All of it putrefied to noxious green and crawling black.
Whoever this was didn’t know how to cook. It looks like they just put the remains in the water. Though his gorge roiled, he made himself finish the report. There was no sign of any kind of seasoning, no herbs. If not for the onion and tomatoes, I’d have said they were just boiling the flesh off the bones.
A pause, then Illium said, You’re okay.
His relief was sandpaper over Aodhan’s senses. I’m not going to retreat back to my lair in the Refuge, he bit back, even though he knew, he knew he was being irrational. Illium had every reason to doubt Aodhan’s stability.
Fine. Stop arguing with me and get the fuck out of there.
I need to check the rest of the house. Now that he’d seen what he thought would be the worst of it, he took a deep breath—and only then realized he’d begun breathing again at some point. Autonomic reflex. Hard for even an angel to resist.
The scent of rot coated his nostrils now, familiar and ugly.
At least he could wash his hands. There was soap by the sink, and the water still ran. It wasn’t like he had to preserve the scene for a forensic team. He and Illium were it as far as any kind of investigation. But he did check the sink and the cupboard underneath for any clues before he ran the water.
One newly clean hand fisted so tight that his tendons ached, and his neck stiff from the tension in his spine, he then made himself look in the old fridge in the corner. Meat sat stacked up in neat piles in the fridge section, cut up and put into plastic containers, or wrapped up in paper.
The freezer compartment was also packed to the gills, as was the dented chest freezer that sat next to the fridge—and some of the pieces in the latter hadn’t been sliced into chunks. He recognized a human thigh, an arm, thought there might be a head at the very bottom.
Sweat broke out over his body, his pulse in his mouth. We need to check the fridges of all the nearby properties, see if there are any chest freezers in the garages. He couldn’t remember if they’d done that, being more interested in outward signs of violence and death. I think I know what happened to at least some of the bodies. The existence of the chest freezer inside the house was likely the reason the killer had chosen this otherwise ordinary house as their home base. The rest have to be buried in the forest. Where it would’ve been impossible for Vetra to spot the graves from the air.
Can you imagine what Ellie would say about now?
The distraction worked. Aodhan stepped away from the horror in the corner of the kitchen. Of course there are body parts in the freezer. Of course. Why should the land of Her Batshitness return to normal now that the wicked witch is dead? Because that would be far too easy.
Startled laughter from Illium that Aodhan heard both in his mind and in the real world. That’s good. You make me miss her even more.
Aodhan almost smiled, and that, he could’ve never predicted only a minute earlier. Fortified by the interaction, he carried on down the small hallway lined with what looked to be family photographs. An old woman, perhaps the grandmother, with a younger couple. No children.
“Thank you,” Aodhan whispered, though he didn’t know to whom he was speaking. Maybe the Ancestors. He was just glad he hadn’t had to face the remains of an innocent, though he knew some must’ve lost their lives during this neat and tidy massacre.
Then he saw it: image after image of a child from birth to about ten years of age, that last one with one foot on a soccer ball, the child dressed in a blue sports uniform.
Fuck.
Swallowing his rage, he carried on.
Another frame held a black-and-white photo of a middle-aged man. Probably the grandfather, passing away before he got to old age. He’d been lucky.
A few other photographs, then an amateur watercolor that had been lovingly placed inside a golden frame. Beside it was an equally nicely framed cross-stitch of a rabbit in a field.
People’s lives. People’s dreams.
It hurt him to know that something monstrous had ended those dreams. Another angel might not have reacted that way to the death of mortals, especially mortals he didn’t know, but another angel hadn’t grown up with Illium for a best friend.
Illium and his wonder about mortals, his respect for their short, bright lives.
It wasn’t linked to Kaia but rather the opposite way around. Illium had been fascinated by mortals since he and Aodhan were halflings.
“So many things they’ve invented, Sparkle,” he’d said more than once during their friendship. “Our kind gets lazy. We live such long lives that we think we have forever to solve problems and make discoveries—and so we rarely do anything. But mortals, their lives run so fast that they’re always racing to solve the next mystery, unearth the next secret.”
Illium’s wonder in the mortal drive to grow and change the world had opened Aodhan’s eyes to the same. Along with that had come a far deeper understanding of what it meant to have a human friend. It was why, for so long, he’d kept his distance from those brilliant firefly lives.
Because he’d known that one day those people would all be gone, nothing but memories that made his heart hurt. Then he’d come to New York and it had become impossible to ignore how much he liked certain mortals. So now he had friends who would one day break his heart by dying.
“Perhaps it’s a kind of insanity,” Illium had said a couple of years ago, after returning from the funeral of another mortal friend. “To keep on trying even though each loss puts another scar on my soul.”
Aodhan’s mind hitched on something important in that memory, but right then, his attention caught on an empty spot on the wall. It held the ghostly echo that forms when a picture has been hanging in the same place for a long time, a perfect rectangle of jarring brightness.
He looked back down the hallway again. All those photographs, only this one missing. Could be a coincidence, the image removed for some reason before the inhabitants were butchered.
Aodhan’s instincts said otherwise.
