Shadowblood Heir Page 2

  Judy bit her lip and made a show of thinking the deal over, but she liked dragons. Hell, the earrings she was wearing featured a pair of baby dragons. “Deal.”

  Switching the phone to speaker, I opened the voicemail.

  “Matthew Stanford Lee, you ungrateful little bastard. Call me back the instant you get this. I want to hear it from your own mouth that you had nothing to do with that writer lady’s death. Your step-father and I are very concerned that we might get caught up in all this. You’ve got a motive, after all. That’s why I want you to call our lawyer, Curtis P. Ewing, at—” Delete.

  “Good old mom. Covering her ass even before she hears a word from me. Not an agent, though. Looks like I win.”

  Judy crossed her arms.

  “What?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “WHAT?”

  “You didn’t, did you? I mean, she did get you expelled.”

  I snorted out a chuckle. “Best thing that could have happened to me. I got out of law school without having to argue with my dad, and I got affirmation that my writing is just as good as Patricia Martinez.”

  “And everyone thinks you plagiarized her.”

  “Time heals all wounds, and pen names can do wonders for covering up the past. Besides, I know I didn’t do it.”

  “If you did it, I swear I won’t tell the cops.” She kept up a serious expression for all of five seconds before bursting into a grin.

  I gave her a playful shove and went to look for the controllers. No, I hadn’t killed Patricia Martinez, but who had?

  And why?

  Chapter Three

  Morning came, and Judy left for work. I had the apartment to myself.

  It hardly felt like the same building. Sunlight brightened behind the closed blinds and peeked around the edges. Cars drove by on the street out front as the neighbors headed off to their productive, busy days.

  As for me, I sat on the couch wearing the same jeans and t-shirt I’d worn to bed, with my feet up on the coffee table and my laptop open. The plan for the day was writing.

  If I was ever going to break free from the food delivery racket, I was going to have to write something epic, something that blew the socks off of everyone who read it. Novelists don’t matriculate into movie deals the way lawyers stumble into six-figure jobs straight out of Harvard Law.

  But that morning I was just staring at the screen, my mind drifting to that Patricia Martinez memorial at the opening of the Shadowblood season finale. That was the kind of hit I wanted, where people interrupted a major television event to eulogize me.

  What I saw on my laptop display was a psychic detective novel that screamed cheesy knockoff. I highlighted the whole manuscript. My finger hovered over the delete key. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. That Old Yeller of a manuscript needed to be put down, but I couldn’t do it.

  Like every time when I couldn’t work, I turned to the Internet. After all, it was right there in a tab behind my Keith Damon detective manuscript.

  The crackpots were having a field day. For every heartfelt tribute to Patricia Martinez, there were ten posts worth of conspiracy theories, gallows humor, and gnashing of teeth over what it meant for the future of the television show.

  “Ugh,” I grunted. “Can’t you people get a life?”

  I held down the power button until the screen went black.

  Rubbing my eyes, I wondered what to do with the rest of the day. Game shows and anime were strong contenders.

  “I can show you how it ends,” a voice whispered.

  My head lolled against the back of the couch. “Not you again… Listen, you’re not real so kindly shut the fuck up.”

  “You can be as good as her,” the whisper cooed. Wherever it came from, the voice always seemed to be right behind me.

  Books. The books. That was what I needed to shut up the whispers. Since it was my own subconscious at work, I needed to shove top-quality fantasy fiction in its face to prove that I was never going to measure up.

  The curtain was closed in my bedroom, blocking out the glare of sunlight and my view of the neighbors’ rusty boat trailer parked next door.

  I climbed into bed and tried to read, angling the lampshade to cast better light over The Dark Hearth Fire, the third Shadowblood book. My eyes scanned lines of prose, but nothing passed to my brain.

  A shadow fell across the page. With the lamp less than three feet away, there was nothing that could have cast it.

