Shadowstorm (The Storm Chronicles Book 4) Read online

  The right of Skye Knizley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, items, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Book design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  Cover Design by: Vivid Designs

  Edited by: Elizabeth A. Lance

  Copyright© Skye Knizley 2015

  Raven Storm™ and The Storm Chronicles™ are trademarks of Skye Knizley

  All rights reserved.

  v a m p t a s y p u b l i s h i n g

  www.vamptasy.com

  THE STORM CHRONICLES

  Stormrise

  Stormrage

  Stormwind

  Shadowstorm

  Raven

  Storm

  For the friends that have stood by me, no matter what.

  Forget what you think you know about the world. There is another world, a darker world where true evil exists; vampires, lycans, demons, the bogeyman, all the things that go bump in the night walk among you, rub shoulders with you…and feed on you.

  I'm something different. I was born to a pureblood vampire and a human man. I have a bloodsucker's strength and almost none of their weaknesses. They call me dhampyr, or day walker. And that's when they're being nice. I'm a police detective for the Chicago Police, Homicide division. This is my city. When things go bump in the night, I'm the one who bumps back.

  I am the Night.

  I am Raven Storm.

  OLD TOWN, CHICAGO

  SPRING 1984

  BLOOD RAN IN THICK RIVULETS, pooling in the gutter and running south toward Old Town, a black cherry waterfall that signaled the death of Emma Smith. And she hadn’t died easily. She lay in the shadow of St. Michael’s Church in Old Town, her ribs shattered and glistening in the morning light. Several strange symbols had been written in blood next to her arm and her body had been covered in dozens of black rose petals. She was the second this month.

  Mason Storm squatted next to the symbols, almost motionless in the dawn light. His only movement was the rise and fall of his chest and his eyes as he examined the scene. Captain Bloom had called him an hour before and taken him away from a half-empty bottle of Scotch and some cop movie he couldn’t remember. Even so, he was immaculate in dark jeans and a red tee-shirt. His badge hung on a chain around his neck and his silvered Automag pistol rested comfortably under his right arm, as much a part of him as his silver beard and swept-back black hair.

  The big man glared at the victim as if she could get up and tell him her secrets, his emerald green eyes narrowed to slits. After a time, he straightened and looked at the forensics technician, a new guy named Ming somethingorother.

  “You get a liver temp yet?” he asked. “Come on, kid, what are you waiting for?”

  Ming Zhu blinked. “I was waiting for you to finish, Detective, you told me to stay out of the way.”

  “I’m done, do your thing,” Storm replied.

  He stood aside to let Ming get to work, then picked up the pile of neatly folded clothing and placed it on the hood of his car, a sterling grey 1967 Shelby he’d had since it was new. The clothes included a pair of acid washed jeans thickened with blood, a lipstick-pink bustier top, matching pink thong and stiletto heels so tall they could have been mistaken for stilts. In her tiny purse he found two-hundred dollars in small bills, a ticket stub to a cinema outside of town and a tube of lip balm. The only other items were her driver’s license and a silver cross, currently being processed with her body.

  “What the hell is a girl like you doing so far from home?” he wondered.

  Storm folded the clothes up and put them into an evidence envelope along with the purse. The kid could take it back and run it for any trace evidence, though he doubted they would get anything useful off of Emma’s clothes.

  When he was through he looked over his shoulder at Ming, who was struggling to get the woman’s temperature without touching anything. The kid’s tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, a sign of finite concentration.

  “Hey, kid, see if Dudley can get me a tox screen. I know it’s asking a lot of the lab, but I want to know if the victim had anything unusual in her system.”

  “Unusual?” Ming asked.

  “Yeah. See if she was drugged with anything,” Storm replied.

  Ming looked blank. “Why?”

  Storm glared at the smaller man. His look said everything.

  “Of course, Detective,” Ming said. “Sorry.”

  Storm watched the young technician work for another beat then turned away. On the other side of the yellow tape a patrolman named Reid was keeping early rubberneckers at bay. Storm moved next to him and glared at the growing crowd.

  “Reid, right?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the young man replied.

  “Who did the canvas?”

  “I did, sir, it’s all down in my report,” Reid replied.

  He was still watching the crowd and Storm thought he looked a little green around the gills.

  “Pretend I really don’t want to read your report right now,” Storm said. “Forget the rubber necks and give me the highlights. Who found her?”

  Reid looked away from the crowd and pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket. “It was reported at 4:13 this morning by Ricky Themis, a cabbie. He was returning from dropping a fare a few blocks away when he saw the candles. I arrived at 4:22, secured the body and took his statement. Forensics arrived at about five and then you.”

  “I’m guessing this Themis didn’t see anyone in the area?” Storm asked.

  Reid shook his head. “No, sir. Just the victim. I checked both sides of the street for three blocks, the only complaint was from Mrs. Hayes up the street. She said she heard what she thought was a horse and carriage early this morning, it woke her up. Otherwise it was a quiet night.”