Which was why he wasn’t the least surprised when he reached the doorway to the left, and looked inside to find a small but tidy living space. In the center of it was a small table of carved wood. On top of that table sat a framed image of the right size to fit into that missing space in the wall.
Around the image were arranged candles, fresh flowers that had long wilted and turned black, and what looked to be keepsakes from the family—a makeup compact, a journal or notebook, a bracelet of delicate metal flowers of a size unlikely to fit a man’s wrist, a lightweight top of pale citrine that had been neatly folded, and a bottle of half-finished nail polish of a shade the woman in the photograph might wear.
No, not items that had belonged to the family. Items that had belonged to her.
Aodhan recognized her as the same woman who’d been in the family photograph—but she was a touch older here. And in her arms, she held a baby, her face beaming as she looked down at the infant’s scrunched-up little face.
The child wore a hospital bracelet on his little ankle, the mother one around her wrist. Her hospital gown was pale blue, the baby wrapped up in what looked to be a hand-knitted or woven blanket of what might’ve been yellow, though the color of the photograph had faded over the years so it now looked cream.
Aodhan, what’s happening in there?
I don’t know. He described what he was seeing. It’s almost like a shrine. The candles appear to have been lit at some stage. Droplets of wax pooled against the wood of the tabletop.
If, Illium said, the rest of the hamlet wasn’t empty, too, I’d say that someone became obsessed with the mother of the child and decided that if he couldn’t have her, no one could.
Yes. Aodhan looked around the room. But this . . . it’s different. There’s an absence of the kind of sexual perversity that accompanies such obsession. A pretty top chosen rather than inti
mate garments, a total lack of violence. The way the photograph has been cleaned of dust, the arrangement of the candles and the flowers, it almost looks like love.
Is the boy of an age where he could’ve done this to his family? Illium asked.
The last photo I saw of him was of a child—nine or ten—and that photo was bright, not faded by the years. That leaves the husband . . . but none of that explains the silence of the village.
Are you coming out soon?
Aodhan’s neck muscles tensed. No. There are more rooms to check. He tried to keep his voice even. There was no use snapping at Illium, no use stirring up a fight they’d been having for over a year. Not right now.
Because sooner or later, they had to finish that fight.
Just be careful.
Aodhan bit back the words that wanted to escape. Failed. I was planning to take every dangerous risk possible, but you’ve made me think better of it. He wanted to kick a wall the instant the words were out. Why had he just said that? He wasn’t like this with anyone else.
A pause, before Illium said, You know what? Why don’t you come stand out here, while I go into the house with THE SKINNED PELTS OF MORTALS and then we’ll talk about why you’re snapping at me for behaving normally.
Aodhan closed his eyes, took a second, opened them again. You’re right. You be careful, too. I think this house is empty—which means the danger is outside. And now that he’d put it into words, his skin prickled with the urge to get out there, shield Illium from harm.
I have a fierce kitten protector, was the outwardly insouciant response. She’ll keep me safe with the power of her ferocious meow.
Blue.
I’ve got my sword out. Happy now?
Yes.
Exactly. Don’t get all sarcastic with me for worrying about you.
Having reached the next room down the hall—on the opposite side and just offset from the living area—Aodhan didn’t reply in favor of keeping all his attention on what he was seeing.
It wasn’t much. The room held a single bed, the mattress covered by a handmade quilt soft with age. The scents of talcum powder and a faint sweet perfume permeated the space. His mind flickered with the memory of Demarco’s grandmother. The trim older woman had dropped by Guild HQ while Aodhan was there one day, having brought her grandson a “birthday treat.”
Demarco had grinned, lifted her up off her feet, and swung her around. “Thanks, Gams,” he’d said after she slapped at his shoulder and told him to put her down. Then she’d smiled and kissed his cheeks.
A look at the brush on the small table placed in front of an old mirror confirmed his guess that this was the grandmother’s bedroom—caught in the bristles were a number of gray hairs. The black-and-white photograph of the man he’d assumed to be her deceased husband sealed the deal—it sat on the bedside table, where she’d have seen it each night as she went to sleep.
Next to it was a lopsided clay mug as might be made by a child. A gift from grandson to grandmother. A cherished one, for in that mug were handcrafted cloth flowers with green wire stems.
“I’m sorry,” he found himself murmuring, though none of these people would ever again hear him.
This family was forever broken.
30
Yesterday
“Mother?”
“Oh, my baby boy, do be polite.” Illium’s mother’s face was serene, her eyes a joyful sparkle. “Can’t you see we have a guest?”
Illium glanced at the empty armchair of champagne-colored velvet that faced his mother’s seat. His heart hurt. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s no matter.” She held out a hand, and when he placed his in it, she tugged him to stand beside her. “See how strong and tall he’s become?” she said to her invisible guest. “Aegaeon will be so proud when he wakes and sees the man his son’s grown into.”
Rage threatened to burn Illium’s irises, but he kept his expression even. This wasn’t his mother’s fault. All she’d ever done was love him. Even now, when her mind was shattered glass that reflected everything and nothing, when she forgot herself much of the time, she didn’t forget him or how much she loved him.