  My breath came slow and shuddering as I watched the shadow crawl across the words as if it were looking for something. The whispers were bad enough, but the moving shadows always seemed more real. My fingers felt nothing when I tried to brush it off the page, and the shadow didn’t jump to the back of my hand like a real shadow should have.

  When it reached the bottom of the page, the shadow flickered at the corner. I flipped the page. It darted across the next page, skimming and demanding I turn to the next.

  I gritted my teeth. “What do you want?”

  The blot of darkness continued its browsing, zipping back and forth down the page as if skimming. After perusing both pages, it commanded me to give it another.

  I snapped the book shut. “No.”

  Thrusting the book aside, I reached for the bedside table. Rummaging through a carefully curated drawer full of crap, I found what I was looking for.

  Amber plastic bottle.

  White, child-safe top.

  Little printed label wrapped halfway around, scratched out in black marker.

  The pills weren’t mine. At least, they weren’t mine legally.

  A guy who ordered pizzas for the Kentdale Nursing Home did a little business on the side. Plenty of residents didn’t want their pills, and plenty of other people did. Clozapine kept Parkinson’s patients from hallucinating, and so far they’d worked for me as well.

  I hated the damn things. They were a cheat code for the voices that had plagued me since midway through season five. I can’t say if it was a coincidence or there was some connection, but I’d heard its first whispers during a Muin-heavy episode—the one where he learned of Sir Denster’s whereabouts and started his hunt. After that, I’d slept with the lights on for a week, ending when I took the first pill.

  There had been twelve when I bought the bottle for $80, and that had been nearly six weeks ago. I popped it open and stared down at the chalky, off-white pills cowering at the bottom. There were four left.

  A soda bottle on the floor had half an inch of flat liquid left. The top barely hissed when I unscrewed it.

  The shadow coiled around the neck of the bottle as if it could dissuade me. But when I popped the pill in my mouth, it slithered off into the dark corners of the room.

  I threw back a swig of soda. “Yeah. You better run.”

  With a sigh of relief, I headed back to the living room to see what I could find on TV before the side effects kicked in.

  Chapter Four

  A car door slammed out on the street, and I woke with a jerk. Lamplight reflected off the inside of the living room windows. Outside it was dark.

  I’d slept the day away on the couch.

  The television was off. My memories had fuzzed over the details, but I think I was watching old kung fu movies before dozing off. Those Clozapine pills packed a punch.

  Wiping a film of drool from my cheek, I got up to check my bearings.

  Tim and Judy’s cars were both parked out front. The kitchen trashcan was stacked with Thai food takeout boxes. They’d come home and had dinner without waking me. So much for Tim working another all-nighter.

  Rummaging in the fridge, I found some Pad Thai and threw it in the microwave. The container was full, so I assumed they’d ordered something for me before realizing that my charge indicator was on zero.

  The toilet flushed.

  As the microwave spun my box of noodles, Tim emerged from the bathroom in boxers and an old GenCon t-shirt.

  The big guy yawned but blinked to a stop when he
noticed me. “Hey, Matty. You get blitzed or something? Judy checked you for a pulse.”

  “Me?” I asked incredulously. “Day-drinking?”

  “It’s cool, man,” Tim assured me, stifling another yawn. “I told her you probably just didn’t sleep much last night. You did look like hell this morning.”

  “Thanks?”

  A meaty hand landed on my shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Anyway, if I don’t see you in the morning…” he didn’t finish the thought.

  “You shipping out early?”

  “Yup,” Tim replied as he shuffled off toward his and Judy’s bedroom.

  “Thanks for the dinner. But… um, not sure this is going to fill me up. Mind if I borrow your car?”

  Tim pointed a lazy finger toward the row of hooks by the apartment entrance. “Knock yourself out.”

  I slurped down the Pad Thai—which never reheated as well as it should—and headed out to look for something to fill the rest of the empty void in my stomach.

  Night had fallen over Somerville, and I headed toward Cambridge in pleasantly light traffic.

