Текст книги "The Immortals"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Eight

Nashville

9:00 p.m.

The rain was letting up, the evening now bittered into teeth-chattering cold. Taylor ran the gauntlet down Estes, driving through a phalanx of Metro blue-and-whites and medical examiner’s vans. A patrol officer waved her through and she parked the Lumina in front of the Kings’ driveway.

Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, met her car. Dan was a big guy, light brown hair and blue eyes with a relatively nondescript, almost homely face, but six foot two and an easy two-thirty. He spent a lot of time in the gym, and the hard work showed. Physically, he was threatening at best, emotionally, he was the rock the department depended on. He was their first line of defense against the media. It was a precarious position to maintain-Metro needed the media and the media needed Metro, but sometimes they didn’t like to play nice. Franklin assured everyone on both sides that the road to the news would be as smooth as could be.

He opened her door and she climbed out. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Taylor stopped. “Shoot.”

“I think it would be a good idea to have you give the presser.” He tapped his hand on the hood of her car as he spoke, and the emphasis felt contrived. She was immediately suspicious.

“Oh, come on. The press conference is your job.”

“I know it is, and I’ll be up there with you,” He quit tapping, leaned against the car. He crossed his bulky arms and said, “We’ve been friends for a long time, right?”

“Going on ten years.”

“You trust me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then do the presser. I promise it’s the right thing to do.”

“But-“

He cut her off. “Taylor, the city of Nashville wants to see you lead again. You’ve been fodder for the press for a couple of months now, and practically the moment you’re reinstated, a huge string of murders happens on your watch. They know about Fitz going missing, they know about the Snow White Killer’s apprentice. You need to regain their confidence. You need to let them know that you’re in control, that the old Taylor Jackson is back in business. Your close rate is still head and shoulders above any cop in the city– hell, most of the country. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get them back in your court.” He took a breath, then quickly said, ”And we can put a camera behind you, film forward, see what the crowd shows us.”

“Ah, so that’s the plan. Bribery by B-roll. You’re just appealing to my need to find the creeps who did this.” But she smiled, and he smiled back.

“I honestly think it will do you some good. Quell the scuttlebutt.”

She blew out a breath and thought for a few minutes. Dan was right, she did need to get the city’s confidence back. Badges and honors were all well and good, but in the long run, the only thing that mattered was the close. Though the people of Nashville were a forgiving bunch, the escapades over the past year had tarnished her spotless reputation, and in turn the reputation of Metro. They needed to know that she was back, one hundred percent back, solid and able to solve this case. Because eight teenagers in one night was going to rock Nashville unlike any case it had previously faced.

Too bad Baldwin had to leave town. She’d worked with his team on other cases and knew that, despite their differences in the past, the chief of police liked having the FBI involved in major crimes. He felt it engendered confidence from the masses. No matter what, when people heard those magic letters, F-B-l, they felt safer. Well, most people.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head. Beggars can’t be choosers. No kidding, Mother.

She ran it through her head for a minute. They could use the extra footage of the scene. She had a feeling that their killer was watching, reveling.

“Okay, I’ll do it. When?”

“We’re live in fifteen minutes.”

She put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Hey, Dan? Thanks.”

He just nodded and left her.

She scooted inside and found Lincoln making notes on his netbook.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey back,” Lincoln replied. “Just talked to McKenzie. He’s got the party frozen. Says there’s some parents frothing at the mouth to get their kids home under their own roofs. When you’re done here he’s ready for you to go over there and chat with the kids.”

“You have the video covered?”

“Yes. I’m going to head back to the CJC, upload everything we have and start searching for squirrels.”

“Good. Dan wants me to do the presser, so wait for that footage. Did you two cook this little plan up?”

“Nope. It was his idea. But he did ask if you’d shoot him on the spot if he suggested it. I told him you weren’t quite that trigger-happy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave her a small smile.

“I need to get prepped. Do we have next-of-kin notifications on all the victims?”

“All but one. Here’s your information.” Lincoln handed her a sheaf of papers. It was hard to believe that only four hours had passed since they’d arrived at the first scene. It felt like days.

“Got pics from the rest of the scenes?”

He handed her some Polaroids and his notebook, where he’d accurately sketched the layout of each tableau.

