Demon Moon (Prof Croft Book 1) (4 page)

“I’m glad you find this all so amusing, Professor Croft,” he said. “But some other concerns have come to light that go more to the heart of your role at the college.” Snodgrass, who agitated easily, remained oddly composed. No lip twitching or obsessive fingering of his little oval glasses. Instead, he gave a knowing chuckle, which I did not like.

I fought the urge to swallow. “Such as…?”

“Well, you already know how I feel about your course. Ancient mythology and lore hardly qualifies as academia. It comes across as pop scholarship and more than a little … occultish.”

I rankled at the suggestion, even coming from him. History might help explain the mundane world, but it was mythology that lent insight into the forces that
supported
the mundane—

“Given the present budget constraints,” he continued, “as well as dwindling interest in your course, I made my recommendation to the board that it be dropped from the catalogue.”

“Again?” I feigned a yawn.

His lips pinched, but not in irritation. He was trying not to grin.

That got me. Against my better judgment, I pushed back. “And I’m betting the board reminded you that I bring in half the research grants of this department.”

“Oh, let’s not exaggerate,” he said, clucking his tongue. “It’s more on the order of thirty percent—and trending down. And there have been no grants so far this semester, am I correct?”

“They’re pending,” I muttered.

“But yes, the board
is
impressed by your grants. I’ll give you that. What they’re far less impressed by, however, is news of your criminality.”

“My what?”

He lifted a stapled-together packet from a neat wire tray and tossed it forward.

Heat spread over my face as I lifted the packet from his desk.

“Last summer you were picked up at an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said. “The scene of a murder. You were in an intoxicated state. When you sobered, you claimed to know nothing, remember nothing. And yet the victim’s blood was on your hands and clothes. The NYPD had their theories, but without a murder weapon or apparent motive, there was little they could do except charge you with obstruction. You’re currently serving a two-year probation.”

Hand to my frowning chin, I read over the police report, even though I already knew it line for line. Long story short, I had failed to get to a conjurer in time, then exhausted my powers banishing the tentacled creature he had called up—not unlike what happened last night. Only in the Hell’s Kitchen case, I failed to escape the scene before Thelonious took over and evidently discovered the liquor cabinet.

I could feel Snodgrass’s smirking eyes on me as I flipped to the court order.

I had foolishly believed these reports would remain buried beneath a growing mountain of unprocessed paperwork. Like most city services, the criminal justice budget had been slashed to the bone. Dysfunction and backlogging, problematic even in the best of times, had rocketed to new heights. For almost a year, the reports
had
stayed buried.

Meaning the son of a bitch had gone digging.

Snodgrass brushed the stiff lapels of his double-breasted suit with the back of a hand. “Shouldn’t you have reported all of this to the college?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to suggest there was more to the story, but he cut me off.

“Save it for the board, Mr. Croft. I’ve proposed a hearing for Monday morning. You’ll have an opportunity to make your case then. I suspect it will take more than another grant—or even a stack of fawning reviews—to convince them of your fitness to continue teaching here.” His eyes sparkled with delight. “The board takes such matters
very
seriously.”

I turned to the last page of the court order, which enumerated the conditions of my probation: remain in the state, no drugs or alcohol, consent to searches… The next item hit my memory like a cattle prod. I jumped from the chair. Snodgrass flinched back, as though I intended to knock him from his perch, but that wasn’t where I was headed. Cane in hand, I spun toward the office door.

“Professor
Croft
,” he scolded, recovering himself. “I haven’t dismiss—”

“Save it, chief. Gotta run.”

The window glass gave a satisfying rattle as I slammed the office door behind me. But it didn’t change the fact I was late again. This time for a meeting with my probation officer.

8

At the entrance to the subway station, I drew a deep breath. It was partly in anticipation of the stale-urine odor but more so that I had, well, a phobia of going underground. A skin-prickling, airway-constricting, almost full-blown anxiety. Not something I was proud of. The origins of the phobia weren’t entirely clear. My therapist and I had been trying to get to the source before wizarding became too costly for me to afford him any longer. I still had his card somewhere.

