Secrets in the Moon (Crescent City Werewolves #1)

Chapter Fourteen

Captain Albert Dempsey couldn't remember the last time he felt this relieved over a case wrapping up. The sun had been shining for over an hour and he was still in the ritual room of Freddy Davenport's "mansion of madness," as people were already calling it. He had seen too much to feel sick by what his men were turning up, but he was tired. Exhausted, in fact, but word had come in that the police commissioner himself was about to appear. Al knew he'd demand answers, especially the ones they didn't yet have.

At least the bastard couldn't protect any of his friends this time. The city was ready to boil over, and the commissioner was the type of man to save his neck over another's. Davenport and his cultists would be hanged to convince the common people that the rich and powerful also faced consequences for breaking the law. Al hoped they savored it, because it wouldn't happen again anytime soon.

Just as he lit a fresh cigarette, he heard the commissioner's voice echoing from the stairway. Everyone else in the room immediately straightened his uniform and posture, trying to look as crisp as possible. Even the enchanters, normally so intent on their work that they wouldn't respond to a question yelled in their faces, paused to make sure their bandoliers hadn't slipped out of the proper position. Al remained as he was, aware that nothing would save him from looking like a wrinkled mess.

Lights had been brought in, exposing every inch of the room, and all eyes were on the commissioner by the time he reached the final step, already frowning at the crumpled white dress and shotgun shells near the tips of his polished shoes. "We haven't started bagging evidence?"

Commissioner Keene had a politician's voice, big and booming. He didn't speak so much as punch holes in the air. In appearance, he was just as intimidating, short but thick in the neck and chest, and with a face built to scowl. His waxed mustache gleamed as brightly as the gold buttons of his uniform, and right then it bristled as he spoke against the resounding silence to his first question. "Well?"

Al kept quiet, knowing Master Enchanter Byrd would have to explain.

The enchanter rose from the dead cultist he had been examining. "Commissioner, we weren't yet expecting you, and our analyses are still—"

"Shut up. I don't need the details. Tell them to Johnson." The commissioner gestured at the man who had arrived with him, a young, neatly dressed fella who looked nervously at the body near Byrd.

Al couldn't blame him. The commissioner's assistants always suffered bizarre and untimely deaths. One had died from fireworks that exploded too early during the city's anniversary gala. Another from being kicked by a police horse during a parade. The latest had choked on his damn sandwich. City enchanters constantly tested for signs of a clever curse but never found anything. The only certain fact was that being Keene's assistant was an unusually dangerous position.

When Johnson was drawn away by the enchanter, Commissioner Keene turned his frown on the nearest officer. At that, Al decided his men had already had a rough enough time and walked over to join them. "Morning, Keene. Breaking in a new one?"

"Don't waste my time, Captain. What the hell is going on? Last night, I was told this was just another playboy taking things too far with his coked-out sex cult. Now the mayor is not only getting calls from every high-powered lawyer seething over his clients being put into cells like common criminals, but the Saxby Pack is demanding at least three people who were involved."

Al glanced around the destroyed room and the many bodies it held, wondering if the commissioner was that oblivious to what he stood among. "The playboy was Frederick Davenport, and his cult worshipped an ancient god that could end this world if roused."

"Freddy Davenport has long been known for his debauched ways, and there are ten other cults in this city with the same goal."

"Yeah, well, he brought something through." Then Al pointed at the broken archway. The sigils were clearly visible even through the dust and scorch marks. When the commissioner paled, he added, "Every elite name is attached in some way, including Cora Marshall's."