Secrets in the Moon (Crescent City Werewolves #1)

Chapter Sixteen

Jane Feral had searched through the police archives for nearly an hour before the shouting began. She didn't pay much attention. For one thing, it was on the main level above. For another, it would likely distract Mr. Newland, the police archivist. The human was as precise and dusty as the file cabinets and stored evidence he looked after. If he found her, there was no chance he'd let her stay without written permission.

Just as she found the right files, an alarm blared from somewhere within the room. Jane flinched, resisting the urge to cover her ears against the piercing noise. Harsh fluoride lights flickered into life. Then came the heavy, metallic thump of doors locking into place.

At the first hint of human panic, she shrank back into the nearest shadows, remaining perfectly still as Mr. Newland hurried past. The man patted sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief while the alarm rose to a new pitch and pulsated in an obvious countdown. Jane watched him disappear into the special collections room just before its door slid shut. The glyphs etched into its surface brightened into the color of flames.

Above, the muffled shouts moved in all directions. It was easy enough to guess that someone had either attacked the station or tried escaping from it, and the archives were now locked down to protect their contents. Excellent. She now had plenty of time to read without disruption.

Jane checked her bandolier to make sure her safety charms were active and then returned to the file cabinet to collect the folders. They were of varying ages, some battered from being thumbed through so many times, and a few fresh enough that she could still smell the people who had handled them. Only the name on the labels was the same: Harold Beaumont.

The police hadn't exaggerated about following him for years. It took her several trips to transfer all the files to the nearest reading desk. Sam would have laughed to see how few she could carry at a time; physical strength had never been one of her talents, and she hated exercise too much to try changing that. Gunfire rang out as she switched on the desk lamp, but her focus had already narrowed to Beaumont and all that the police had on him.

His first brush with the police had been when he was twenty-two and still known as Harold Granbury. He had been caught stealing bodies from a cemetery. Since the graves had all belonged to the unidentified dead, and since Harold was a bright, young university student from a renowned family, he had avoided any serious charges for his 'tasteless joke.'

That had changed when he did it again, this time from his family's mausoleum, and was found to be using the bodies as raw material for experiments with bio-thaumaturgy. In response, his family had publicly disinherited him. Friends in high places had helped lighten his prison sentence to under a year, and afterward he had changed his name to Harold Beaumont and began life as a freelance enchanter. He had never been caught again due to lack of evidence, but police suspected he'd played a part in many black market magic cases that remained unsolved... especially the ones that suggested a certain madness at work.

For Beaumont was a madman. What was impossible to see in the dry police reports grew crystal clear once Jane began studying the notebooks and ledgers collected from his apartment in Ragbag Way. His work might have been considered brilliant if it had been practical enough for those who demanded reliable results in return for their money, but no one would ever call him sane. His jumps in thought and blatant disregard for what was impossible gave him an edge over professionally trained enchanters, who all crafted their magic in the same manner. He was willing to try anything if the client offered enough money.

He was also an alcoholic; as smoke-stained as these papers were, she could still catch traces of cheap whiskey. A few were even stained. Despite this, Beaumont was surprisingly neat and detailed with his records, keeping them for every commission he'd ever had and even cross-referencing the research materials he'd used. Each commission had a number instead of the client's name, but he had made the mistake of dating them, and Jane quickly flipped through the pages, her interest deepening into an excitement she only felt while hunting.