I plunged down the stairwell and, approaching the turnstile, exhaled at the sound of a south-bound train squealing toward the station. Movement helped the condition. I swiped my transit card, hurried onto the platform, and boarded a rear car.

Edging to the back of a compartment crowded with the barely making it and the beaten down, I checked my watch. My meeting was at ten. If the track was clear, I’d be no more than fifteen minutes late. Not terrible—assuming my officer was in a good mood, which happened sometimes. If I had a cell phone, I could have called him, but wizards and technology? Yeah. Payphones were a surer bet, but I wasn’t toting any change. Plus, there was no guarantee I’d get through the warren of extensions to his office.

If nothing else, it gave me something more immediate than my demotion to the bread lines to worry about.

At Fourteenth Street, the train lurched to a crawl. The Broadway line and its east-west services had been out for more than five years, doubling traffic on the Lexington line. Promises to have the routes restored had run into budget shortfalls, not to mention the mysterious disappearance of a team of surveyors. All sorts of theories had been floated regarding their fate—they got lost, suffocated on the foul air, etc.—but the stark, bone-crunching truth was that the defunct tunnels were now infested with ghouls.

Not my beat, thankfully.

At the stop for City Hall, I burst up into the gunmetal light and dodged the traffic on Centre Street. Beyond the municipal building, the cube-shaped fortress of One Police Plaza took shape. I was joining the line at the pedestrian checkpoint when a sharp voice called from my right.

“You’re a half hour late.”

I spun and nearly fumbled my cane. The woman striding toward me was dressed in a no-nonsense suit, black blouse, midnight hair pulled from a striking Latin face, one that managed to appear youthful and veteran at the same time. That was what Homicide did to a third-year detective, I supposed.

“Technically, you’re in violation of your probation.”

She would know. She was the one who had arrested me.

“Detective Vega,” I managed. Hooking a thumb back the way I’d come, I stammered, “The subway, ah, hit a snarl.”

“Save it.” She seized my wrist with a small but manacle-tense grip. “Let’s go.”

I was resigning myself to arrest—could the day get any crappier?—when I noticed she was marching me away from the thirteen-story headquarters. I stumbled to keep pace, even though I had a good foot of height on her. My cane wasn’t doing anything for her sympathy, apparently. We arrived beside a scraped-up sedan parked over the curb. Opening the passenger side door, she all but swung me inside. I raised a finger. “Um, where exactly are—?”

She slammed the door.

The driver side door cannoned opened, and she dropped behind the wheel. “I had the pleasure of meeting your department chair last week,” she said, throwing the gearshift into drive. The car jumped from the curb and into traffic. “He told me you’re a professor of the arcane?”

So that’s where Snodgrass had gotten the report.

“Ancient mythology and lore, actually. It’s a graduate-level course.” Or
was
.

Detective Vega gave no sign she’d heard me as she swung south onto Park Row and switched on the siren. Cars honked and edged from her path. She accelerated, knocking past an obstinate taxi. Not even a backward glance.

“How are you with ancient languages?”

“Huh?” When I realized I was white-knuckling the door handle, I relaxed my grip and brought both hands to my cane. “Ancient languages? Not bad. I mean, I’m fluent in a couple, familiar with several others.”

“Good.”

I waited for more, but her dark eyes remained narrowed on the traffic in front of her. It was the same ruthless look she’d fixed on my court-appointed attorney while testifying against me last fall.

Police Plaza disappeared behind us. “Hey, uh, what about my meeting with the probation officer?”

Instead of answering, Detective Vega lowered her window. We were entering the shadow of the barrier that separated the Financial District from the rest of Manhattan. I dipped my head to take in the grim concrete span. Following the Crash, public outrage had fallen on the banking class. Detonating bombs around their buildings had become a popular pastime.

Now Wall Street featured an actual wall again, even if it was located a few blocks north, on Liberty Street. No small irony there.

