Bloodthorn

by Tamara Grantham

  “No. They would most likely scare him, and then he wouldn’t answer any of my questions.”

  “Then take my brother—or me.”

  “Esmelda, you don’t understand. He is my patient, and I can’t let anyone be there when I question him. I’d be breaking all sorts of ethical codes, and I doubt he would answer my questions if anyone else were in the room.”

  “Then we shall not be in the room,” Heidel said as she emerged from Kull’s chamber. “We will be close if you should need our aid, but we will not interfere.”

  “Will you be going to the festival grounds soon?” the princess asked me.

  “Yes, I just need to check on something first.” I left the princess and found my way to Kull’s room. Entering that room again was something I had to force myself to do. I had trouble looking at him like that. It came as a bit of a shock, to be honest. He had always been the embodiment of strength and health, and to see him so close to death made me feel sick inside. But if Kull knew anything about the monster that had attacked him, I needed to know.

  Heidel followed me inside.

  “Has he spoken?” I asked her.

  “No.”

  I stood beside his cot. He’d always seemed at peace the few times I remembered seeing him asleep, but seeing him now—his eye sockets sunken, the skin around his eyes lined in wrinkles—he hardly resembled the man I remembered.

  I could no longer think of this man as Kull. In my mind, Kull was the man I’d come to love, but this was the king of the Wults—of pain and death. King Skullsplitter.

  “What happened to him while he was in Faythander? He looks like he’s aged ten years.”

  She gave me a sidelong glance. “He blames himself for our father’s passing. It drives him mad that he was not able to save our father. It’s an all-consuming regret that will not let him rest. He never sleeps. He hardly eats. He spends all his time pacing the castle, mumbling to himself, yelling at anyone who crosses him. He’s become bitter and self-absorbed. He is hardly the man he once was. I fear that if he can’t let go of his regret, it will destroy him.”

  “But it wasn’t his fault that your father died. Surely he can see that?”

  “No. He feels that if he’d found the infiltrator sooner, my father would not have died that day. And he feels that if he…” She bit her lip and looked away from me.

  “If he what?”

  She took in a deep breath. “If he could have convinced you to heal our father, then Father would still be here.”

  Her words struck me. “But the king had already died before I got to him. How could I have healed him?”

  She gave me a hard look, her gray eyes set with steely determination. “You should know he blames you in part for our father’s death. I know this isn’t true, but there’s no convincing him otherwise. He has always thought very highly of you, more so than you realize. To him, your powers were without equal. In his mind, it should have been a simple task for you to save Father.”

  I didn’t know how to answer. My mind tried to grasp her words but failed. What had caused him to believe I was powerful enough to restore life to the dead? It was ludicrous on all sorts of levels.

  “That’s why he’s turned bitter,” Heidel said, “because he’s lost his father, and he has lost you. If it weren’t for his travels to the Northland keep, he would have succumbed to madness.”

  The Northland keep. Ket, the beautiful Viking swordswoman who complimented Kull in every way possible, lived there. She made a better match for him. I’d known it since the first day I’d met her, yet I’d never wanted to admit it. Ket was Wult, and Kull’s father had favored her. Kull would be wise to choose her as a wife. Perhaps he already had.

  Outside the room I heard footsteps, and the princess moved the vines away to peek inside.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Almost,” I answered. I found the ruined pieces of my phone on the ground, picked them up, and inspected the shattered bits. Nothing salvageable remained. I eyed Heidel as I placed the pieces in my pocket.

  “The device was possessed,” was her only explanation.

  I left the room with my ruined phone in my pocket, the fairies’ ring on my finger, and a heart that had broken all over again.

  Chapter Seven

  Rolf and Brodnik followed me as I made my way out of the tent and toward the festival grounds. Heidel stayed behind to keep watch on her brother, and the two fairies had already made their way inside the gates.

  True to Texas weather, the rain had disappeared and the sun shone brightly once again, giving the air an earthy, green scent.

  I walked without thought of where I was going as my mind kept replaying the conversation I’d had with Heidel.

  Kull blames you.

  But why had he set me on such a high pedestal? Surely he knew I wasn’t perfect. I could never live up to the standards he expected of me. King Skullsplitter would never be the right person for me—not as long as he had such unrealistic expectations.

  Rolf walked with me and Brodnik lagged behind as we approached the main gates. A crowd had gathered, and we found ourselves waiting in line with the rest of the festivalgoers.

  “It’s an amazing world,” Rolf said, “although a bit too crowded for me—and a bit too tame.”

  “Tame?”

  “Yes, well, there are no beasts here like those found on Faythander, are there? And the people here are all so civilized and soft.”

  “I suppose.”

  “There are no great hunts or quests for swords. There are no damsels to rescue.”

  I eyed him. “Damsels? Have you gotten into the romance section of Kull’s library?”

  Kull. Ouch. All over again.

