A few days ago, Solitary Witch was released! The day we’re celebrating is One Day Without Shoes. 

Acier is a witch who is captured by werewolves. He manages to escape, but the only place he can think of hiding where the wolves won’t follow is in Vampiretown. The problem is he’s running without shoes, and he accumulates a few cuts. Vampires go crazy over witch blood. 

But he’ll solve that problem when he gets there… if he gets there. 

Read the first chapter below! 

Solitary Witch

When running from werewolves, hide in Vampiretown!

All Acier Le Doux wants to do is live a quiet, peaceful life away from witches, shifters, and vampires. As a witch on the run from his coven, he’s fully aware it’s a near-unattainable dream, but he hadn’t believed it would be werewolves who messed it up for him.

Abduction is so out of fashion, is it not?

He only gets one chance to run, and when it presents itself, he takes it. The problem is he’s now a witch on the run from both werewolves and witches, and there is only one place he can go. No wolf would ever follow him into Vampiretown. The problem is he’s not sure he’ll be able to leave there with his life intact. Vampires go crazy over witch blood, or it’s what he’s been told, at least. But better a little short on blood than living in captivity, right?

 Buy links:

Paranormal Gay Romance: 38,534 words

JMS Books :: Amazon

Chapter 1

Ever impersonated the monster under the bed? Acier Le Doux hadn’t before now, either, but needs must. Or maybe this was all unnecessary. He wasn’t sure.

He held his breath as he listened for sounds in the corridor outside his prison cell.

It wasn’t the kind of cell with bars over the windows. No, it had three huge arched windows taking up most of the wall facing the yard. The bed had been thrown in as an afterthought, most likely after the wolves had managed to grab him.

He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be taken. How could he have let his guard down so much he hadn’t noticed someone approaching—several someones.

Hiding was what he did. For years, it was what he spent most of his time doing. Hiding from the wolves, so they couldn’t kidnap him and force him to work for them. Hiding from the vampires, so they wouldn’t eat him—vampires had a thing for witch blood. Hiding from other witches, so they wouldn’t kill him or force him into a coven.

He refused to be in a coven.

He’d gotten out.

He’d built a life for himself.

He’d been happy. Or somewhat happy at least.

And now the wolves had ruined everything. He had to get out of here before it was too late.

They were planning some fucking ceremony to bind him to the pack, and while he didn’t think they’d be able to, he couldn’t allow it to happen in case they knew something he didn’t.

He wanted to believe he was superior when it came to magic. It was what his species did after all, whereas the shifters’ main thing was to turn into animals, fight for dominance, and growl at each other. Not super productive, but to each their own.

They could do whatever the hell they wanted as long as they left Acier alone.

Sadly, they weren’t planning on leaving him alone.

They needed him. He wasn’t entirely sure for what, but it had something to do with power. It was always about power, wasn’t it?

Witches had a reputation of being deadly creatures, and Acier wished it were true. He wouldn’t argue against covens being downright cruel at times, but as a solitary witch, there wasn’t much he could do.

In general, shifters owned large areas of land outside of cities, and vampires owned the cities. Not entire cities. There were humans, some other strange beings like psychics, and he was pretty sure he’d met a jinni once. Maybe. They’d been some species that didn’t fit with anything he’d interacted with before.

But the vampires ruled the business districts. They wore perfectly fitted suits, whereas shifters wore torn jeans and T-shirts. Clothes that wouldn’t hurt their wallet too much if they happened to rip during a hurried shift.

Acier feared he would have to disappear into Vampiretown. It was the only place the wolves wouldn’t follow—or they might follow him there, but they couldn’t break in and grab him without consequences.

Given he managed to get in somehow.

It had taken him some time in this town before he figured out where Vampiretown was, but once he’d seen the fenced-in buildings, he’d known what he was looking at. Old, beautiful houses. And the fence… He was pretty sure no one put a toe inside without a vampire security team knowing about it.

But first of all, he needed to get out of here.

He believed he’d been in this room for about three weeks. The first days were a blur. They’d knocked him out, and he’d lost track of time there for a bit.

One thing he was sure of was that time was running out. They were planning their fucking ceremony to turn him into their slave, and he believed it would happen today or tomorrow.