  Storm frowned. “Except for a girl being murdered in the middle of the street, sure. What about the church?”

  “Locked up tighter than a drum,” Reid replied. “Mrs. Hayes said that no one stays there at night after the last caretaker almost burned to death a couple years ago.”

  “So I’ve got a dead body, no witnesses and the only clue is an elderly woman who heard a horse at three in the morning. Marvelous,” Storm growled.

  Reid shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. Maybe forensics will turn something up.”

  Storm nodded and looked out at the crowd gathering on the corner of Eugene Street. Something caught his eye and he stepped under the police line.

  “Call for some backup to keep these clowns back,” he said over his shoulder.

  He didn’t hear Reid’s reply, his attention was on a surveillance camera mounted in the wall of a business across the street. Most of the waiting crowd parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses, but Storm stopped when a microphone was shoved under his nose.

  “Norma-Jean Cane with channel five news,” a woman said. “Detective Storm, can you tell us anything about the victim?”

  Storm looked down at the thin dark-haired woman in her tailored suit and cream blouse and did his best not to growl. “Not at this time. We have a si
ngle victim found early this morning. A formal statement will be made later today. Please feel free not to stop by.”

  He pushed past, but the microphone again appeared under his nose. “What about the suspect? Is the public in danger?”

  “Ms. Cane, this is Chicago,” Storm said. “The public is always in danger. For example right now the people behind you are in danger of being hit with your microphone if you don’t get it out of my face.”

  He batted the microphone with one massive hand and continued on his way to the shop, which was a television repair store. At dawn it was still closed, but the shop-keeper who lived in an apartment above the shop was roused by Storm’s insistent banging.

  The shopkeeper was short, with a fringe of dark hair around his bald head, a long mustache and spectacles perched on his large nose. The overall effect made him look like a cartoon character sprung to life.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice raspy from sleep.

  “Your assistance,” Storm asked. “Detective Storm, Chicago Police. Does this camera work?”

  “Of course it works,” the shopkeeper snapped. “What would be the point in a camera that didn’t work?”

  “Show me the footage from this morning,” Storm said.

  The shopkeeper raised his glasses and looked up at Storm. “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking nicely,” Storm said.

  The shopkeeper shrugged and stepped aside. Storm moved into the gloom of the store while behind him the shopkeeper yelled at the crowd to get away from his store. Storm turned to watch the small man lock the door and pull the shade then turn around, his slippers shuffling on the hard-wood floor.

  “Come this way,” the shopkeeper said to Storm.

  Storm followed through the maze of refurbished televisions, telephones and radios to the back room where the shopkeeper maintained a small but clean office. A single monitor and a Betamax VCR sat on a shelf behind the old green desk. The shopkeeper plomped down in his chair and started fiddling with a box of handmade components.

  “I made this me’self,” he said. “Makes it easier to rewind the tape.”

  The recorder started to whine and Storm’s teeth began to itch as the tape played backwards through the last several hours. The camera hadn’t been pointed at the crime scene, it was pointed in front of the shop, but it showed anyone coming down the street. When he saw a taxi, green in the sodium-vapor streetlights, he reached out a hand.

  “Okay, go back another hour then play forward,” he said.

  The shopkeeper complied and twisted one of the dials on his home-made contraption. The tape stopped at three in the morning and slowly rolled forward. The night had been quiet and there was nothing on the screen until the taxi drove by at 4:12 a.m.

  Damn, he thought. So much for that idea.

  “Want me to go back further?” the shopkeeper asked. “I can turn the sound up, too.”

  Storm looked at him. “This thing has sound?”

  “Course it does,” the shopkeeper replied. “Wouldn’t be much fun to watch if there weren’t sound.”

  “Play it back again,” Storm said. “This time with sound.”

  The shopkeeper rewound the tape to just after two in the morning and let it play. Again the street was quiet with only a single vehicle passing by. Storm made note of the Buick’s license plate and continued to watch. The night was quiet and still, until just after four in the morning. At 4:05 a.m. the sound of someone breathing could be heard, deep and raspy like they were having difficulty.

  “What’s that noise?” Storm asked.

  “Sounds like someone coughing, t’me,” the shopkeeper said.

  “How good is the sound? Would this pick up someone across the street?” Storm asked.

  The shop keeper nodded. “Most of the time it only works close up, but on a quiet night sure. I can sometimes hear people on the street. Nothing like this, though.”

  Storm frowned at the screen. “I’m taking the tape as evidence.”

  The shop keeper pushed the eject button. “Are you going to pay for it?”

  Storm took the tape from the machine. “Bill me.”

  He stepped out into the morning sun and almost yelped when his new pager went off. He pulled it from his belt and glared at the number in annoyance then in shock. Tina was in labor.