  Tim’s car still had that plastic odor, fresh from the factory. He talked about the smell like it was a good thing. I opened a window and let the city air rush in.

  Wearing just a sweatshirt for warmth, it wasn’t fit weather for driving with nature’s AC blasting. It sure as hell woke me up though. Part of waking up fully was realizing that I was in the drive-thru for BBQ wings in a borrowed car.

  I pulled out of line and ate inside.

  The plastic booth and fluorescent lighting always gave fast-food places an alien feel at night. Without a clear view of the real world out the windows, it was like a glass-walled terrarium of what creatures from space might imagine was a human’s natural habitat.

  “You should see for yourself,” a whisper suggested.

  “See what for myself?” I asked softly, covering my mouth with a hand. There were only two other occupied booths and the cashier to worry about hearing me. Still, this was when all the crazies came out, and I preferred not being lumped in with them.

  “Saliera’s office,” it replied.

  So, the shadow was on board with the fan theories that Martinez had written herself into the story as the prophetess. If there had ever been any doubt that this was my own mind fucking with me, that was evidence enough to confirm it.

  Mostly.

  “I’m not listening to you. You’re not real.”

  A bank of restaurant lights flickered and blinked out. My own shadow, cast by one of the remaining lights, curled and twisted into letters.

  I AM.

  “Cute. But that light’s not really even off. I’m imagining it, and as soon as I get home, I’m taking another pill. And if you don’t behave yourself, I’m going to wash it down with half a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

  Not that the shadow should know the difference, but if I wanted Jack, I’d have had to pillage Tim’s stash. All I had for hard liquor was a maple whiskey that I’d received as a joke Christmas gift for living in New England.

  “Someone’s going to have to finish her work,” the shadow suggested. “Why not you?”

  “Because I’m a no-talent pizza driver who couldn’t even write fan-fic worth a damn.”

  For the first time, I heard the shadow chuckle. “Aw, don’t say that. I enjoyed it. You write a lot like she used to, when you try.”

  “If you weren’t my imagination, I’d take that as a compliment.” My wings were getting cold as I argued with myself.

  “Make you a deal. Sneak into her office. If you don’t find what you need to become her successor, I’ll go away and never bother you again.”

  I ate a wing as I considered what to do about this development. On the one hand, breaking and entering was out of character for me. I mean, why would my subconscious even be trying to get me in trouble?

  On the other hand, if I couldn’t trust my own word, what was I turning into? If slipping in and out of a faculty office at Harvard was all I needed to do to shut up this annoying whisper and end my hallucinations, it was worth considering—even if it was now a crime scene. After all, the alternative was buying gray-market pills or seeking—you know—actual professional help.

  And what if there really was some hidden cache of Shadowblood notes tucked away in some corner of her office where police, teaching assistants, and anyone else with access to the office had overlooked?

  Matt Lee, Shadowblood Heir.

  It had a nice ring to it. Then again, Matt Lee, Plagiarist Burglar, had a certain panache as well.

  “Fuck off,” I muttered to my shadow as I finished eating my wings.

  Maybe I got a few odd glares as I left the restaurant. Maybe I was imagining it. But as I got into Tim’s Subaru to drive back home, one thing I knew for certain…

  I wasn’t letting a voice in my head convince me to break into Patricia Martinez’s office.

  Chapter Five

  Tim’s car idled in a parking space, burning gas I’d have to pay for if I let it run too long. It was just a block from there to the English Department building.

  One thought hammered against the inside of my skull. I shouldn’t be here.

  My hand drifted down to the shifter, ready to put it in reverse, undo my parallel parking job, and head home. But that one hand was all the good sense I had left.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached up and shut off the ignition.

  Pulling off my tattered sweatshirt revealed the long-sleeve polo I was wearing beneath. I flipped down the visor and opened the lit mirror, smoothing down my hair to make it look like I hadn’t just pulled a sweatshirt over my head. Judy often claimed I looked homeless the way I dressed and didn’t shave. But today I was smooth-faced and dressed like I belonged on campus.

