturing for me to sit down. The coffee smelled good, when I finally took a sip, I was surprised at how rich and smooth it was - it was far better than the sludge I was used to from every other station I'd worked in.

"So," MacTire began, settling into his chair opposite me, "first day with the unit. Any questions? How you holding up?"

It was a simple enough question, but there was something in the way he said it that made me hesitate. I set my cup down and leaned back in my chair, trying to decide how to answer. I couldn't exactly admit I was on the verge of losing my patience with this place—or with him, for that matter.

"I'm holding up," I replied carefully, giving a half-smile. "Still adjusting, but it's, umm, different here." I paused, then tilted my head slightly. "Speaking of which, whose bright idea was that bet?"

His lips twitched into a smile, clearly amused that I'd picked up on that. "Ah, the bet," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You overheard that, did you?"

"I may have caught something," I said, somehow keeping the exasperation out of my voice, "about whether or not I'd stick around?"

MacTire chuckled. "Aye, that was the gist of it. You're the first outsider to be brought in since—well, let's just say we don't see many new faces around here. Some of the lads weren't convinced you'd last the day."

I took another sip of coffee, letting the warm liquid soothe the edges of my building tension. "So you thought you'd give me a push," I said, some of my annoyance edging into my voice, "see whether I'd run for the hills."

"Don't take it personally. They're just protective of the team," he said, his voice casual but with an underlying seriousness. "You're an unknown Marchant—"

"And people don't like unknowns," I cut him off. That was true anywhere, and I'd already seen enough of the MCD's chaos today to know they operated by their own rules, so their reaction shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it still niggled.

MacTire nodded. "Well you're here now, and there's a reason for that. The Chief wouldn't have brought you in unless he thought you could handle it."

"Not like I was given a choice," I muttered under my breath, thinking back to yesterday's meeting, where the higher-ups had clearly decided this would be my new reality—whether I liked it or not. I still didn't know why. What made them think I'd fit in with this unit full of such, hmm, let's go with exemplary officers.

Oops, if the look on his face was anything to go by, he'd heard that just fine. Marvellous.

"Guess I'll have to make the best of it," I continued, trying to lighten the mood, "any advice for avoiding shirtless brawls?"

MacTire smirked. "We don't have brawls every day. But if you want advice..." He paused, weighing his words. "Keep your eyes open, and don't take everything at face value. There's more going on here than you'll see at first glance."

Helpful. Not. There was something practiced about his evasiveness, like someone used to keeping secrets. Not the usual police kind either - this felt older, more personal somehow.

"No kidding," I replied, unable to keep the edge of sarcasm out of my voice.

He leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious. "And trust me when I say this: we look after our own here. But that means you've got to trust us too."

I felt a prickle of discomfort at that. Trust wasn't something I handed out easily, and so far, MacTire hadn't given me much reason to offer it. "And what if I'm not sure I can trust after everything I've seen today?"

"You're not wrong to be cautious," he said, giving me an appraising look. "But if we're going to work together, we need to be on the same page. You hold back, and you'll find yourself on the outside looking in real quick."

I stared at him for a moment, wondering if that was a warning. Or was that his way of extending an olive branch? Before I could press him further, MacTire tilted his head slightly, almost as if he was listening for something.

"You haven't answered my question," he said, his tone light again, but his eyes still sharp.

"What question?"

"How you're really holding up."

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the gentle hum of the coffee machine. I sipped my cup and shifted in my chair, feeling the weight of the last few days pressing down on me. If I didn't get some sleep soon, I was going to collapse in a heap. "It's the lack of sleep," I admitted finally, deciding to throw him a bone. "Between the late meeting, the early start, and the... reception this morning, I've got the mother of all headaches"

"You've had a rough couple of days," MacTire interrupted, his expression softening slightly at my glower, "hardly surprising given everything going on."

There was something in the way he said it - a subtle shift, like he knew more than he was letting on--but it didn't go unnoticed that yet another person was changing the subject away from my headache as soon as I mentioned it. It's not like they're contagious for heaven's sake.

I stared at him, trying to figure out what game he was playing. He'd barely known me for five minutes and he was already getting on my last nerve. Blowing hot then cold, mercurial in a way that set my teeth on edge. One minute he was all Alpha male and barely concealed impatience, the next he was almost gentle, concerned even. It was impossible to get a read on him, and that made me more uneasy than his earlier antics.

A tense silence settled between us, each of us holding our ground. I wasn't about to push--yet--but I filed that little exchange away for later. He was hiding something, and sooner or later, I was going to figure out what it was.

The moment was broken by the abrupt arrival of our guide from earlier--silhouetted in the doorway I could see why the DCI'd called him Gimli. The short man bustled into the room, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere. "Right, time to get this show on the road," he chirped, pulling up a chair and tapping on a tablet.

Without so much as a glance at either of us, he began projecting case files onto a large screen at the front of the room. The sheer size and clarity of the images took me by surprise, making me wonder what kind of budget this unit operated on. We barely had functioning printers at my old department, let alone high-tech projectors. "Decent tech," I muttered, half to myself.

