Ambrosia (Frost and Nectar, #2)(75)

Tentatively, I swiped the screen. “Hello?”

“Agent Liddell?” It was a British man with a deep voice. A faint London accent, I thought.

“Speaking.”

“I’m Detective Constable Gabriel Stewart. I’m the detective in charge of the serial killer cases.”

“Right. Hi. I’m on my way to meet you right now.” Gabriel was supposed to be my contact.

He cleared his throat. “I think you should come directly to Mitre Square instead.”

I glanced at the time. It was past midnight. “Why?”

“There’s been another murder.” He paused for a moment as a siren wailed in the background. “Mitre Square is the location of the crime scene.”





If I had any hope that the crime scene would be reasonably contained, it evaporated the moment I turned down the narrow covered alley leading to Mitre Square. Blocked by a line of police tape, a small crowd jammed one end of the passage, barring my way. One of the men seemed to be leaning against the wall, half asleep, and the entire passage smelled of piss and beer.

Pausing, I pulled out my phone to call Detective Stewart.

“Hello?” The detective answered almost immediately.

“Detective, it’s Cassandra. ”

“Who?”

“Agent Cassandra Liddell.”

“Oh, right! Are you close?”

“I’m standing just outside the crime scene perimeter in Mitre Passage,” I said. “Do you want to let me inside?”

“Sure, just wait until Officer Holbrook comes over to you. Flash your badge, and he’ll let you right through.”

“Maybe I should be more discreet with all these spectators around?”

He went silent for a moment. “Good point,” he finally said. “I’ll come for you myself.”

I hung up, gripping my suitcase a little tighter and scanning the crowd. For all I knew, the killer could be lingering around here to watch the action. It was one of those weird quirks of some serial killers, returning to the scene of the crime to relive it. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, as his previous history suggested he wasn’t overtly psychotic or disorganized. But it wouldn’t hurt to memorize the faces for later. I looked at them hard for a long moment, imprinting the view in my mind. Satisfied, I relaxed and took a deep breath.

Despite the fact that half the people here were three sheets to the wind, I could sense an undercurrent of fear beneath their drunkenness. My guess was that whatever lay beyond in Mitre Square was sobering them up pretty fast.

In all honesty, it wasn’t just that I could sense their fear. I could actually feel it, like a physical charge. And right now, it was building in my system.

As always, it started with my heart. It began pounding faster and faster, each beat thundering in my ears. My fingertips prickled with what felt like a delicate electrical current. Despite the chilly night breeze, my face flushed, heat waves rolling over my body.

The first time I had described this to my friends, they’d just stared at me. I’d assumed everyone felt this way occasionally. Sometimes you’re hungry, sometimes you want to sneeze, and sometimes you feel like the emotional energy of the people around you powers your body like electricity. Right? Right?

Apparently not. This was not a sensation everyone experienced. This happened only to me. And after talking about it a few times, and getting very weird looks, I stopped mentioning it. Energy? What energy? Ha ha, the only energy I know is energy drinks. I’m totally like everyone else.

Whatever it was, it came from strong emotions. Going to a football game in my hometown was… intense. I’d walk out dazed, a grin on my face, and when someone asked me if I’d enjoyed the game that much, I would realize that I didn’t even know what had happened on the field. I knew what had happened in the crowd. They were thrilled, or disappointed, or angry… and I felt it blazing through my body like a drug.

But no other emotion affected me like fear did. And right now, an undercurrent of fear flowed through me. It focused me, sharpening my senses. Any fatigue from the flight dissipated completely.

I began shoving my way through the small crowd, rolling my stupid suitcase behind me. As I did, I glimpsed a media van parked in the road. Damn it. Nothing hurt a serial killer investigation more than public fear.

I reached the police tape, staring at the horrific scene before me. Spotlights bathed it in white light. About seventy feet away, on the other side of the square, a group of people surrounded a woman’s body. Even from here, I could see the crimson pool glistening on the cobbles beneath her.

Most of the investigators surrounding the body wore white overalls that covered their bodies completely, surgical masks on their faces. Shoes were covered with white sterile wrappers, and their hands were gloved in blue latex. Only their eyes were visible as they scanned the scene intently, documenting and marking evidence.

A tawny-skinned man approached, eyeing me. Unlike the crime scene crew, he wore a suit and a gray coat.

“Gabriel?” I asked when he got closer.

He nodded, and motioned me through. I raised the tape and stepped under it, then leaned my suitcase against a wall before turning to him.

He shook my hand, his grip firm. I found it difficult to pull my eyes from his face. Broad-shouldered and tall, he towered over me, and something about his hazel eyes drew me in. Plus, with his bronze skin and strong jawline, he kinda looked like a movie star.