  “You know what I mean,” Rolf said. “There isn’t as much excitement on this planet like there is on Faythander. Just recently, I’ve fought in the skirmish for the Northlands. The elves are fierce warriors, but we’ve given them a few surprises. When Kull said we had to come here to aid the fairies, I didn’t want to leave—none of us did. But we swore an oath to the fairies long ago and had to uphold it.”

  I half-listened to Rolf as he went on about the war. The kid had a habit of being long-winded, and I was only too glad when we made it through the gate and into the main courtyard. Unfortunately, he carried on without stopping.

  “…and before that, the king was horrible to Heidel—his own sister—starving and beating her. The dungeon masters told tales of cleaning up blood, and of the rats picked clean because she had nothing else to survive on. I’m surprised she still follows him. Those were dark times for us all. But still, they beat the boredom that infests this world. Oh, look!” He pointed at the turkey leg stand. “I’ll join you later, all right?”

  Rolf left without another word. Brodnik, who finally caught up to us, followed him.

  Starving and beating his sister? Why hadn’t Heidel mentioned it? The more I learned about the new Kull, the less I wished to see him ever again.

  I found Esmelda in the crowd, and she walked toward me when she saw me.

  “Hello, Olive,” she said. “My brother is visiting the Gypsies. Is it all right with you if I join him?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” I said as I neared my booth.

  “We will return shortly,” she said, then walked away.

  I stood outside my rented space as I pondered Rolf’s words. Beating his sister? Rolf had to be speaking of someone else. The Kull I knew would never do such a thing. But perhaps I’d never really known him to begin with.

  My mind was filled with turmoil as I ducked under the half-opened gate to my booth, but as I stood and took in my surroundings, I found Brent and the two security officers—Gardener and Rakestraw—standing inside. They all looked up as I entered, and I noticed they were standing over a chalk-drawn outline of a human form where Mr. Duncan’s body had been.

  My shoulders sagged. Was I ever going to get my booth back to normal?

  “Miss Kennedy,” Officer Gardener said in his polite voi
ce, his drawl thick.

  Officer Rakestraw didn’t offer a greeting.

  “Where have you been?” Brent asked me.

  “Doing research.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you. Did you find out anything useful?”

  I nodded. “The flowers that were in the victim’s eyes are called monkshood flowers. They’re poisonous. Their meaning is ‘beware, an evil presence is near’. I’m not sure, but they may have been a message for me.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “Whoever did this was deliberate in their actions. Mr. Duncan’s death was done in a purposeful, almost ritualistic manner. We’d be smart to take the flowers’ significance into account.”

  “I agree,” Officer Gardener said. “These psych-jobs don’t do anything without some kind of meaning—at least to them. But who would have done it?”

  “No clue yet,” Brent answered. “Olive, any ideas?”

  “You might want to ask Jordan Young,” I said. “He goes by Eros the Irresistible. He was poking around my tent earlier, and it seemed a little odd to me.”

  “Eros,” Officer Rakestraw said. “Yeah, I know him. He’s a weirdo, for sure.”

  “Good,” Brent said. “The weirder the better. We’ll start there.”

  Officer Gardener walked toward the door. “I’ll bring him in for questioning, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll meet you up front in half an hour.”

  The officers exited the booth, leaving me alone with Brent—or more accurately, Detective Sanchez, although I still had trouble picturing him as a detective.

  Brent wore a tan trench coat, which made him look like an old-school film-noir detective.

  “So, when do I get my trench coat?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m helping with the investigation, right? Pro bono? Can’t I at least get a cool coat for helping?”

  He held back a smile. “They sell these at Macy’s, you know.”

  I leaned against the table. “Yeah, I know, but I’m too broke to afford one.”

  “Still broke, huh?”

  I nodded. It was an uncomfortable subject for me. College grad, medical degree, and dirt poor. But I had to remind myself that I helped people who otherwise would be depressed for the rest of their lives, and most of them really appreciated it—even if I did get the occasional skeptics like Mr. Duncan.

  “Why has nothing changed, Olive?” Brent asked.

  I shrugged, not wanting to meet his gaze, when he took a step forward. My throat tightened, and my heart rate spiked a tiny bit as he stepped closer.

  You know you don’t like him. You never liked him. You can’t start liking him now!

  “It has changed,” I argued. “I mean, I’m doing well now. Really.”

  He eyed me. “Are you?”

  “Yes, I am. I like living alone. I can’t get along with anyone anyway. Except my cat. So, yeah. I’m doing well. Really, really well.”

  “If that’s so, then why do you look like you’re on the verge of tears?”

  “Shut up. I am not.” My voice wavered.

  Why? Why! Stupid things never ceased to plague my life—stupid people, stupid men. Someday I would find someone normal, and then I could show Brent I was telling the truth.

  “You know,” Brent said, crossing his arms, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Maybe we should find somewhere a little more open?”

  “Sure, somewhere without recently murdered bodies would be nice.”

  He walked closer to me, close enough to wrap his arm around my shoulder if he wanted to. Thankfully, he didn’t.

  We made our way to the French village, where Brent bought two éclairs. A few rough-hewn tables and benches sat under a grove of broad-branched oak trees, and we found a quiet spot near the back. Overhead, the afternoon sun was turning orange as it sank slowly toward the horizon.

