Dying Bites

by DD Barant

  “Comic books,” I say. “You don’t have—wait. I know this world has comic books; Dr. Pete showed me his collection once.”

  Eisfanger’s eyes go wide. Cassius doesn’t look surprised, but then, he almost never does.

  “Comic books?” Eisfanger repeats. He says it with more or less the same intonation you’d use for the phrase, “Eat my own liver?”

  Cassius sighs. “I was afraid of that. The books Dr. Adams showed you were all pre–nineteen fifty-six, correct?”

  “Uh—yeah. Why?”

  “Because they’ve been illegal since then. Did this ‘Flash’ exist prior to nineteen fifty-six?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

  “Then we’re dealing with cross-universe contamination.” Cassius studies me with cool, calculating eyes. “The killer may be from your world, Jace.”

  He lets that hang in the air a moment, knowing the impact it’ll make on me. “Go talk to Gretchen,” he says. “She could use a friend right now. Second bedroom on the left.”

  I’m thinking furiously as I leave. Does a killer from my world mean a possible way back for me? Why the hell would comic books be illegal? And what was Gretchen doing here in the first place?”

  I knock on the door to the bedroom tentatively. “Gretch? It’s Jace.”

  “Come in.”

  I open the door. Gretchen sits on the edge of a massive canopy bed, her knees together, a box of tissues in her lap. Gretchen’s a pire, apparent age in her mid-thirties, attractive in an intense kind of way. She always wears her blonde hair in a tight little bun, her make-up is immaculate, she speaks in an elegant British accent, and her wit is sharp enough to give a suit of armor paper cuts. I’ve compared her, more than once, to a predatory Mary Poppins.

  Right now, her hair is a straggly mess. Tears have streaked her mascara. Despite that, her voice is strong, her smile firm. “Hello, Jace. I do hope you’re going to lend us a hand.”

  I sit down next to her. “Yeah, of course. What happened, Gretch?”

  “I—was paying a call on Mr. Aquitaine. He—”

  “Aquitaine? Is that—”

  “Yes. Saladin Aquitaine. He and I were to go out for dinner. There was no answer when I rang up, so I let myself in. I have a key. I discovered him just as you saw. I called David immediately.”

  I hadn’t even known Gretchen was seeing someone. “So you and he were . . . involved.”

  “We had an intimate relationship, yes. We’ve known each other for years, but only recently have we decided to . . . explore further options.”

  “Friends with benefits?”

  “Not exactly.” She turns to look at me, and a little of the grief she’s feeling forces its way to the surface. It doesn’t get far; she shoves it back under with a brittle smile. “I do apologize for not mentioning him, Jace. I’ve been doing intelligence work for so long I compartmentalize everything. Yes, Saladin and I were lovers, but that’s never been anything but casual for decades. About three months ago, I came to a decision, and approached him with an offer. He agreed.”

  Her face stays calm and composed, but a single tear tracks its way through her ruined eyeliner and down her cheek. “I’m pregnant, Jace.”

  Pregnant. That’s a heavy word at any time, but for pires even more so. The old-school neck-biting method was made illegal long ago, which is good since the current human population is less than one percent of the global total. The way pires procreate on this world is through magic; basically, both parents donate six months of their life for every year their child ages. At some point the spell that made the whole thing possible is cancelled, and all three go back to being immortal—only the parents are now a decade or so older, while the kid is twenty-one.

  I have no idea what happens when one of the parents dies before the baby is born.

  I put my arm around her. “Gretchen, I’m—I don’t know what to say. I’m stuck somewhere between ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Congratulations.’ ”

  “Stuck. I suppose that’s what I am, as well.”

  “What happens now?”

  “I assume the full time-debt for the child. A normal pire pregnancy is eighteen months, the fetus’s development slowed to match the mother’s aging process; Saladin and I didn’t want to wait that long. We used magic to accelerate the process, so I would give birth in nine months instead. But now that he’s dead . . . I don’t know, Jace. I just don’t know.” Her voice remains steady, but a second tear has joined the first. If I were to touch it, it would be as cold as a melted snowflake.

  “What did he do, Gretch? For a living, I mean.”

  She plucks a tissue from the box and dabs her face. “He was a geomancer. His specialty was talking to dormant volcanoes, locating kimberlite pipes for diamond speculators. Geologic features operate on a very different time frame, so he would have conversations that would last for years. Sometimes they were fruitful, sometimes not.”

  I glance around the room. “Looks to me like he hit at least one jackpot.”

  “Yes, he was quite wealthy. He was a very patient man; I thought he would make a wonderful father.”

  “Who would do this to him, Gretch? Did he have any enemies?”

  “You should speak to Cassius about that.” Her tone is abruptly cool, and I think I’ve offended her before I realize she’s simply being professional. Whatever Saladin Aquitaine was into, Cassius knows more about it than Gretchen does—which means this case is getting more complicated by the minute.

  “I’ll do that. Hang in there, Gretch.” I give her shoulder a squeeze and then stand up.

  I stride back to the other room, where Eisfanger’s taking pictures of the vic. Charlie’s in exactly the same position he was when I left, hands clasped in front of him, feet slightly spread. He’s very good at being immobile. “Okay, what are we looking at here?” I ask Cassius directly. “There’s no local cops, so I assume this is off the books.”

  “I’ll call them as soon as Damon’s finished. This is going to be a closed investigation, Jace, and I want you to handle it.”

  “We’ll see. First of all, are we sure this is Saladin Aquitaine?”

  Eisfanger lowers his camera. “No fingerprints or DNA, but the remains still have a psychic residue. I’ll check it against our animist files.”

  “Okay. Second, who was Saladin Aquitaine and why would someone kill him?”

  “He was a successful geologic surveyor, a geomancer. He made sizeable donations to a number of political parties and organizations. He was fairly active socially. I don’t know why anyone would want him dead—which is why I called you.”

  “You think this is the work of someone mentally unbalanced?”

  “Don’t you? I admit I don’t have your level of expertise, but this hardly looks like the work of either a professional assassin or a burglary gone wrong.”

  I shrug. “No? I’ll tell you what I see. Two shamans, some professional jealousy, and a magical pissing match that got out of hand. The other guy tossed a spell intended to be used on landscape instead of flesh and blood, and this is the result—Mr. Coppertop. Don’t tell Gretchen I said that.”

  As a theory it’s full of holes, but I want Cassius to point them out—one of the best ways to get information is to make your source prove how smart he is.

  “Uh, there’s one big problem with that,” Eisfanger interjects. He’s waving a device that looks a bit like a cell phone with dual antennae in slow circles over the corpse’s head. “This guy wasn’t killed by the lightning—or by having his bones transformed. Those were both done post-mortem.”

  I frown at him. “Wait. So the whole scene was staged? The treadmill, the costume, the electric skeleton?”

  “I don’t know about the treadmill—”

  “Pires don’t exercise, genius. So what did kill him?”

  “Sharp silver object through the heart. See?” Eisfanger points to a small notch on the underside of one rib. “Chipped a piece off going in—wooden stake wouldn’t have d
one that. I’ll take a closer look once I’ve drained the voltage, but I’m betting I find traces of silver.”

  Cassius shakes his head. “Someone went to a great deal of trouble to do this. Someone either from, or with access to, knowledge from your world. Anyone who goes to this much trouble to send a message—and I think we can both agree that this is supposed to be a message—tends to want that message understood.”

  I sigh. “Unless they’re speaking their own private language that only the voices in their head understand.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cassius says. “I think there’s at least one person in this room who might be able to translate.”

  “It’s not me, is it?” asks Eisfanger. “I mean, I’m still working on that sandwich thing . . .”