Dragon Heartstring(49)

“It doesn’t matter.” Macon sat on the edge of my desk, crossing his arms. “Morgons from all over come to the games. It may have nothing to do with Drakos or Cloven, as far as we know.”

“Hmm. I don’t know about that. I want to do some digging on this place, Devlin Wood.” I tapped my pen on my chin, staring at the printer as it churned out photo after photo. I pulled one from the print tray, a close-up of Maxine’s throat. I peered closer. “Macon. What are these marks?”

He leaned in, examining with me several centimeter-sized scratches along her throat in varying places. He pulled the other photos from the print tray. “Look. There are more here.”

Little slashes along the inside of her wrist, even the inside of her elbows.

“On her inner thigh, too.”

“Damn.” I shuffled the photos. “They’re not killing marks. Maybe it’s part of the cult ritual. Or torture.” Acid churned in my stomach.

“Yeah, but why?”

“You think I know the inner workings of a fanatical, psychotic, sadistic Morgon mind?”

I yanked open the other files with the photos Macon had pilfered from the first two victims. I only had long angles of these crime scenes. No close-ups. That’s why I hadn’t noticed them before.

“Look! Look at her arm.” Even from the distant shot of the body, I could just make out small gashes on the inner arm from wrist to elbow. “Why the hell didn’t I see this before?”

“Because from afar it just looks like scrapes, like the others on her body she could’ve gotten from captivity.”

“Well?” I glanced back over my shoulder at Macon. “Did your boss Torrance say anything about these?”

“Are you serious? I’m an intern. The only information I get on high profile cases like this is from eavesdropping. I fetch coffee, make copies, and do what I’m told. You’re lucky I got these at all.” He thrust his hand through his hair in frustration, making it stick on end. A sure sign my faithful friend was at the end of his rope.

“You fetch coffee?”

“Stop it.”

I shrugged, turning to my desktop comm. “No worries, my coffee-fetching, copy-making friend. There’s someone else who can give us more information we need.” I started typing. “Bennett…Cremwell.” Hitting enter to scan the Net, three Bennett Cremwells popped on screen. “There are three in the Gladium Province. One is fifty-four and works at some robotics factory in the Warwick District.”

“Not him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t think she’d be hanging with a middle-aged, factory-worker at the Vaengar games.”

He smirked, flipping his brown hair out of his eyes and leaning his wiry frame over my shoulder toward the screen.

I clicked on the next entry. “Bennett Cremwell number two is thirty-five and lives with his wife and three kids on their country estate south of the city. Not him, unless number two was having an affair.” I clicked the last name. “Recent graduate of Gladium University, currently an intern at Cade Enterprises in the technology department. Bingo.”

“How convenient you have such easy access to Cade Enterprises.”

I pushed away any hesitance. My need to interview Cremwell overrode my daddy issues.

“Isn’t it?” I winked. “Hand me my boots over there. Underneath the desk.” Preferring to work long hours in comfort, I often kicked off my shoes in my office. He picked up one boot from under the desk and tossed it, examining the other.

“Size ten? Damn, Moira.”

“Shut it.” I snatched it away from him. “I can’t help it if I’m long-limbed.”

True, not many human girls were six feet tall, but I liked that it gave me an intimidation factor with unwanted men. And annoying women. Fortunately, I was also born with an innate empathy for others—very necessary as a journalist for people to trust me with their stories. Part of getting people to talk was being a quiet, compassionate listener.

Boots on, I hopped up and grabbed my gray, wool coat off the corner rack. Macon followed me to the door. “Can I tag along?” He raised his brows, looking even more like the puppy dog he resembled.

I tilted my head and smiled. “I don’t think that’s wise. He might recognize you from the precinct.”

His brow pushed together in a frown. “So how will you tell him you found his name?”

“I’ll think of something.”

I locked the door to my office. Macon shadowed me as we veered out of The Herald wing of the Literary Arts Department. Just as we reached the bottom of the steps, he pulled me to a stop. “Moira.” His voice reflected the gravity in his eyes. “Please be careful. Don’t get too caught up in this one. This isn’t like the car burglaries or even the campus drug ring you covered.”

I slipped my leather gloves on, wiggling my fingers into the tips. “Macon, if I plan to land one of the elite and rare positions on The Gladium Post next year, I’ve got to prove that I’m a serious journalist.”

“Yeah. But at what price? Your own life?” His voice cracked with emotion. He really was afraid for me. Rightfully so.

I placed a hand on his shoulder for reassurance, giving him a friendly squeeze. “I know. I’m not stupid. I won’t do anything without protection.”