He hadn’t escaped the rule of the coven only to be forced in under someone else’s command.

Filling his lungs with air and slowly blowing it out did little to calm his heart. He wasn’t sure if they could hear his pulse. They could if they were close. Shifters had great hearing, but he didn’t think they could hear it through walls. Which was why he was playing at being the monster under the bed.

There were always two guards out in the corridor, but when they’d delivered his breakfast, he’d heard one of them had to go meet the alpha after lunch. That left only the creep the ceremony would bind him to.

The meeting had something to do with the ceremony, so it could be his future husband who’d been summoned, but from what he’d managed to piece together, he didn’t have any power, so Acier believed it was the other guy who’d leave.

They were to fix the final touches.

He was unsure of what role his future husband had in the pack before they managed to kidnap Acier. He was far from the top tier, but maybe he had some special skill since he’d be able to force-mate Acier.

Did wolves have special skills?

Their hierarchy was built on dominance. An individual was more or less dominant; it was ingrained in their being, but did they have special skills? More or less magic? More or less psychic abilities?

He knew next to nothing about shifter magic, but no mate bond could form without consent, which was where the ceremony they were planning came into play. They were going to force him to accept the bite somehow.

Since he had no plans of allowing them to trap him like that, he needed to get the hell out of here. Now. Today. Before the one who left came back from his meeting with the top dog.

Acier hadn’t seen the alpha yet and didn’t want to.

There was a murmur of voices. They were too low for him to make out any words, but he believed one of the guards was about to leave.

All he had to do now was to wait.

His intended husband had a hard time staying away from him. There was an unhealthy gleam in his eyes whenever he looked at Acier, so he was sure he would come. Acier had no doubt. Given he was the one who stayed, of course.

He walked in here every chance he got. Without the other guard here to run interference, something he did often, Acier was sure husband-to-be would want to cop a feel when no one was there to stop him.

The other guard had told him to wait, saying something about how it would be harder to sway Acier’s mind during the ceremony if he hated or feared him.

It was too late. Acier was not a fan, and he would not allow them to mess with his brain.

He breathed calmly and waited. Watched some dust dance in his exhalations.

It took longer than he’d believed it would before steps neared the door. They stopped right outside. Hubby dearest was most likely looking in through the window. Which was exactly what Acier had predicted he’d do.

He held his breath and prayed his heartbeats weren’t loud enough for him to hear. He needed him to come look for him.

The door opened, and sturdy boots came into view as his fiancé walked closer to the bed.

He didn’t speak, which was unusual.

Normally, he’d tell Acier all about what he planned on doing to him once they were mated. Acier had never slept with a wolf shifter, but he hadn’t believed they were into blood. It was something he’d written off as a vampire thing. Blood sex. Sounded like a vampire thing, right? But this creep talked about Acier’s blood all the time.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, little witch.” He sounded amused. Acier didn’t mind happy people. They were refreshing, if a bit naive. The slightly unhinged laugh following his words was disturbing, though.

Acier took a deep breath and centered himself. He was a witch, but he wasn’t the most powerful one, so he needed to focus. He closed his eyes, reached inside to the warm glow residing in his chest, and gathered sleep.

As a witch, he couldn’t use magic for anything evil. It was their most guarded secret, and coven or no, it wasn’t one he was willing to reveal. Magic was a funny thing. It wouldn’t allow you to use it to harm anyone, but sleep wasn’t harmful, and if Acier slit the wolf’s throat while he was snoozing, it had nothing to do with magic.

He wouldn’t be slitting any throats. They’d been careful not to allow any weapons near him, as if they believed he could turn them against them.

He couldn’t, but he didn’t mind them thinking he could.

“I can smell you.”

Yeah, that was the problem. He could hide the scent of his body, could pull air around him to create a barrier. It was a neat trick when freezing, keeping warm air around him and preventing it from leaking away, but he could do nothing about the scent of his clothes.

Or he could lock himself, clothes and all, inside a bubble, but then neither sound nor scent would penetrate, and not only would it drain him faster, but he believed he needed to be able to hear when he was sneaking away.

There was a rustle, then hubby dearest sank to his knees. He grinned when he spotted Acier underneath the bed. His eyes were glowing amber, and his teeth were too big for his mouth.

