chapter one
“I hate my fucking mother.”
James Potter hums and twirls the spatula in his hand. His mouth, on autopilot, says, “What did she do this time?”
Sirius Black stretches his legs across not one, but two of James’ kitchen stools. “She exists, Prongs. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t her breathing enough of a reason to want her dead?” His eyes grow wide with wonder. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“Do what?”
“Order her death.”
James laughs. He ignores the morbid excitement twisting in his stomach. “That’s not quite how it works.”
“So you’re telling me it’s not even worth having my best friend be a detective if he can’t do anything good?”
“I’m offended,” James says, though he is nothing of the sort. He flashes a grin and tilts the pan that is still hot from the stove. Fluffy, brown pancakes pile onto the waiting plate. “C’mere. Your personal chef has done it again.”
Sirius has taken the plate from him in less than a second. He stabs a fork into one just as the phone rings.
Sirius promptly gives it the finger.
“Are you worried I’m cheating on you, dear?” James says as he snatches the phone from the counter. “Hello, this is James Potter. Say something hot.”
“Get to the office before I hang you by your balls.”
James frowns. “That isn’t very hot, Moony. You missed my directions entirely.”
He hears the tell-tale Remus Lupin grunt, his low, sleepy voice filling his ear. “Fine. Get to the office before I hang you by your balls, hotly.”
“Kinky,” Sirius offers through a mouthful of pancake.
“Remus, darling, I think we need to have the conversation again,” James says, already searching for his coat. “The one about you being a workaholic. It isn’t good for your skin.”
Remus is silent. That, perhaps, is scarier than yelling.
James pauses. He holds the phone closer to his ear. “Remus? You still there?”
“There’s someone new, James. Someone’s found a dead little girl.”
Shit. James’ stomach drops fifty floors, leaving the rest of his body behind. “I’ll be right there.”
Sirius doesn’t speak as James gets ready to leave. He helps him into his coat, finding him a scarf for the biting December air, even handing him the car keys.
James offers him an apologetic smile. He’s still in his pajama pants and an old T-shirt. The clock on the counter blinks 3 AM. Red, staining his eyelids.
Sirius opens the door for him. His voice is quieter than it should’ve been, uncharacteristically soft. “Go save the world.”
James doesn’t make fun of him for the poor attempt at a joke. He only smiles.
And then he’s gone.
He wrenches open the office door and nearly trips over a lump on the floor.
“Fucking hell, Remus,” James says, “I could’ve killed you!”
Remus rolls over on his stomach. There is a bundle of blankets surrounding him, burrito-fashion, and his brown eyes blink in the sudden burst of light. His hair is disheveled, hanging in thin strands over his eyes, his clothes rumpled with sleep.
“Good morning,” he mumbles.
James helps him up. He holds out an arm to help Remus limp to the desk, where there were even more blankets. Where had he found them all? Did he have this many at home?
Remus sinks into his chair. He taps on his computer and it comes to life. “The girl was at the library. There was a power outage. She turns up dead.”
“Cause of death?”
“Poison. Fast-acting, too. There was a can of Coke on the table next to her.”
“Did they have any—”
“Camera footage?” Remus shakes his head, the motion making his eyelids droop with exhaustion. “None. Someone messed with them. There were no other prints on the Coke can, either.”
James chews on his lip until it bleeds. The taste of copper is on his tongue, his stomach churning at the photo of the girl. The victim. “Sidney Harrison.”
“She was ten.”
“Fuck,” he breathes. James rakes an aching hand through his hair. “This is tragic, sure, but if you don’t mind me asking…”
“Why did I call?”
“Um… yeah.”
“There’s something else. It fits with our pattern we’ve seen only internationally.” Remus clicks on the screen and pulls up the crime scene photo. There, on the floor beside the body, is —
“R A B.” James shakes his head. “What the hell does that mean?”
The letters were spelled out in books. How had the killer had the time? How long was the power outage? Who were they?
“He’s signed it before,” says Remus, “but only in other murders across other countries. America, Italy, France. This is the first time he’s struck England.”
James stares until his eyes burn. A chill snakes down his spine.
Who are you? He demands, his heart pounding fiercely against his ribs. Who are you, R A B?