‘This is perfect, thanks. Oh, a little something to tuck into the back of your mind-the crime scene I just came from, Brandon Scott? You’ll see the level of violence was ten times the rest of the victims. I think he may have been the target, and the rest of the victims were just to cover the killer’s tracks. You need to get as much information on this kid as humanly possible, and fast. He may be the best link we have to our killer.”

“Really? Then maybe the suspect is still close by.”

“I get that feeling, don’t you? This is all so damn… showy.”

“Yes, it is. And coordinated. Not a single person we’ve interviewed saw anything out of the ordinary. No bogeymen creeping in the backyards, nothing. The killer fits into the neighborhood.” Taylor flipped the page on Lincoln’s notes. He was so thorough, she felt like she’d just relived the last few hours.

“On our suspect? I’m going to hazard a guess that we’re looking for a Caucasian male between fifteen and twenty five.”

“Fifteen., .you think a kid could be responsible for this level of destruction?”

“Anything’s possible. The victimology is the first clue– you know that. But I wouldn’t recommend saying that out loud. I think we need to roust some of the school administrators and see if anyone has been making threats first.”

“I’ll keep all options on the table.”

“Okay, then.” She took Lincoln’s notes and stepped into the Kings’ kitchen to gather her thoughts. Her mind was abuzz with possibilities.

Was Brandon Scott the intended victim and the rest of the murders collateral damage? That was a horrid thought, but something that she certainly needed to be aware of. It was entirely possible that this wasn’t the work of an adult. She knew they had a monster on their hands, but if that monster turned out to be a kid himself, they had bigger problems.

Nine

Nashville

10:00 p.m.

Taylor stood in front of the whirring cameras, Dan Franklin next to her. She was speaking into forced light, and couldn’t see much, just the outlines of bodies, a journalistic nightmare of the living dead. She’d been hoping that she’d be able to look into the crowd, recognize the killer and end this charade, but that wasn’t going to happen.

She held up a hand to silence them and began.

“I’m sorry to see you under these circumstances. Tonight we’ve been struck by a tragedy, the magnitude of which we’re only just beginning to understand. We’ve lost seven of our children. An eighth is fighting for her life at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital, We have the very best men and women at Metro, and they are working around the clock to assure two things-one, that we catch the suspect who committed these crimes, and two, that you and your children are safe.

“I won’t be releasing the names of the victims at this moment because not all next of kin have been notified. We’re doing all we can to make that happen, and as soon as we do Dan Franklin will have the list for you. I’d anticipate that happening overnight. I can confirm that three males and five females were targeted in this attack.

“We are confident we will be able to bring this suspect to justice very soon. We ask that anyone who has information about these crimes come forward. A tip line is available at 888-555-9880 and will be manned twenty-four hours a day. You can remain anonymous if you wish. We do ask that you call the tip line instead of Crime Stoppers so we can keep all information relevant to these cases in one place.”

She steeled herself, then said, “I’ll take questions now.”

There was a cacophony of voices. She picked one she recognized, Cindy Carter from FOX, and focused on it. Cindy asked, “Are there any leads?”

The crowd quieted down.

“The question was, do we have any leads. Rest assured that we are doing everything possible to capture the suspect, and are working these crimes as a single event. We believe the same person is responsible for all of the murders this afternoon. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m not in a position to discuss anything that relates to the ongoing investigation.”

There were groans, then the typical repositioning of questions, all of which Taylor was forced to deflect. That was how the game was played-feed a little bit of information to the reporters, let them ask their questions with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be getting an answer on the air. Off camera, each would sidle up to Taylor, or Dan, or any of the other officers and get the inside scoop. Most of Nashville’s reporters had a great tradition of being told the truth, because the police trusted that they wouldn’t put that truth directly onto the air and ruin their cases.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. I’m going to turn this over to Dan Franklin now. He’ll do his level best to answer as many of your questions as he can. Thank you for your time, and for being patient with us.” She paused for a moment, looked right into the cameras. “You have my word. We are doing everything in our power to solve these heinous crimes.”

She stepped away from the makeshift podium, and Dan caught her eye, nodded imperceptibly. He took her place, faced the group and was immediately barraged with questions. She avoided smirking and backed away until she was out of camera range. Lincoln came up beside her.