“There you are.”

Acier blew at him, filling his breath with sleep and allowing it to waft over him. The idiot slow-blinked. Once. Twice. Then there was a thud as he fell to his side.

Perfect.

Though Acier suspected he wouldn’t have long. Had the guy been human, he’d be out for an hour or two, but now he feared he only had minutes.

Crawling out from underneath the bed, he tore his clothes off. They smelled of him. They also smelled of sweat and grime. They’d allowed him to shower every third day or so, but they hadn’t given him any clean clothes, which meant they stank.

He got his shirt off and managed to get future-hubby’s T-shirt off him with some difficulty. Wolves were big, bigger than the average human, while Acier was on the smaller side.

He took another deep breath and reached for the magic inside to form a skin-tight air shield around his body, then he slipped the T-shirt on with a grimace. It was warm. Shifters ran a little hotter than witches, but sadly, the shirt wouldn’t stay warm.

He needed to get out of here, and while May had brought sunny days and blossoms, a jacket or at least a sweater would’ve been nice. The shield around him would protect him some, but he wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever.

He dropped his jeans to the floor. A scowl took over his face as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and allowed them to fall too.

Undressing an unconscious man was cumbersome, but he made do. His hopefully now ex-fiancé’s jeans were way too big, and he didn’t wear a belt. Sadly, Acier hadn’t either, though he doubted they’d have let him keep it if he had.

The shoes were a no-go. He’d fall if he tried to run in too-big boots.

He was about to reach for his jilted boyfriend’s socks when there was a sound in the corridor.

Fuck! Was the meeting over already?

He ran barefoot toward the middle window while digging around in his jeans pocket. One of the guards had used a key to unlock it one day to air out the room while Acier had been in the shower, and he believed all guards had the same set of keys.

He singled out a small key from the bunch and prayed it was the right one. It slid into the lock easily, and he blew out a breath. He twisted the handle and pushed it open.

Luckily, they kept him on the bottom floor. There was a small drop to the ground, but not high enough to cause a fracture.

He climbed out. The impact of the landing was jarring, and his knees threatened to fold. Then he made sure his scent was still contained behind his barrier and reached up to push the window closed. He had no doubt they’d notice it was unlocked, but maybe it would take them a few seconds longer than if he left it open.

He crouched and scanned the lawn. He couldn’t see anyone, but it was surrounded by trees, and it wasn’t always easy to see wolves in the forest.

Which way should he go? He had no idea where he was. He believed he was in the pack house, but he didn’t know in which direction to go to reach town.

Left or right?

He ran to the right.

He ran.

And ran.

And ran.

The afternoon was cold. Way colder than a May afternoon should be, or maybe it was because Acier was barefoot and wearing a T-shirt. He feared it meant his magic was waning. He didn’t think so, not yet, but locking the scent in was more important than keeping the air warm.

He was still high on adrenaline as he trudged through the forest, but he’d crash soon.

Using magic for short bursts, like he had when he’d put the guard to sleep, didn’t take too much out of him. Maintaining a magic weave was something else altogether.

The amount of power a witch had stored inside varied from person to person, and the surroundings played a role when it came to how fast it drained.

Witches needed nature, of which there was plenty in the middle of the forest.

Acier wasn’t among the most powerful, but he wasn’t at the bottom of the scale either. How he measured up against other witches didn’t matter right now, though. What mattered was he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for much longer, and he feared he wasn’t far enough away for them not to pick up his trail.

Wolves were fast.

A twig slapped him in the face, and he cursed. He couldn’t be bleeding. Not only was it a dead giveaway for wolf noses, but he couldn’t run into Vampiretown if he was bleeding. They’d take one whiff before descending on him like sharks, and he’d be all out of magic with no way to defend himself.

A howl cut through the air, and every single hair on Acier’s body stood in attention.

Fuck!

He ran faster.

His bare feet slid on a root, but he pushed on. He hoped he wasn’t bleeding. There was no time to stop and check. His magic wouldn’t conceal the scent of blood when it had trickled out of his barrier.

He ran across a creek, took about five steps, and then ran back. Could they scent him if he ran in the water? If he were bleeding, the water would wash it away, right?