Gimli--real name still unknown to me--gave a dismissive shrug, not even bothering to explain. I had a feeling this wasn't exactly the work of a good IT department, but rather something a bit more... magical. Typical.

The presentation started with a rundown of the case. Eleven victims, each one branded with alchemical markings. The violence had been escalating, with the time between murders shortening, but beyond that, we had next to nothing. No forensics, no witnesses. Just a growing pile of bodies and a lot of questions.

When we got to the latest victim his demeanour changed subtly - a slight tension in his shoulders, a fleeting shadow across his face that was gone so quickly I almost thought I'd imagined it. But years of interviewing witnesses had taught me to trust these little tells..
Lily Chen. The victim Raven had claimed to be related to.

I glanced at MacTire, who was sitting inhumanly still beside me, staring at Raven's booking photo on the screen.

He didn't let the silence stretch too long. "They were sisters," he said quietly. "Raven and Lily. I've known their father for years. Raven... she was always the determined one, out to prove herself by doing things her own way. Been that way ever since she was little."

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. One moment, he was gruff and standoffish, the next, almost poetic. His personality fluctuated so much, it was like dealing with two different people.

"So she was telling the truth about her sister then," I remarked, keeping my tone level. "Doesn't explain what she was doing at my crime scene though, does it? Shame we had to cut her loose. I'd have liked another shot at her--Raven, I mean. She's hiding something. I'm sure of it."

His head snapped around to face me, his expression darkening. "She's been through enough," he said, his voice low and warning. "And now Lily..."

I watched him closely, catching the way his voice faltered, how he cut himself off before saying more. "What else has she been going through?" I pressed, even though I figured I was probably wasting my breath.

He glanced away, shaking his head. "Not my place to talk about it." He trailed off, his eyes clouded with something I couldn't quite read. Grief? Guilt? Either way, there was a personal connection there, and I wasn't about to let it slip by.

"Must be awful," he murmured, almost to himself. "Rattling around those empty hallways all on her own, now that the Court..."

"The Court?", the words I'd heard just last night reverberated through my brain, "what's that?"

MacTire's eyes narrowed at my question, he obviously hadn't meant to let that slip but, before I could push any further, the door burst open, and the other shirtless guy from earlier came barrelling in.

"We've got another one!" he shouted, completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the room.

I was on my feet before MacTire could even say anything. "Where?"

"Chelsea," he replied, already out of breath. "Same MO, but it's fresh—really fresh."

"Then what are we waiting for?" I shot back, already moving towards the door. The prospect of getting out of the office and actually doing something was too tempting to ignore.

MacTire was on my heels as we sprinted down the corridor, the tension between us momentarily forgotten. As we passed through the chaotic bullpen, I caught a few curious stares, but nobody said anything. Clearly, this unit had its own way of operating.

***

As we drove, I let the pieces of the puzzle settle in my mind. Lily Chen--Raven's sister--was the latest victim. MacTire had known their family, and there was something about 'The Court' that linked them all together. Whatever this Court was, it had something to do with Raven, and it was clearly important enough for MacTire to try and keep me from asking too many questions.

But I wasn't going to be fobbed off that easily. Whatever this secretive group was hiding, I was determined to find out--and if that meant confronting Raven again, then so be it.

We arrived at the scene in less than ten minutes - the warehouse loomed over us, a Victorian brick monster wedged between two gleaming modern office buildings. Early morning shadows still clung to its facade, making the blood appear almost black against the weathered doors.

The usual crime scene bustle felt muted here, even the uniformed officers moving with an unusual hesitancy, their whispered conversations creating an eerie undercurrent to the scene.

But what struck me most was the silence from the surrounding buildings. In a street this expensive, you'd expect curtain-twitchers, people trying to get a glimpse of the drama. Instead, every window was shuttered, every door firmly closed, as if the whole street was holding its breath. Something about this scene felt different from other homicides - even the air seemed to crackle with an unseen tension that set my teeth on edge.

As we approached, the metallic tang of blood cut through the morning air, mixing with the familiar diesel fumes of idling police vehicles and something else - a sharp, acrid scent that reminded me of burned electronics.

The body was crucified across the front of a set of warehouse doors, just like the others. Blood soaked the wood, and the scene was gruesome enough to turn even the most hardened stomach. But what made this one stand out was the lack of branding. No alchemical markings on the body, nothing to tie it to the others except the method of display.

MacTire stood looking up at the body, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Looks like they were interrupted," he muttered, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

"Or a copycat," I suggested, though I knew it was unlikely. The level of violence, the precise wound placement--it was too similar to the others.

"Could be," he agreed, kneeling to examine something that'd caught his eye. "But there's something off about this one."

Before I could ask him what he meant, an officer approached us with an evidence bag. "Found this pinned to the body," he said, handing it over.

Inside the bag was a large envelope, the kind you'd expect to see in a solicitor's office.