Deadline

by Jennifer Blackstream

  Vera’s mouth tightened at the mention of her stepmother, her dark pupils swallowing the brown of her irises until she looked at me with an almost-avian stare. “Yes. Did you know my stepmother?”

  “No,” I said, resisting the urge to lean back. “It’s just…I thought Isai warded that castle?”

  “He did. But Anton worried that Isai would try to help himself to some of that wretched woman’s property, and so he had it warded a second time.”

  There was something unnerving about her eyes. I stayed where I was, but closed my hand into a fist, feeling the comforting weight of the ring on my finger. “I’m surprised Anton didn’t help himself to what was in there.”

  “That’s because you know nothing about my stepmother, or what went on in that castle,” Vera said coldly. “I asked Anton to seal it. As far as I’m concerned, it no longer exists. No one will ever set foot on that cursed ground again.”

  I hesitated, but only for a second. “Serafina’s sister doesn’t appear to share your idea of closure.”

  Vera’s eyes sharpened. “You spoke to Dabria?”

  I nodded and filled Vera in on my morning. “I was going to call Anton with an update, but obviously he’s not awake yet,” I added quickly.

  If Vera noticed my nervousness, she didn’t show it. “So that’s why Dabria has been making her little visits to Cleveland. She’s been tempting Isai.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I thought she was just tormenting Anton.”

  I didn’t point out that tormenting the vampire had indeed been a secondary reason. “She seems to think it will work eventually,” I said instead.

  “She would,” Vera muttered. She looked at the house. “So perhaps Dabria finally figured out that Isai does not have the power to let her in on his own. He would need Tybor to drop the wards he built as well.” She thumped her hand on the passenger door a couple times. “Let’s go have a look, shall we?”

  I stared at her. “You realize the Vanguard left a someone behind to keep people out? One guard means they’ve finished their initial assessment, and when they get the results in, they’ll send the second team.” Part of the Vanguard’s purpose was to assure that no species could take advantage of another. Hence, when a crime occurred, it was protocol to have two teams analyze the scene separately, each one made up of different species.

  Vera waved a hand as she skirted the front of my car. “I’ve been a consultant for the Vanguard, and an ambassador for numerous races, countless times. I promise you, they will not mind if I bring you along for a little peek.”

  I paused with my hand still on the door handle. “You… You’re a member of the Vanguard?”

  “Consultant,” she corrected me, waiting by my door as I rolled up the windows before getting out of the car. “We thought it was best not to make anything official out of concern that some might view me as…impartial.”

  Well, yes. She was the wife of the prince of Dacia. There wasn’t a race from this world or the Old Kingdom that didn’t view him and any who associated with him with…caution.

  Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because Vera smiled. “I promise you, Mother Renard, I am very capable of impartiality—much to my husband’s consternation.”

  I let that go. As solid as Vera’s reputation was, and as much as I believed she was a good woman at heart, I also knew she loved her husband. If push came to shove, I had no doubt whose side she would take. I was sure the Vanguard understood the same.

  The large man stood as we marched up the driveway, his full attention on Vera. He was large, close to seven feet. “Mrs. Winters, how nice to see you.” He paused, the hard planes of his face pinching with confusion. “Though I’m not sure to what I owe the pleasure?”

  Vera beamed at him as if they were old friends. “Chad, how wonderful to see you again. How is your mother?”

  “Still undefeated.”

  “Fantastic. You tell her I wish her the best.” She took my arm and tugged me closer, almost pulling me off balance, since I hadn’t been expecting it. “Now, Chad, it has come to my attention that Tybor met with foul play. I believe what happened to him may relate to a personal situation, and I’d like to see for myself. You will be a dear and let us in, won’t you?”

  Rusalki were a very convincing race to begin with. Even when they weren’t actively seducing someone, there was just something about them that fascinated people, humans and Otherworld alike. Add to that Vera’s genuine reputation as a friend to all, and the power behind her in the form of her husband, and I doubted she heard the word no often. If at all.

  Chad didn’t hesitate. As if Vera had flipped a switch, he fell back a step, simultaneously picking up a clipboard from a small iron and glass table by his chair. That one moment told me that even with all I’d known about the vampire and his wife, I had still severely underestimated their reach.

  “You remember the rules?” he asked.

  “I will touch nothing,” Vera promised.

  “I’ll have to mark down your visit?”

  “As well you should—protocol is important.” Vera took the clipboard and scrawled out a truly gorgeous signature as if she were granting an autograph. “And, Chad, this is my good friend Mother Renard. Baba Yaga’s apprentice.”

  Chad blinked and looked me up and down. I tried not to squirm as he took in my purple and black leggings.