It was bitterly cold, and his feet grew numb within seconds, but he ran in the small stream. The water splashed, wetting the too-big jeans he had to hold onto to prevent from sliding off his hips.

He was screwed if they were close enough to hear him, but he pushed the thought away and carried on. For the most part, the river floor was swampy, but the occasional stone or branch cut into the soles of his feet. He was pretty sure he was bleeding now, even if he hadn’t been before. It stung as if he was, but maybe it would stop before he made it into civilization.

If he made it to civilization.

Another howl sounded, this one closer, and Acier’s limbs filled with lead. He ran but didn’t make much progress. The swampy creek floor turned to quicksand.

When the water took a turn in the direction he’d run from, he jumped out of the stream and continued through the forest. He was fading, so he dropped the weave capturing his scent, and focused all his energy on running.

Shivers took over his body, and he realized with dread it wasn’t only because he was cold and wet. He needed food and rest. His powers were exhausted, and if they caught him now, he wouldn’t be able to use any magic at all. He wouldn’t be able to protect his mind from whatever they were planning on doing to him.

He couldn’t get caught.

His feet were like ice clumps, but he kept on running. His breath rasped in his chest, and he tasted copper at the back of his throat. It didn’t matter. He had to keep going.

He was trembling, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other.

The forest changed. Up until now, it had mostly been pine, but he found himself running between white trunks of birch trees. The bright green of newly opened leaf buds changed the light.

An engine sounded in the distance, and he almost came to a stop. What if it was them?

They couldn’t scent him from a car, could they? Maybe they could, but could they drive a car in the woods? Or was there a road nearby?

No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t run on a road. He was too easily seen there, but if he could find a road, he could follow it.

He crashed through the birch forest—one arm held up to protect his face, and a finger of his other hand hooked in one of the belt loops to prevent the jeans from falling off and tripping him.

The road was a gravel one.

It dashed his hopes. If it had been paved, it might have led him to the city, but gravel?

He turned left. Right or wrong, he didn’t know, but taking a right felt like running back. He could’ve been completely turned around and might be following the road back to the pack house, but his gut told him to go left, so he did.

There was no traffic. He didn’t know if it was good or bad—or it was bad since no traffic most often meant he was far from civilization—but meeting a car out here could mean capture.

He kept running, but he wasn’t much faster than walking.

He was stumbling.

Staggering.

Hobbling.

His feet were bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He drifted off into a daze where all that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running, but when a howl sounded in the distance, he was sure it hadn’t been long enough.

Had they found his trail?

There was an answering howl and then another.

Fuck, they’d found him.

A burst of adrenaline grabbed hold of him, and he ran faster.

After a minute or two, he neared the road again. He’d followed it but had stayed far enough away not to be seen from a car. Now he ran up right next to it.

It was paved.

He almost sobbed. He’d missed when it’d gone from gravel to paved. If it was paved, he had to be closer to the city, right?

To spare his feet, he stepped onto the road and ran as fast as he could.

He didn’t hear the wolves, but he feared they’d be upon him any second now.

Ahead were road signs.

Acier ran faster, or tried to. He wasn’t sure his legs moved any faster than they had before. There was a sound of a car driving in the distance, and he realized the road signs were at an intersection.

He rushed forward, waving his arms and hoping the car would slow since there was no way he’d reach the intersection in time to block it.

The car slowed, and he forced himself to run faster.

The car passed him, but at a slow pace, and he ran after it, frantically waving.

It stopped.

A middle-aged woman peered at him from inside the car. She made no effort to open the door or roll down the window.

“Help.” Acier didn’t know if she could hear him through the closed door, but maybe she could read lips. Was he naive to think a middle-aged woman couldn’t be a wolf shifter?

Finally, she rolled the window down. She didn’t speak, but she raked her gaze over him.

“Sorry to bother you. Could you drive me to the police station?” He wouldn’t go to the police. Supernaturals didn’t go to the police, but the station was in the middle of the city. He’d only have to travel a few blocks from there to make it to Vampiretown.

Getting into Vampiretown would be harder, but he’d figure out a way when he got there.

“Are you in danger?” The woman frowned, and he nodded.