  I felt raw and empty, and even the temptation of chocolate didn’t seem to appease the gnawing inside me.

  Brent eyed me as I pushed the pastry away.

  “Something’s not right, Olive. I can tell.”

  You think?

  “Is it about the investigation? I’m not trying to make things worse, but you should know there are some who are pretty serious about bringing you in for questioning and possibly detaining you. I thought you should be aware before someone besides me tells you. Just be prepared.”

  “Detaining me? What, exactly, does that mean?”

  “More questioning, most likely. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’ll vouch for you, and that carries a little weight—not much, mind you, but enough to keep them off your back for now.”

  I already knew they suspected me. I only hoped Brent could stall them long enough for us to find the real killer. I stared across the thoroughfare at the forest standing behind the tall wooden fence. The trees seemed dark and hidden in shadow despite the sunlight. Was there something out there? Had it attacked Kull? Had it killed Mr. Duncan?

  Was it able to take human form?

  The police would never find it. They were looking for a human suspect, someone with motive and a shaky alibi, when the real killer could easily be someone—or something—they’d never suspect.

  I didn’t have any answers, and for now, I knew of only one way to get them.

  “We need to question Jordan,” I said.

  “We?”

  “Yes, I need to speak with him.”

  “You know I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is an ongoing investigation, and you’re still a suspect. So is he. I can’t legally allow you to interact with him.”

  “Legally? I’ve never heard of such a law.”

  “City of Houston Legal Code 15b, Section 7. Look it up.”

  I crossed my arms. “Legal code? Now you’re spouting legal code at me? Brent, you know there is some strange stuff going on. Mr. Duncan was wrapped in thorns and his eyes were cut out—there’s definitely some magical rituals going on. How much do you know about magic?”

  “You’ve got a point, but still—I have laws to keep.”

  Brent had always been a stickler about order and rules. Maybe I could use that to my advantage.

  “Look, Jordan is my patient. Isn’t there some law that would allow me to speak with him? I could be a professional consultant or something.”

  Brent seemed to consider my suggestion as he stared at the darkening forest. “I could probably work something out.”

  I smiled. It felt good to smile. I was pretty sure it was my first genuine smile all day. “Thank you,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Harris County is broke, and since you’re willing to work without compensation—”

  “Not true. I want a trench coat.”

  “Almost for free,” he clarified. “Anyway, we should probably go. I have a feeling that questioning this guy is going to take a while.”

  Chapter Eight

  We approached the front gates and entered the same room Brent had questioned me in—except now a man wearing no shirt, heavy eyeliner, and spiked black hair sat behind the table.

  Jordan glared as we entered.

  “What’s she doing here?” he said to Brent.

  “She’s a consultant. Don’t argue.”

  Jordan crossed his arms. “This is ridiculous. I’ve got a gig in half an hour. I’ve already lost a ton of money because of the shutdown, and now this?”

  Brent held out a chair for me, and I eyed it. He’d never been gentlemanly when we’d dated, but I sat without arguing, and Brent sat beside me.

  “If you’ll cooperate,” Brent said, “then you can be out of here in time for your performance. What is it you do here, exactly?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever makes people happy. I’ve shoved tacks up my nose, swallowed knives, shocked myself. I’ve eaten weird things—live wasps and snakes and such.” He held out his arm where a row of scars lined his wrists. “I brand mysel
f every now and then—that really keeps them coming. Basically, I just show up with my shirt off, and people pay me.” He winked at me.

  Someone restrain me, please. Jordan’s pasty whiteness and potbelly were going to make me swoon. For real.

  Brent gave Jordan the rundown on privacy laws and the option of asking for a lawyer, though I knew Jordan would never ask for a lawyer.

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” Jordan said.

  Yep. There was a reason I’d diagnosed him as a narcissist.

  “Then we’ll get started,” Brent said. “We need to know where you were last night between the hours of nine PM and six AM.”

  “I was back in my trailer.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. People come and go all the time. Could’ve been a lot of people, but I was passed out most of the time.”

  Brent narrowed his eyes. “Passed out?”

  “Yeah, passed-out asleep.”

  “So you don’t remember who was there?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have one single person to vouch for you?”

  Another shrug.

  Brent rubbed his forehead. I knew that gesture—he was already getting frustrated. This was going to be a long interview.

  “Look,” Brent said, “it really would be in your best interest to have someone corroborate your whereabouts. You say there were people in and out but can’t remember a single one. Why is that?”

  “I already told you—I was asleep.”

  “If that’s so,” I said, “if you were passed-out asleep, then how would you know there were people coming and going?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Because I woke up every now and then.”

  “If you woke up,” Brent said, “then you must have seen who was in your house, right?”

  “No, I never saw their faces.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Brent said. “Last night, you went home to your trailer and went to sleep. You woke up every now and then, found people whom you didn’t know in your house, and then proceeded to go back to sleep. Do I have that right?”