Whiskey Ginger by Shayne Silvers & Cameron O'Connell

Author:Shayne Silvers & Cameron O'Connell [Silvers, Shayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Argento Publishing, LLC
Published: 2018-06-12T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 37

My phone rang on my way out. I recognized the number and hurried up the stairs to Christoff’s office, ducking inside and slamming the door closed before answering; I didn’t want any of Christoff’s staff overhearing this conversation.

“What the bloody hell do you think you were doing letting that thing go free?” The Englishman yelled, the moment I picked up.

“What are ye on about?” I asked, completely taken aback.

“The skinwalker!”

I frowned. Apparently, the kidnapper had his own source of information—I hadn’t mentioned anything about the showdown in the park in the voicemail I’d left. “I’m sorry,” I replied, tersely, “d’ye mean the shapeshifter ye conveniently forgot to mention when ye told me where to go and who to follow?”

“Shapeshifter? Skinwalkers aren’t shapeshifters, you git. They’re closer to demons—witches who sacrificed their familiars for power.”

“Serge was a witch?” I asked, baffled. Not to be sexist, but until now I wasn’t even sure men could be witches.

“He must’ve been. A witch, probably several hundred years old. I can’t believe they stuck a leash on one of those things,” he said, talking more to himself now than me. “Skinwalkers haven’t been seen in over a century. There were rumors about a Siberian prison set up by Rasputin in a plot to overthrow the Tsar a couple centuries back…but no proof…” he drifted off, probably realizing he was babbling.

At least now I knew how Othello had come by a skinwalker as her bagman; she must have recruited him, quite possibly from that Siberian prison—yet another reason not to get on her bad side. Still, it was hard to wrap my mind around the idea that the pathetic, mild-mannered Serge might have been a witch.

But, the longer I thought about it, the more sense it made. I’d assumed the cool, dispassionate way he’d held me at gunpoint outside the alley when he’d perceived me as a threat was a front he’d put on, hoping to scare me. But what if it wasn’t? What if that was the real Serge, not the hand-wringing foreigner who’d practically begged me for help?

I cursed, inwardly.

The Serbian bastard had played me.

“So what are ye goin’ to do about him?” I asked, secretly hoping the two would go after each other, write a suicide pact, and burn in Hell for all eternity.

But of course I wasn’t that lucky.

“We?” The Englishman scoffed. “You’re taking the piss. I’m not going anywhere near that thing. It’s their problem, now.”

“They?”

“Yeah, they. The Justices. From the Academy. Them wizards steer clear of your city for the most part, what with the Fae infestation, but this one’s too big to ignore. It’ll look bad if they let it get out of hand.”

“Who are the Justices?” I asked. I’d heard of the Academy—that was the name of the school that wizards attended—but not the Justices. Although, if I was being honest, they sounded a bit pretentious.

“Are you drunk? The Justices. Wizard police. You telling me you’ve never heard of the Academy Justices? What do you people do

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