“I was kidnapped. They kept me in a house in the middle of the woods, but I managed to escape.” A howl cut through the air. “They’re chasing me.”

If she were human, she most likely wouldn’t know wolf shifters existed, and telling her they did would lose him his chance of getting a ride. She’d heard the howl, though. Whether she believed it was a shifter or a normal wolf didn’t matter, but she must’ve realized it wasn’t safe to run around in these forests.

“Okay. Get in, and I’ll drop you off at the police station.”

“Thank you.” He opened the backseat door and slid in behind her. He didn’t know if she’d have wanted him to sit in the passenger seat where she could see him properly, but it would take a few extra seconds for him to walk around the car.

“Go.” He looked over his shoulder in time to see a wolf run out on the road. “Please, go.”

The woman saw it too and got the car rolling. Acier blew out a breath as the image of the wolf got smaller and smaller in the rear window. He was sure it could’ve chased after the car, but it would look suspicious.

“How far to the city?” He hoped it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes because while wolves couldn’t run after cars without drawing attention, they sure could slip into their human skin and follow them by car.

“Five, maybe six minutes.”

He nodded. “Hurry.”

Hopefully, it was short enough for the wolves not to catch up with them.

A few days ago, Psychic Obsession was released. It celebrates National Raisin Day, so prepare for little red Sun-Maid boxes. 

Frode is a psychic. If he touches an item, he’ll see everyone who’s touched it before him. It doesn’t matter if the touch happened a hundred years ago, he’ll still see it. At times, he helps the police out by doing readings of things collected from crime scenes, but there is always a risk of it being too much for him. Too many touches will leave him unconscious. 

When he’s called in to help the homicide department, he’s not prepared to come face-to-face with Nicolai Nesterova – his nemesis… and brother’s best friend. Nicolai left town years ago, and Frode didn’t think he’d ever have to see him again, much less work with him. 

Read the first chapter below!  

Psychic Obsession

Frode will never forget a face. Once he’s touched the same item you have, you’re forever etched into his memory.

Three months ago, Nikolai Nesterova moved back to his hometown. He swore he’d never set foot there again after his family kicked him out, but when his fiancé broke up with him, he needed somewhere familiar to land. There was an opening in the homicide department, but Nikolai wasn’t prepared for a serial killer case to be dropped in his lap.

If Frode Bakke touches an object, he sees all the people who have touched it before him. He can’t control the influx of faces or break the stream once it’s started, and he fears he’s one touch away from frying his brain.

 Buy Links:

Paranormal Gay Romance: 70,682 words

JMS Books :: Amazon

Chapter 1

Frode Bakke pushed a sweat-slicked strand of hair off his forehead and tried to swallow down the bile before it could reach the point of no return. The hair stuck to his shaking hand, and it took a couple of tries to get it out of his face. 

He should cut it. Should’ve cut it months ago. He couldn’t remember when he last had his hair cut. Years since a professional had done it, but Hjalmar, his big brother, had hacked off a good number of inches about a year ago. Maybe he should ask him again. Or he could do it himself, if he remembered. 

The moment he gained control of his fingers, he slipped on the glove he’d removed from his right hand and reached for the snack-sized red box of raisins. He popped one into his mouth. 

The sweet taste was enough of a shock to the system to make some of the nausea disperse but it did nothing about the shaking. 

It would go away soon. 

Or not. 

Some days, he trembled for hours. 

With a deep breath, he looked across the table and met Hjalmar’s gaze. His eyes were a startling blue in contrast to Frode’s brown ones. Sometimes he questioned if they were blood-related. He’d seen the baby pictures, so he was pretty sure they were, but Hjalmar was tall and broad, blue-eyed and blond, with a square jaw and a straight nose. He looked like a Norse god. Frode was slimmer, darker, and not Norse-god-looking at all. 

And then there was the fact of Hjalmar’s being a normal man, a great one in Frode’s opinion, but there wasn’t a lick of psychic ability in him whereas Frode couldn’t touch a single thing without being tumbled into the past. 

“Anything?” Hjalmar’s voice was calm. He was calm. Always. Where others lost patience with him, Hjalmar never did. Maybe because he’d seen the aftermath. 

Frode raised an eyebrow, not sure his voice would work yet. 