“I was watching the crowd. I can’t tell who’s a part of the neighborhood and who isn’t. Feels like half of Nashville is out here watching the show. We’ve got a long-ass night ahead of us.”

“You’re telling me. Okay, I’m heading to the party. You start on these tapes. Lincoln? Find me something.”

“Will do.”

“Okay. I’m outta here.”

Taylor opened her cell and called Marcus. He answered with a morose, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Any word on the vie?”

“She’s in a coma. They’ve loaded her full of Narcan. They think it was some kind of drug overdose. But they don’t know if she’s going to make it-you know how quickly Narcan works. She didn’t come to, just slipped into the coma.”

“A drug overdose makes sense. That’s what Sam thought, too. The presentation screams drugs-I instructed the ‘gators and crime-scene techs to look for anything that might be the culprit. I need you to join us at this address– 8900 Sneed Terrace. It’s the home of Theo Howell, best friend of victim number three, Xander Norwood. He’s supposed to be having a Halloween party. I sent McKenzie over there a while ago to get everyone corralled, and apparently some of the kids’ parents have shown up there, as well. I’m going to need your help taking all of the statements. I’m sure word has spread, and a few kids may have scattered by now, but McKenzie’s got at least thirty people waiting around.

‘The victims are being described as the perfect kids, and I want to find out what the real story is. Sam’s gone to Gass Street, and Lincoln’s doing the video footage. So that leaves us. You up for it?” She wanted to get him away from Brittany Carson, away from the guilt, get him preoccupied with something else. Interviewing thirty teenagers should do the trick.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Give me fifteen. Want me to wrangle up a couple of lattes? I’m across the street from Starbucks.”

Her stomach growled in a Pavlovian response. “That would be heavenly. I’ll see you there.”

“Will do, Taylor.”

“Thanks, Marcus. Hang in there, okay? I know you’ve had a bitch of an afternoon.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Good man. See you in a few.”

Ten

Nashville

11:45 p.m.

Raven lay on his narrow bed, watching Fane apply her makeup. Next to feeling his body inside hers, her warmth enveloping him, it was possibly the most sensual experience they shared.

She was an expert, her hand sure. First the layer of foundation, two shades lighter than her skin, which gave her a pearly glow. Then a dusting of powder, also two shades lighter, to set the makeup. She used a sponge to feather the color into her neck so there was no line of demarcation. She put just a hint of blush on her cheeks, from the apples right into her hairline, then started on her eyes.

Raven had filmed her doing her makeup once. He overlaid it with music, a pulsing track from The Crux shadows called-appropriately enough-“Immortal.” He’d known it was their song the first time he heard it, the lyrics crying out to him, “With hearts immortal, we stand before our lives.” It was perfect for the video-fast, wicked hot and theirs.

He’d sped the tape up to five times speed and posted it to YouTube as a Goth makeup tutorial. It had garnered more than five hundred thousand views so far. It gave him an unbelievable rush to think about all those baby bats out there using his woman as a guide.

They’d have even more to admire him for now.

Raven sat up and put his chin in his hand, watched Fane create the mystical black cloud that made the green of her eyes look like fifteen-carat emeralds. The long swoops of black liquid eyeliner, the deep black M-A-C eye shadow, more liner, five coats of mascara, then the intricate swirls dripping off the edges of her eyes like she was a bedouin princess decorated for her wedding night. A dark princess. The ruler of his heart.

She finished, screwed the top on her liner, then outlined her lips with a burgundy pencil. She dug into her makeup tray and pulled out a deep, deep cherry-black lipstick. He appreciated the symbolism. Fane sometimes had difficulty talking to others, and the black lipstick reminded her that she was the one with the power. He knew she’d imbued it with strength-they’d done the spell together.

She bent over and ratted her hair so it stood out from her head, allowing it to fall in glorious waves nearly to her ass, then finished with a liberal dose of Aqua Net.

When she flipped up and smiled at him, he could barely contain himself. His love. His perfect, perfect love. “Your turn,” she said, shrugging into her corset. The stays made her waist about the span of his hand.