  CHICAGO, 435 N. MICHIGAN AVENUE

  PRESENT DAY

  THE FULL MOON HUNG OVER Chicago like a torch made of silver, reflecting off the ice-covered spires of the city and making them glisten in the night. A lithe figure dressed in black stood atop the Chicago Tribune, her red hair trailing behind her in the night breeze. Her silver badge hung on a chain and fluttered between her breasts, a shield against the darkness and her pistol, an AMT Automag, was holstered at her hip, barely visible beneath her coat.

  Cars passed by on the street below and she could hear their tires crunching over ice and snow, people on their way home from work or wherever the day had taken them. Raven Storm watched them for a moment then turned her attention back to the tavern across the street. She and her partner had received a tip that Clinton Williams was inside and he was a man she very much wanted to meet. She had a stack of evidence back in her office that showed he was guilty of seven murders in the last seven months. She and Rupert had been looking for him for almost as long and hadn’t been able to catch a break. Until now.

  “I’m freezing my ass off, Ray.”

  Raven laughed and touched the earpiece she was wearing. “You’ll live, Rupe, trust me. Got anything?”

  She could hear his nod. “Yep, I found a car that matches his. He swapped plates on us, probably two or three times. The Jag is wearing Florida plates now, which is probably why the roadblocks didn’t work. This guy is good.”

  “Have the uniforms keep an eye on it and head in through the back,” Raven said. “Watch your back, he isn’t just good, he’s dangerous.”

  “So’s your cooking, Ray,” Rupert replied.

  “No Christmas dinner for you,” Raven laughed. “Get going.”

  “Aye, aye, boss.”

  Raven knelt on the ledge and looked down. The street below was almost empty. With a smile she leaned over the edge and dropped to the ground to land lightly on the sidewalk, unnoticed. She crossed the street, her boots making almost no noise on the ice, and entered the tavern.

  The inside was far different from the plain, business-like façade outside. Antique wood covered the walls, floor and ceiling, giving the restaurant an Old World feel. All the tables were made from imported wood and the benches were church pews rescued from buildings that had burned in the great fire.

  Raven thought it was odd décor for a place that served burgers, brats and beer.

  “There is a thirty minute wait right now, ma’am. Can I put you on the list?” the hostess asked from behind her podium.

  Raven pointed at her badge. “I’m working. Got a table for one with a good view?”

  “Of course, officer, right this way,” the hostess replied.

  Raven followed the woman into the tavern and took the offered table near the bar. She hung her long coat over the empty chair and sat, pretending to read the menu while she scanned the restaurant. It only took her a few moments to locate Williams at a booth across the room. His close-cropped black hair and Lincoln-style beard were unmistakable. He was sitting with a young woman sharing the tavern’s famous beer with a side of chips. No doubt the woman was his intended next victim. Her delicate features and dark hair fit the profile.

  Raven observed him for a moment. She knew he had a weapon somewhere close to hand, he always did, but she couldn’t spot it. His hands were clear with nothing but the silverware nearby. There were no bulges under his clothing, no sheaths or holsters at his belt, whatever he was carrying it was well hidden.

  She saw their waiter approaching with a tray of food and she stood, following a few paces behind. When the couple paused to receive their order, Raven stepped behind Williams and put her hand on his chai
r.

  “Good evening, Mr. Williams. Detective Raven Storm, Chicago police. You’re under arrest. Keep your hands on the table where I can see them.”

  “And don’t make any sudden moves,” the waiter said. “I’d hate to have to shoot you, sir.”

  Raven glanced at Levac, who had apparently borrowed one of the Tavern’s polo shirts.

  He looked like he always did. Messy brown hair, dark eyes, a perpetual five o’clock shadow and somehow he’d already gotten mustard on his borrowed shirt. He was a Peanuts character, all grown up. His Sig-Sauer ten millimeter pistol stuck out from beneath the serving tray, covering Williams.

  “Marvelous,” she said. “If all else fails, you can always be a waiter.”

  “Nah, I’d eat all the food. Have you seen the burgers?” Levac replied.

  Raven smiled and turned back to Williams. “Mr. Williams, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

  “Can and will be held against me, blah blah blah,” Williams said in an English accent. “Yes, I know how it goes. Just the two of you, is it? Not much of an escort for someone with my…experience.”

  “We can handle you,” Levac said, handing his tray to a real waitress. “Come on, let’s go. Your public awaits.”

  Williams stood and spread his hands. “Of course, officer, of course.”

  Long blades made of bone and cartilage slid from his hands in a spray of blood and viscous fluid. He used one to skewer Levac through the shoulder and swung the other in a roundhouse blow that caught Raven by surprise and sent her spilling to the floor, her face cut.

  Williams retracted his blades and leered at Raven. “Storm, huh? I know that name. I’m disappointed, I thought you’d be tougher.”

  He blew Raven a kiss and ran for the door, leaving the surprised tavern guests staring after him.

  Raven stood, feeling the cut on her jaw healing. “Are you okay, partner?”

  Levac sat up and dabbed at the hole in his shoulder. “I’ll live. It hurts like hell, though. What were those things?”