In front of him was a bullet, or not a bullet, a casing. Casings were all right. His contract stated he’d touch casings if the police asked him to—and Hjalmar had asked him to. 

Frode worked with the police on a consultant contract. It was the best he could do. In a perfect world, he’d spend the rest of his life in his house, never seeing anyone other than Hjalmar, but he had bills to pay, a mortgage, and sadly food cost money. 

Hjalmar worked in drug enforcement, tracked dealers and drug lords, and he was the one who most often requested Frode’s help. 

Frode ate another raisin from the Sun-Maid box. 

“Ready to look at pictures?” Hjalmar was already reaching for a folder. 

Frode cleared his throat. “What are you looking for?” 

By touching the casing, the faces of everyone who’d touched it before him had flitted through his mind. His brain had more faces stored than should be possible, and he was drowning in them. Once he’d seen them, there was no way to unsee them, and he didn’t forget. 

He might forget where he’d seen them, forgot which object they’d touched, but he never forgot a face. 

He’d read somewhere a normal human brain could remember about five thousand faces. If Frode was unlucky, he could get five thousand from one single thing, which was why he refused to touch door handles, anything to do with public transportation, the interiors of restaurants, schools, hospitals, and places like that. 

There was a long list in his contract. 

Hjalmar opened the folder, spun it, and placed row upon row of photos in front of Frode. 

“We want to know who was there. A man was shot to death, we know which gang he’s connected to, and we have a pretty good idea where the order to take him out came from, but we don’t know who did it.” 

“And it’s important?” Frode hated knowing he’d have a murderer stored in his mind for the rest of his life. Though, this man wasn’t the first, and most likely wouldn’t be the last. 

“We’re trying to get an idea of what’s going on. These two gangs used to work together. They both get their product from the same cartel.” He shrugged. “We need to get to the higher-ups, and the shot guy isn’t at the bottom. He’s not at the top, but a few steps up the ladder. Every piece of information helps.” 

Frode sighed. All he could give Hjalmar was a face, but sometimes it was all he needed. 

“You have him? You know who he is?” 

He didn’t know who he was. It wasn’t like a name popped up. Frode ate another raisin then dug his trembling fingers into his thighs in an attempt to still them. 

“You were the first.” Which made perfect sense since he saw the most recent contact first. “Then the evidence woman.” She wasn’t the only one who got evidence out of storage, but it was often her. “Then the forensic woman.” Considering he’d worked for the police for over a decade, he should know the names of the people on the forensic team, but he wasn’t interested enough to learn them, and he only ever saw them for a second. He recognized their faces and could rule them out. Which was enough for him. He never minded seeing them. It was calming to work with the same people over and over again. It made it easier for his brain to handle. 

“Dubose.” 

Frode nodded, not because he knew her name, but he was sure Hjalmar did. “And the cute guy from the forensic team.” 

A flicker of a smile. “Saylor.” 

“His name is Saylor?” It was a name his brain should’ve stored. 

“Jaxon Saylor.” 

“Are you kidding?” 

“No, why?” 

“It sounds like a made-up name.” 

“Like Frode Bakke?” 

Frode scowled. Out of the two of them, he believed he’d drawn the winning ticket in the name lottery. Their mother’s love for everything Norwegian was insane, and a lot of people had teased him for his name through the years, but he still believed it was better than Hjalmar. 

“Way cooler than Frode Bakke.” 

“You only say that because you think he’s cute.” 

Frode was aware of what he was doing. This teasing was to calm him, to help center him, and he appreciated it, he did, but he also wanted this over with so he could go home and not pick up his phone for a day or two. 

“Next is a man I haven’t seen before.” 

Hjalmar nodded. “What does he look like?” 

Frode closed his eyes. “Mid-forties, perhaps. Dark, almost black hair. I want to say Italian, but I’m basing it on his colors. Could be entirely wrong. Handsome.” 

Hjalmar nudged the folder with the photos closer to him, and he forced himself to focus on them. He looked at one at the time before moving on to the next. 

When he turned the page, Hjalmar stiffened. Frode looked up at him. “You expected him to be on the first page?” 

“Yeah.” 