Raven tried to distract himself from his woman’s faultless form and glossed his face with makeup, disappearing behind the foundation. He never felt so strong as when he was in full Goth mode. He had to temper it down at school a bit-the administration had strict rules about boys wearing makeup. Capitalist bastards. They had no idea how strong he was.

But tonight, in celebration, they were headed to a club. They would feed on the energy of the crowd, be themselves. There was nothing like a good night of clubbing. Subversion had a five-dollar cover in honor of Samhain, and there was a guest DJ in from Los Angeles, a guy called The Baron. Raven had heard some amazing things about his playlist– he always seemed to have the newest bands at his disposal. He supposed that was the whole Hollywood thing-the Nashville Goth scene rocked, but it was still Nashville. Full-on industrial wasteland. He’d been to a couple of clubs in Washington, D.C., that were out of this world. But beggars couldn’t be choosers-traditional Goth was all Nashville could offer tonight. One day soon he and Fane would head out to Los Angeles, would ride the wave of the Goth scene, rising to the top, glorified in their power. Their art would be watched by millions, and they would never be parted. That day was corning. He’d already purchased their tickets– they’d be gone on Monday. Just a few things left to accomplish before then.

In the meantime, they had to make do with what they had. First Subversion, then they’d hit Salvation to cap off the night and meet up with Thorn and Ember. Ember was going to have to sneak out tonight, especially after– “Raven, love, you need to get moving. I want to get downtown.”

Fane had her hands on her hips, stamping her foot in frustration. The platform industrial boots with buckles up to her knee made her six-foot-four and ethereally spectacular. He smiled at her in the mirror, baring his fangs, running his tongue lovingly along the sharp edges. They’d cost him a pretty penny, but they were so worth it. Fane loved hers just as much-it made biting one another so much easier. Better teeth than the athame any day. It was so much more real.

He took one last swipe of black shadow under his eyes and turned off the makeup mirror’s light. He grabbed Fane by the hand, danced in a circle in the center of his room.

“Let’s go.”

Blue lights were revolving one street over, but theirs was quiet. Raven felt a rush of excitement, squeezed Fane’s hand. The commotion was for him. Him.

They folded themselves into his beat-up Elantra, Ratty thing, the Rat, and drove away from the turmoil.

The Rat was feeling feisty tonight, so he let it have its head. Besides, all the Nashville cops were hung up in Green Hills. They took the shortcut through the west side of town to Twenty-first Avenue, then got on Broadway. The streets were hopping tonight, everyone dressed up. It was the one night of the year that he and Fane could walk among the masses and fit in.

And he found that pedestrian. He didn’t want to fit in. He wanted to stand apart, to be different. Different was arresting, exciting. These poseurs, thinking they were being so avant-garde, their individuality cloaked in Halloween getups, were nothing compared to Raven. His ability to be unique was legendary among their brethren.

He turned left on Second Avenue, then scooted the Rat into the parking garage above SATCO, the San Antonio Taco Company, The garage was packed tonight-they had to drive all the way up to the sixth level to find a spot. They bundled out of the car and into the elevator, Fane getting more and more exasperated when they stopped at every floor to let revelers on board. They gawked at her, and she didn’t like it. Raven finally bared his fangs at one idiot dressed as a pirate, and he flipped Raven off and turned around.

They ran across the street, not bothering to go to the intersection, and narrowly missed a car barreling up Second. Choking with laughter at the man’s shocked face, they ran into the club, cloaks flowing behind them. They handed their money to Tony, Subversion’s gargantuan bouncer, climbed the darkened stairway, feeling the bam, bam, bam of the bass line thrumming through the walls.

When they entered the strobe-lit room, Zombie Girl’s “Creepy Crawler” was on the turntable and the energy nearly knocked them off their feet. Raven grabbed Fane’s hand and pulled her through the masses into the center of the dance floor. He dug into his pocket and extracted two little blue pills, ones he’d carefully dipped and kept separate from the rest of the stash. He fed one to Fane, slipped the other under his own tongue. The Ecstasy started working quickly, sending golden warmth through his body.

Then the trip began in earnest. They kissed, feeling the energy rushing between them, coursing through their veins. They swayed and jumped, threw their arms in the air. Raven felt a scream building deep in his chest and went with it, riding the energy, building and building until he let loose with a war cry so intense he realized he had an erection and was inches from coming.