At an entrance for official vehicles, Detective Vega held up the ID that dangled around her neck. Armored guards in shield sunglasses looked from her to me, then motioned us through with assault rifles. The skyscraper-lined corridors beyond were strangely silent.

“There’s been a murder at St. Martin’s,” Detective Vega said.

I stiffened. “The cathedral?” Sited on a fount of ley energy, it was the oldest and among the most powerful places of worship in the city.

“No, the Caribbean island,” she replied, giving me a dry look.
And you’re a professor?
it seemed to ask. I’d gotten that look a few times. “I’m not going into details other than to say the rector’s body was found in the church sacristy this morning. There was some writing at the scene our language people couldn’t make sense of. They’re thinking it’s ancient.”

Well, that explained things. “And you want to see if I can decipher it?”

“Boy, you’re sharp.”

“What are you offering?”

When her eyebrows pressed together, I remembered how quick she was to anger. “Excuse me?” she challenged.

“You’re contracting my services, right? Shouldn’t there be a fee or something?”

While it was true I could use the extra money, this was about getting some things straight. First, probation or not, I wasn’t hers to muscle around. I had enough going on in my own life at the moment. Second, we weren’t friends. I didn’t owe her any kindnesses. Especially since she was the reason I was about to get drop-kicked from Midtown College. If she wanted her back scratched, she was damn sure going to run her nails up and down mine.

Hmm. Probably could have phrased that better.

“Your
fee
,” she said evenly, “is me not collaring your ass for failure to show. How’s that sound?”

I shook my head against the rest. “Nice try.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know I was going to be late. You parked with a view of the checkpoint well before I showed up. Forty minutes, I’m guessing.” I nodded toward the hood. “Engine was cold.”

She glanced over as though taking some measure of me.

While it was true wizards possessed an enhanced awareness, catching subtleties that most overlooked, I was presently blowing an ass-load of smoke. I had no idea what temperature the engine had been.

“It doesn’t change the fact you were late,” she said.

She’d bought the bluff, but I could see she wasn’t going to budge on her position.

“Well, what were you
preparing
to offer?” I asked.

She blinked twice quickly. A tell.

“All right,” I said, drumming my fingers over my cane as I thought aloud. “You had no intention of paying me. I’m on probation, a criminal. I know how that would look—even inside the NYPD. I get it. So, I’m guessing it was some kind of commutation of my sentence?”

Another rapid blink.

“A year?” I pressed, my heart already accelerating at the possibility. A year would take care of the second half of my probation. I’d be a free man. And if, come Monday’s hearing, I was no longer under the NYPD’s thumb, I might actually have a crack at saving my job.

“A month,” Detective Vega countered sharply.

My hope shattered like a clay pigeon. I could see in her set expression she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into a full year. She already hated that I’d made her feel transparent. My mistake, I realized now.

We were slowing past a police cordon and into a mayhem of squad cars that fronted St. Martin’s. Detective Vega knifed into a too-small space and twisted to look me full in the face.

“
If
whatever information you provide leads to an arrest,” she said, “I’ll consider upping it to six.”

I understood some wizards could peer into souls. It wasn’t a gift I possessed—or even desired, for that matter—but I
had
developed a decent ability to read people. And what I saw beyond the façade of Detective Vega’s hard eyes was the bone-weary fatigue of a detective whose resources were being stripped at the same time murders in the city were soaring. She needed all the breaks she could get.

“A year,” I tried again.

“Six months.”

I glimpsed something else, but before it took on contours, Vega turned and banged her door into the squad car beside ours. Conversation over.

After edging out, she paced toward an approaching officer who looked to be managing the outdoor scene. When she pointed back in my direction, I squeezed out too, though with less property damage. I stood with my cane, peering at the cathedral’s stately bronze doors, then up the soaring Gothic spire shimmering with ley energy. Back down, to the right, tombstones stood in the gated churchyard I used to play in. I had attended St. Martin’s as a boy, when my family still lived in the city.

“Hey!” Detective Vega had finished signing in with the officer and was waving for me to follow.