Shaking his head, he continued assessing the photos. Hjalmar always placed his top suspects on the first page to make this part as short as possible. Frode crashed after a reading and needed to rest, as Hjalmar knew. 

Frode appreciated everything he did. He did, despite snarling at him for it at times. 

It was different when he worked with other agents and detectives. They were not as accommodating. 

On the last row on the fourth page, he found him. It was a photo taken of the man from afar as he exited a building, but recognition sang in Frode’s bones. 

He tapped a gloved finger at it. “There he is.” 

Hjalmar spun the folder around so fast, Frode hardly managed to get his hand away in time. 

“Are you kidding me?” 

Stupid questions don’t deserve any answers, so Frode kept quiet. 

“That’s—” Hjalmar pressed his lips together. “He’s up top, not at the absolute top, but he sure as hell hangs out with them on a regular basis. I didn’t think he did any dirty work anymore.” 

Frode still didn’t speak. He didn’t want to know. He touched things and pointed at photos. It was as deep into police work as he was willing to get. “I hope it helps.” 

Hjalmar stared at him. “Yeah… Yeah, only have to prove it, you know.” 

Because while they wanted Frode’s input, his saying something didn’t make it stick in court. All he had were words, and no one could trust a lunatic like Frode Bakke. If they could’ve broken into his brain to see what he saw, then maybe it would’ve helped, but the few times he’d been asked to come to court to talk about his part in the investigation, everything he’d said had been dismissed. 

“Am I free to go?” 

“Let me drive you home.” Hjalmar flipped the folder shut. Frode wanted to snarl at him, but he was in no shape to drive. He never was after having touched something, which was why he’d taken a cab here. “We’ll grab lunch on the way. You need to eat.” 

Frode wanted to protest, wanted to bark at him to mind his own fucking business, but he did need to eat. The tremors and the floatiness in his mind wouldn’t go away before he’d eaten and gotten some rest. 

They moved toward the door, and Frode steeled himself. He didn’t want to go out there, didn’t want to go to Hjalmar’s desk where people would talk to them. The sneers weren’t as obvious when Hjalmar was by his side, but it only made him feel worse. They were all deceiving Hjalmar. Fuckers. Pretended to be friendly, then, when Hjalmar wasn’t around, they’d turn into schoolyard bullies. 

Frode could handle bullies. He wasn’t a scared kid anymore, and he’d come to realize, in many cases, they acted as they did because they feared him. Plus, he’d learned how to be rude. 

He hated cops. All kinds of them—didn’t matter if they were officers, detectives, agents, and whatever the correct term for the brass was. Most of them were small-dicked insecure excuses of men. They flashed their badges and believed it made them superior to everyone else. Pathetic. 

And sometimes they needed to be told. 

He ran a gloved hand through his hair. No longer sweat-slicked, but grimy. He needed a shower despite having showered before he got here. 

“Ready?” Hjalmar waited with his hand on the door handle, and Frode had to force down the urge to push him out of the way and throw the door open simply to get it over with. 

“Yeah.” He tugged at his gloves to make sure they were in place—they always were. 

* * * * 

Nikolai Nesterova stared at the living room with the blood-soaked rug, and the woman sprawled on top of it. There was blood splatter on the walls. 

“Wow, we need to ask Dexter to come look at this.” 

Nikolai gave Isaac Elmore, the fellow homicide detective he’d been paired with, an unimpressed look. 

“What?” Isaac widened his eyes. “There is a lot of splatter. I’m sure he could’ve given us some insight.” 

Nikolai held in a sigh. “We have a forensic team, a real one.” He stared at Isaac, something most found intimidating, but it had no effect whatsoever on Isaac. “And you do realize Dexter is a fictional character, right? He doesn’t analyze blood splatter for real.” 

“You’re such a killjoy, Nesterova.” 

Nikolai gave him the kind of smirk his ex-fiancé had called cruel and gestured around. “You’re not having fun? There is so much happiness in this room.” Fuck, he needed a drink. 

“I’ll go talk to the neighbors.” Isaac stalked out of the apartment. 

Nikolai had moved back to Berg three months ago. 