This was what it was all about. This was his place, his life, his world.

He stopped, stood still in the middle of the dance floor, his head thrown back, the music building in his very soul, feeding. As the music peaked, his orgasm built to a crescendo, and he howled. He was a God now.

She watched from the corner of the darkened space. Word had spread like wildfire through her community that a series of murders had been committed, and she knew in her soul that whoever did it was in this room, right now. A few minutes before she’d felt the air change, felt the energies shift. A very powerful spell had been cast, and she began to drain. Someone was feeding, close by. Damn vampires. She snapped back and shielded herself deeper, stronger, felt her strength return. She kept her eyes sharp on the crowd.

He was here. She could feel him.

What he’d done was wrong. It broke all their laws. He would have to be punished.

She sighed. Tonight was supposed to be a sober, somber evening, one of great reflection and inwardness, a night to make contact with the departed and assure them that memories of their lives were still precious. A night to look forward with great anticipation at the dying of the God and the rebirth of the Goddess. She’d conducted her spells earlier, at sunset. Set her altar with a white candle and a black, her athame, her wand, a small skull, real and very powerful, that she’d purchased at the Pagan Festival at Montgomery Bell State Park a few years back, plus black, red and white ribbons.

She’d snapped sprigs of rosemary off her windowsill during the last new moon, let it dry for full potency, then made a posy with it, braiding the ribbons and winding them around the rosemary thrice, chanting, “Rosemary is for remembrance, tonight I remember those who have passed. Those who have crossed through the veil, I will remember.” She’d meditated about those she’d lost, communed with their spirits. She’d left the ceremony feeling peaceful. The posy would stay on her altar until Yule. She always felt such an affinity with Samhain-celebrating the circle of death and life was how she’d begun in Wicca.

Though her phone was off, she had begun to receive calls before her ceremony was over. By the time she had finished and checked her voice mail, she had eight messages. When she heard the news, she knew her evening’s peace was over. It was her responsibility to find who had broken their laws. She needed to look through the veil again, so she lit a fire, set her altar and did a scrying ritual. The flames told her she needed to be among the masses tonight, so she’d hurriedly dressed and come to the gathering.

She recognized many of the faces in the crowd, though not as many could place her. She’d done a strong shielding spell with a cloaking element so she could walk among her kind relatively unseen. It wasn’t like she was invisible, ghostly-far from it. The spell just worked to entice people to look away. She didn’t need the attention.

There was the usual buzzing in the crowd, but it had spiked a fever tonight. Word was spreading about the multiple murders, that there was a satanic component. Everyone in the room knew that was a joke-Satan was a Christian deity, and none of them were practicing Christians. Wiccans, pagans, Goths, vampires-all coexisted in the harmony of the club. Satan was for those who didn’t understand.

But when crimes like this happened, they all got a bad name. What small foothold they enjoyed in the community was immediately severed, and they had to hide again.

She secreted herself in the corner that afforded the best view and watched. The club was crawling with poseurs tonight, civilians who wanted to walk on the dark side for an evening. They were easy to spot, with their inexpertly applied makeup and ridiculous, darting eyes. They’d come in, dance for a song or two, shove each other around in embarrassment, then leave. The true followers would sigh in relief and go back to being themselves.

There.

At the center of the dance floor, two swayed in time to the music. A male and a female, young, but powerful. The moment she saw them her heart constricted. Divination was an elegant art, one best practiced by those with a true understanding of path work. She had the gift of understanding, was able to see into their minds. She felt the evil lurking there, and knew.

She stood, ready to approach, but halted when a small girl strode through the crowd, went directly to the male, pulled at his shoulder until he faced her, then slapped him, hard. His head snapped to the side and tears formed in his kohl-lined eyes. They started to argue, so she hung back to see what would happen. The boy looked startled for a moment, then shrugged. The interloper took off, tears running down her face. The tall girl put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and they conversed, then followed the girl. As they left, the air in the club lightened. The music became louder, and the room felt happier.

What kind of baby bats were these three? Dominants, that was certain, possessing a darkness and authority unusual in ones so young.

She followed, building energy, cloak swinging out behind her. She’d need all of her extensive power to deal with them.