Always when he came home, she’d say, “My son,” or “Baby boy” and hold him.
No, this was no fault of hers. It was Aegaeon who’d broken their family.
“Illium,” his mother said now, “have you met Raan?”
“Isn’t that . . .” He stopped himself just in time. Raan was the man his mother had loved a long, long, long time ago.
Raan was also dead.
He only knew the latter because his mother had been talking to herself one day, and he’d put together what she’d said with her visit to a memorial long forgotten by most of angelkind.
Recovering quickly, he bowed. “I’m honored to meet such a great artist.”
Sharine patted his hand when he rose back up, her eyes aglow with pride. “Raan taught me to paint, taught me to fly.” She cocked her head, listened. “Oh yes, so much has changed.”
A softness to her as she turned her face to the empty armchair. “We were beautiful once, my Raan. But our time has passed. Now it is the time of my son.” She smiled up at Illium. “He has fallen in love, you know.” Mischief in her eyes. “He thinks his mother doesn’t know.”
Illium felt his cheeks color. He hadn’t thought she knew about his tumbling heart, his desperate devotion. “Mother, you’re embarrassing me.”
Laughing, she rose from her seat, tucked her arm through his, and said, “Come, I have made you a cake. Where’s Aodhan? I made it for him, too.” The way she didn’t even glance at the chair told him that she’d forgotten her ghostly visitor.
“He’s in the Library, looking at copies of Gadriel’s early work.” The originals were held in Lumia, which Aodhan hoped to eventually get permission to visit.
“Oh yes, I did tell him to study the angelic masters. He will learn much by not forgetting the past. Every artist thinks he invents this brush stroke or that—but the good ones know that we build on the strokes of all those who came before us.”
At times like this, when she sounded so pragmatic and like herself, Illium allowed himself to believe that she’d never fractured, that she was still the mother to whom he could go with any problem and know it would be fixed. In these moments, he could be her son, carefree and reliant.
Today, he smiled and sat down at the kitchen table while she cut the cake, and made him a drink. They sat, talked, and he confessed to her about Kaia. “I know everyone thinks I’m too young to understand love, but they’re wrong. I love her until it’s hard to breathe without her.”
“I was young, too, with my first love,” she said with a tender smile. “My Raan. Such a kind man he was, Illium. I wish you could’ve known him.”
It was clear Raan was on her mind today, and he was grateful for it, for it was obvious the memories brought her joy. “Will you tell me about him?”
“Another day.” She leaned forward, her hands around her mug of tea. “Today, tell me about your pretty Kaia.”
So he did, pouring out his heart. Unlike so many others, she didn’t patronize him or dismiss his love as a fleeting infatuation. She listened, and she accepted that he knew his own heart.
Another kind of desperation choked at his throat: the need to have this woman as his mother always, rather than her fractured counterpart. He loved her in any guise, but to see who she could be . . .
His hate for his father burned even hotter.
After he’d finished his cake and talked his fill about Kaia, he told her about his continuing studies. “I keep thinking I’m done, but then I get hit with more. Today, Dmitri told me to follow around one of his junior assistants. At first, I thought it would be boring—Mirza isn’t a warrior, but a scribe.”
Shame heated his cheeks. “But, Ma, you should see all the things
she handles. None of the warriors would even have their weapons if Mirza didn’t put in the orders for various materials. I think that’s what Dmitri wanted me to learn—that there’s a lot more to being part of an archangel’s court than just being able to command a squadron or strategize in battle.”
His mother’s eyes, such a light, bright color, were fuzzier than when they’d started, but she was still present. “He’s begun to teach you how to be an invaluable member of the senior court, rather than simply a sword hand. There are many of the latter, only a rare few of the former.”
Illium hadn’t thought of it that way, quickly saw her meaning. “When I’m older and more senior, I have to be able to step into any position, don’t I? I mean, even though Dmitri is Raphael’s second and I don’t want to be second, I have to be able to if they need me to.
“I suppose Dmitri must sometimes want to go do other things,” he said dubiously, unable to imagine the tough-eyed vampire away from his position at Raphael’s side.
“Yes, you are clever,” his mother said, and he could see her fighting to get the words out past the veil dropping across her mind. “They know you are clever. So they try to show you that life is far bigger and more complex than you understand at this time—and that to stand at Raphael’s side, you must be a man of many skills.”
Illium took his mother’s delicately-boned hand in his. “It’s all right, Ma,” he whispered gently. “You can let go. It’s all right.”
Tears shone in her eyes, the color an effervescence of palest gold. “My baby boy. No, this isn’t right.” But she was fading even as the last word left her lips, disappearing into the kaleidoscope.
Yet her hand, it remained tight on his, and the love that burned in her vague gaze, it wasn’t vague at all. It was for him. Her son. Her baby boy.
31
Today
Aodhan finished checking the grandmother’s room. There wasn’t much else in there. A small potted plant that had wilted and browned from lack of water, a cardigan left on the bed, and a pile of clothing squares in a basket by the window. Grandmother was the quilt-maker, likely the person who cross-stitched.
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