  Or at least, I hoped. My judgment was admittedly on shaky ground.

  I locked the car and shoved Tim’s keys in my pocket as I crossed Prescott Street, shivering in the evening chill. There was a reason I wore sweatshirts, and it wasn’t just a fashion statement. October nights in Boston were brisk.

  The English department was open as long as faculty was on hand. Harvard wouldn’t dream of tarnishing the mystique of the obsessive professor who worked all hours.

  It was quiet at night, with hardly anyone in the halls.

  I’d watched enough crime dramas and written enough detective stories to know that I should just act like I belonged there. Skulking was the most obvious way to get caught somewhere you didn’t belong. It was one thing if you were a Navy Seal or a ninja, but regular people mostly sucked at moving around without getting noticed. Besides, at one point I did belong on campus, so it wasn’t like I was operating on guesswork.

  I passed by a couple students. One said a perfunctory “hi,” and I gave a “hey” in reply. That was it for interaction.

  Martinez’s office was on the second floor in a hallway lined with offices of men and women whose academic credentials were more impressive than those of Congress. If there had been any doubt as to which office belonged to the author of the world’s current favorite fantasy-themed TV show, everyone had their names prominently displayed on their door. It was about the only time anyone ever mentioned Martinez’s PhD.

  Of course, even if every office had been unlabeled and I had never been there before, I probably still could have figured out that hers was the office with the two strips of police tape across the door. It must have rankled the hell out of the deans to have a crime scene on campus and a daily reminder of it blaring in crass yellow tape.

  No one was in the hall with me. I’d half expected to see a lingering cop or two—even a rookie pulling nanny duty on the scene—but I wasn’t going to complain. I couldn’t hear any footsteps.

  There were lights in two nearby offices, but the blinds were closed. Reaching under my shirt, I used the untucked end as a glove and turned the knob.

  I pushed the door open and crawled under the police tape, double-checking that no one was aroun
d to see me.

  From one of the lit offices nearby, the blinds rustled.

  Pulling my head back from the hall, I hurriedly closed the door. Squeezing my eyes shut, I covered my mouth and nose to stifle the sound of my breath, which sounded as loud as a window A/C unit to my ears.

  Another of the office doors opened. Footsteps approached and stopped outside Martinez’s door.

  After a pause, there was a quiet harrumph. “Something is rotten in the state of Massachusetts, and I fear no heaven will direct us.”

  After another long pause and a sigh, the footsteps departed down the hall and faded. Some professor had just gone home for the night.

  I had to wait for my heart to slow and the bones in my knees to turn solid again. With a steadying breath, I got up and began my search.

  Tim’s keychain had a tiny LED flashlight. The last thing I needed was people seeing light coming from inside the office, but feeling around might not find me what I was looking for.

  Inching to the window, I angled the blinds to let in light from the street. It wasn’t much if I was going to try reading by it, but at least now I was able to navigate the room without bumping into furniture.

  Looking around the office cloaked in shadows, I had a weird feeling of deja vu, like I had seen the office like this before. I’d probably dreamed it; my dreams had been the land of weird shit as of late.

  The place was surprisingly neat and tidy for being the scene of a violent murder. Bookshelves lined one wall and filing cabinets another; neither had been disturbed in the altercation.

  The desk was the only real indicator of the violence that had befallen here. The surface was soaked in dried blood. Leaning in close, I saw a slit in the middle where blood had dripped through. On the underside, splintered wood marked the exit point of the blade that had gone clear through not only Martinez but the desk as well.

  My guts clenched at the thought of someone coming after me who could cause that sort of wound.

  Below the desk, two more pools of blood, one where it had spilled over the edge and one beneath the stabbed hole. I caught a whiff and nearly lost my dinner.