Eleven

Nashville

11:58 p.m.

Theo Howell’s house was obviously the place to be.

It seemed like most of Hillsboro High School’s senior class was in attendance, congregating at the Howell home. The street was lined with vehicles, Jettas and BMWs and Mercedes and Volvos and Jeeps parading up and down the skinny road with wheels half in the ditch and half on the scree. McKenzie’s unmarked was parked across the street.

There was no loud music or yelling, though, just a somber grayness. The rain had started in earnest again and the lights of the Howells’ house did little to illuminate their driveway. A dog began barking incessantly next door. Taylor felt each yap in the back of her skull.

Time to enter the land of text messaging. The door was red, with a bold brass lion-face knocker. Taylor grasped its protruding tongue and banged on the plate three times.

A handsome teenager opened the door, brown hair cut long over his forehead, wearing a Ralph Lauren button-down oxford cloth shirt and khaki trousers. His eyes were puffy, the trace of tears past shed. He gave her a sad smile, looking much older than his age.

“I’m Theo Howell. Please.” He shook her hand and gestured for her to come in. Once she was in the foyer, he threw the dead bolt on the door.

A hush fell over the group of kids. Taylor was faced with a bevy of scared teenagers, all looking her over, and a few parents-she counted seven in all-drinking coffee in the living room. They stood when they saw her, faces bleak and scared.

She could hear the murmurs. What’s happened? Are there more?

McKenzie extricated himself from the group of teenage girls that surrounded him in the kitchen, trying to comfort one another, and came into the foyer to greet them.

“Oh, good. You’re here. You’ve met Theo, I see.”

“Yes,” Taylor said, turning back to the boy. “Thanks for keeping everyone here for us.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. To be honest, I think everyone realized we could be safe if we had strength in numbers. It would be hard to get in here and take anyone down. A few kids’ parents insisted they come home, and the rest just came on over. We were most appreciative that you sent Detective McKenzie to keep an eye out for us. Do you have any ideas who might have done this? Who killed our friends?”

The locked door. The air loaded with fright. The poor kids had been sitting here all night, friends dying a few streets away, worrying that they were being targeted, too. And the parents didn’t know why, or how, or who had threatened their children’s lives. Not that she blamed them. She’d been worried about them being targeted herself, but seeing their abject fear gave her a whole new perspective on this tragedy.

She faced the group and answered the unasked questions. “We’re doing everything we can. Nothing has changed. We don’t have a suspect or a motive just yet You’re doing the right thing, sticking together. We’ll keep you posted.”

The murmurs began again, this time tinged with relief. She stepped back into the foyer to get out of their line of sight, and turned to Theo.

”We’re hoping you can shed some light on what’s been happening. I know you were close friends with Xander Norwood. I’d like to talk to you about him, about everyone who was killed today. Is there someplace private we can go?”

“Yes, ma’am. My father’s office is just through here. No one is allowed in there when we, I mean Daisy and I, have guests over.”

“Who’s Daisy?”

“My sister.” He pointed to a neat blond girl sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. “She’s in there with some of her friends. She’s a junior. They all knew Amanda, and Chelsea and Rachel,”

There was a knock behind her and Theo started. Poor kid.

‘That’s going to be Detective Wade. McKenzie, do you have everyone’s statements?”

“Nearly. A few more to go.”

“Okay. Don’t let me keep you. Marcus and I will talk with Theo.”

“Gotcha, boss. I’ll let him in.”

“Detective, sir? Please lock the door behind you,” Theo asked softly. McKenzie nodded at him. She was happy to see that McKenzie had established some rapport with these kids-it would help. In her experience, teenagers were a secretive lot.

Marcus joined her, and she introduced him to Theo. He shook Marcus’s hand, then led them to a set of closed double doors. He fetched a key out of his front pocket, turned the lock and swung the right-hand door open. He allowed her to enter first, twisted his arm around the door frame to pull the chain on a floor lamp. The warm wooden space glowed in the soft light. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and a ladder on rails leaned against the far wall. It smelled pleasantly of paper and leather, without a hint of must.

Theo turned on a few more lights, then stood calmly by a large rosewood desk with a leather top. He saw Taylor looking at the books, waved nonchalantly toward the shelves.