Odd smells drifted on the wind and mixed with the shit stink, making my stomach heave. Damn it. I hadn’t known a zoo would reek so.
‘Does it always smell like this?’ I asked.
David shrugged. I took that as a yes and tried to take shallow breaths as I looked around. I’d never been to a zoo before; growing up with the vamp side of my family had, by necessity, nixed most of the normal childhood-type ‘day’ outings for more than one reason – but wherever the animals were at this time in the morning, it wasn’t anywhere I could see from the path we were on. It made the place feel oddly desolate and empty even with the miasma of smells assaulting me.
I opened my sight, looking for spells. After all, that was why I was here: whatever had happened had some sort of magical element to it. But other than a few stray bits of wild magic, there was nothing. And as we drove past a sign saying ‘African Bird Safari’, I realised something else: the place was eerily quiet.
‘I thought a zoo would be noisier?’ I raised my voice in question.
David shot me a glance as if he’d forgotten I was there. ‘What?’
‘I guess I just expected to hear the animals more, you know, like bird calls, or a lion roaring, or grunting.’ I waved at the sign on the next exhibit that said ‘Bearded Pigs’, getting a whiff of something earthy and ripe that in no way smelled like bacon.
He frowned, his hands twisting round the steering wheel. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to answer, I made a mental note to ask someone else.
Some minutes later, a stomp on the brakes by David brought us to a halt about ten feet away from the crime scene tape stretched across the path. Beyond the tape the path carried on to an area surrounded by leafy, whip-thin trees. Their canopy shaded a round fountain, its water trickling out from beneath a sculptured bronze little girl, kneeling and offering a bird up to the summer sky and freedom: an ironic sort of statue for a place which kept animals in captivity. Behind the fountain, framed by more greenery, I could see a large colourful sign depicting life-sized lions and tigers: the big cat enclosure.
To the left was a picnic spot with slides, climbing frames and swings, and to the right there was an expanse of grass marked as a ‘Display Lawn’.
The ‘lawn’ was crowded, not with animals, but with a good number of London’s Metropolitan Magic and Murder Squad; about a dozen uniformed trolls and near enough two coven’s worth of WPCs. With that many milling about, whatever had happened was big . . . but then with the two diplomatic limos parked outside that was a given.
The lack of press hanging around the zoo was an oddity, though, until I jumped out the cart and saw Detective Sergeant Mary Martin striding up to the police tape. Pale yellow-coloured magic drifted from her like seeds blown from a ripe dandelion head, lifting high into the air over the zoo. A police Media-blackout spell – and the reason for the lack of journos.
Mary gave me a professional once-over out of pretty brown eyes, before smiling a welcome with a mouth that looked like she’d just been kissed. I knew she hadn’t, since she claimed she was concentrating on her career, having recently been promoted to Detective Sergeant for going ‘above and beyond’ in the Tower of London Abduction case. Mary had gone undercover as my doppelgänger in an attempt to break the case, which was how we’d met.
She waved at my new outfit. ‘Nice. Not your usual colour, but it looks good.’
‘Thanks.’ I twitched at the lilac jacket’s hem. ‘Colour’s a bit impractical.’
‘It’d never survive a go-round with the gremlins,’ she agreed, laughing, then grimaced. ‘Oh, and talking about surviving, you missed last week’s poker game.’
The ToLA case was also how Mary had met my flatmates, Sylvia and Ricou. During the follow-up investigation, we’d all become poker pals and friends. Though I’d been wondering recently if ‘friends’ was all Mary was interested in. Not with me, but with the pregnant pair.
I grinned. ‘Sylvia fleeced you again, didn’t she?’
‘Yep.’
‘You shouldn’t let Ricou deal.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ A smile flitted across Mary’s face as she lifted the crime tape for me to duck under. ‘But they’re so cute together when she catches him cheating.’
Cute?Sylvia could do cute, but Ricou? He looked like a stunt double for The Creature from the Black Lagoon, all blue scales, bony fins and sharp claws. Unless he was wearing one of his many Glamour spells.
Looked like my wonderings about Mary’s interests were on the right track. I prodded. ‘So, which of his Johnny Depp Glamours was Ricou sporting last night, then?’
‘Oh, the gypsy one from Chocolat.’ A hint of a blush coloured her cheeks as she headed off at a fast clip, calling over her shoulder, ‘Come on, the DI’s this way.’
Hmm, the gypsy wasn’t one of Sylvia’s favourites but Ricou wouldn’t have worn it without her agreement. Seemed Mary’s interest in being more than friends with the pair might be reciprocated. Not that it was any of my business, nor did I have an issue with it . . . so long as everyone was aware and happy . . . Unless Mary’s attraction was to do with the leaking Fertility pendant? Something to check out. Later.
I hurried to keep up as we crunched along the slightly rough path and crossed over a small wooden bridge spanning an overgrown ditch. I scanned round, looking, checking out the area for any magical clues. But unlike my trip through the zoo and the few floating strands of wild magic I’d seen, there was nothing here at all. Which made me wonder exactly why Hugh had called me.
We reached the big cat exhibit just as Hugh strode through the entrance, almost bumping into us.
‘There you are, Genny!’ Relief rumbled through his voice as he stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
At just under seven foot, Hugh’s short for a mountain troll, but I’m five four (short for a fae). Not wanting to be talking to the overhang of his chin, I stepped back and looked up.
He’d had his hair cut since I’d last seen him, a week ago, and the inch-high, straight-up black fuzz only just covered his headridge. (Unlike most trolls, Hugh isn’t bald; but then he once told me he’s got a smidge of human blood in him from way back.) The shorter hair somehow deepened the fine fissures lining his ruddy-coloured face, or maybe it was all the extra responsibility he’d taken on since the disappearance of his old boss, Detective Inspector Helen Crane.
DI Witch-bitch Helen Crane was my nemesis in more ways than one: she was the ex of the satyr I’d promised myself not to think about; had a real downer on me because I was sidhe; and she was the one who’d stolen (as a teenager) the sapphire pendant trapping the fae’s fertility. I’d taken it back from her during the ToLA case. She hated me; the feeling was mutual. But I’d felt vindicated in my loathing when she’d proved to be dirty. Her disappearance was good news, sort of, as while I’d rather she paid for her crimes I was still ecstatic she was out of my life for good.
And with the Witch-bitch gone, Hugh had been made up, sort of, and was now (acting) Detective Inspector. Personally, I thought he should have got his full stripe or whatever it was, but he was a troll. Trolls might have been coppers since Robert Peeler started the Met back in the early eighteen hundreds, but it was only recently (after the Indigenous Alien Equality Act) that they’d been given the opportunity to move up out of the grunt ranks.
‘We’ve got three people missing, believed abducted,’ Hugh rumbled quietly, after we’d dispensed with the usual brief pleasantries.
‘Three?’ I frowned. ‘You said two on the phone; a woman and her son?’
‘Initially we weren’t sure about the third.’ Hugh pulled his notebook from the pocket of his sharply pressed white shirt. Hugh and neatness have always gone together like a goblin and his bling, but since his (sort of) promotion, he’d adopted a whole new level of smartness. He flipped a couple of pages: ‘The woman is Mrs Bandevi Jangali, aged thirty-seven; her son, Dakkhin Jangali, is aged six. Mrs Jangali is an environmental activist.’ He glanced down at me. ‘She’s here taking part in a conservation conference about tigers. Both Mrs Jangali and her son were having a private tour before the conference started. The third person is Mr Jonathan Weir, aged twenty-nine; he’s the publicity director for the zoo, and was escorting them.’