He’d promised himself he would never come back here. Ever. His family had been here for three generations, him being the third. His grandfather had immigrated from the Soviet Union when he’d been in his twenties. He’d met a lovely Soviet woman, married her, and had five children. One of them had been his father, who in his turn had found a lovely Soviet woman, and together they’d had three children—Dimitri, Natalya, and lastly Nikolai. 

Only Nikolai came out queer, so he was no longer welcome in the family. They’d never said he needed to leave town, but it had been heavily implied. 

He hadn’t spoken with anyone from the Nesterova clan for over fifteen years, and he’d fully intended to change his last name when he and Julian got married. 

Only Julian didn’t want to get married anymore. 

He swallowed a sigh and looked around as the forensic team put out number tags and took photos before bagging everything. 

One of the crime scene investigators walked over to Nikolai and gave him a nod. “You’re new.” 

“No. Transferred here three months ago.” 

A slight frown stole over the man’s face. “Huh, I feel like I should’ve known. We’ll wrap up here.” He stepped out of the way as the body bag containing the woman was moved out of the room. “I’ll send you what we find, and I think the body will go to Zachary Mallon.” 

“Who?” Nikolai hadn’t heard the name before; he didn’t think, at least. 

“The ME. He examined the other two. If he’s not available, I guess Audry Hinds will take it, but I don’t think Mallon will let it go.” 

Cold seeped into Nikolai. “What do you mean, the other two?” 

The man’s eyes swept over his face. “About six months ago, you’ll have to check the date, there was a woman placed on a rug in her living room, her throat cut—” He gestured back into the room. “Then there was another one about four months ago. A woman with a sliced throat, on a rug in the middle of her living room.” He shrugged. “Third time’s a charm, right? You’ll get him this time.” 

The man took a step away as if to leave, but Nikolai snagged the sleeve of his white disposable coveralls. “Wait. Are you telling me there is a serial killer?” 

The man gave him a confused look. “Eh… It’s your case, isn’t it? Detective Bedell retired and handed it to you?” 

Nikolai was going to kill someone—strangle them because he’d seen enough blood for one day. “Yeah, he retired.” But Lieutenant Medlin hadn’t said anything about a serial killer. 

The man shrugged, and Nikolai realized he still held onto his sleeve. “What’s your name?” 

“Oh, sorry.” The man offered his gloved hand. “Jaxon Saylor.” He motioned at a woman walking out of the room. “Maeve Dubose, and eh…” He looked around, but the room had emptied. They weren’t done, but for some reason, everyone had found things to do elsewhere at the moment. 

“I’ll let you know when we’ve found everything we can, Detective…” He tilted his head as if there was a question in the statement. It took a couple of seconds, then he wanted to smack himself. 

“Sorry. Nikolai Nesterova.” 

Saylor narrowed his eyes. “Nesterova? Have we met?” 

Nikolai shook his head. It was hard to see what a person looked like underneath the marshmallow suit, but he didn’t think they’d met, and he didn’t want to mention his family, so he settled for the head shake. 

“I’ll ping you, all right.” 

Isaac appeared by his side. “Ready for some lunch?” 

With the scent of death clinging to his nostrils, food wasn’t what he was thinking of. “I think we need to have a talk with Medlin.” 

Isaac sighed. “I don’t wanna.” 

For fuck’s sake. “How old are you?” 

“Thirty-seven.” 

Nikolai looked him up and down. Thirty-seven? He’d have guessed thirty, though he was a detective, and Nikolai had the feeling he’d been one for some time. 

“How come?” 

“You act like you’re seventeen.” 

Isaac snorted. “And how old are you, Papi?” 

Isaac was as white as they came, blond, blue-eyed, with a boy-next-door appearance. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Right. Medlin, now.” He turned and walked out of the blood-drenched apartment. Shouldn’t someone have noticed a woman being murdered in an apartment building? He guessed they’d have to wait for the autopsy report, but if she was alive when the murderer had sliced her throat, there would’ve been sounds. She would’ve fought, would have screamed. 

“You never answered.” Isaac tumbled after him like an excited puppy. 

“What did you ask?” 

“How old you are. I think I read your birth date somewhere, but I can’t remember.” 

Nikolai glared at him. “Forty-one.” 

“Looking good.” Isaac wiggled his eyebrows. 

Nikolai sighed.