  “Hello.” I accepted the clipboard from Vera and wrote my name in significantly less sophisticated script.

  “Mother Hazel’s apprentice?” Chad asked, his voice rising with surprise.

  Vera pulled me into the house. “Yes, that’s her. Well, we’d best get inside. We won’t be long.”

  The inside of Tybor’s house was as unimposing as the outside. A faded blue sectional couch took up most of the left-hand wall, and a laughably old television sat opposite, rabbit ears akimbo. The paintings hanging over the ancient television set and the back of the couch were a little rich for most people in this neighborhood—I recognized at least two of the names as fey painters. Other than that, the house looked perfectly mundane.

  It wasn’t until I walked to the back of the living room that I could see through the open entryway to the kitchen-dining room, and the bedroom beyond. Yellow police tape crisscrossed the door.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Vera asked. “The Vanguard is made up of some of the most intimidating investigators the Otherworld has to offer, but they still use the same simple crime scene tape as the humans.”

  “It almost makes you believe that what’s behind that door is a simple gunshot,” I said, my voice a little thick.

  “Or a stabbing,” Vera offered.

  We stood there for another minute.

  “Arianne didn’t mention any specifics.” I cleared my throat. “Did you hear anything?”

  Vera shook her head and reached for her ChapStick again. “My contact in the Vanguard said it was unpleasant, but we didn’t discuss it over the phone.”

  Another minute ticked by.

  “Can you feel it?” I asked quietly.

  Vera took a deep breath, then nodded. “Magic and death. Sadly, a feeling I became familiar with early in life.” She glanced at me. “My stepmother, not my husband.” She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it down. “I promised myself it would never get easier, though. That feeling should be just as awful every time I feel it.”

  “Mother Hazel always said something similar. Death shouldn’t be feared, but it should be respected. And a loss of life is always a tragedy. You should always feel something when it’s taken too soon.”

  We were both stalling now. I straightened my spine, and we shared one more look before marching through the house to that yellow-striped door. I carefully removed enough tape to open it, then turned the knob.

  The scent of blood struck me in the face like a physical blow, flowing up my nose and into my open mouth until I gagged. I staggered back, clapping a hand over my face even though it was too late. Bitter bile washed up the back of my t
hroat, and I closed my eyes, all my concentration going into not vomiting. Must not throw up on the crime scene.

  “Oh, Goddess.”

  I opened my eyes to find Vera standing just inside the room, a black handkerchief held over her mouth and nose. I didn’t want to know what she saw. I didn’t want to go in that room.

  But I did.

  The bed had been turned into a macabre altar. Tybor Aegis’ body lay with his feet toward the pillows and his upper torso dangling off the foot of the bed. A single bullet hole in his forehead acted as a grisly tap, allowing his blood to drain down his forehead and drip into a small pot on the floor. The bowl was beaten gold, imperfect and obviously hand-crafted. Dark flecks of dried blood dotted the sides, and the inner rim glistened with a velvety black liquid.

  Wizards were not like the fey. Not like vampires. They died much the same as humans did. Which was not to say they died as easily as humans. A wizard would live for centuries, left unmolested—which they nearly never were. And a powerful wizard could heal himself of just about anything. But for the most part, things that killed humans also killed wizards.

  Being completely drained of blood, for example.

  “It’s a pity the preservation spell doesn’t help with the smell,” Vera said lightly.

  I nodded, turning up the collar of my coat to cover my mouth. The Vanguard’s preservation spell would keep the evidence—including the body—from deteriorating while they conducted their investigation, but it didn’t help the scent of blood and brain matter that thickened the air of the room in a nauseating cloud. Vera and I both stayed back, neither of us willing to disturb the spell.

  “How old was Tybor?” I asked. I studied his brown hair with just a scattering of gray, the muscles that retained definition despite the softening of a sedentary lifestyle.

  “Hardly middle-aged,” Vera said, sadness in her voice. “Only one hundred and fifty.”

  “Such a waste.” I took a shallow breath, taking in as little of the blood-scented air as possible, and pointed to his forehead. “A single gunshot wound. And I recognize some of those symbols etched into the pot.”

  “Alchemy?” Vera guessed, her voice quiet.

  I called my magic, waving an arm toward the battered gold. “It’s transmutation of some kind,” I murmured. The silver net fell over the altar, and green light flickered like emerald flame over the pot. I took a step closer, focusing on those green flames. My stomach sank. “Ink. The blood was turned to ink.”

  Vera sucked in a breath. “Flint?”

  Anton’s words from two days ago echoed in my head, filling my mind with images of Flint performing his soul-ensnaring ritual. “It would appear so. This is how his other victims died, right? One gunshot to the head, drained of their blood so it could be turned to ink?” I spoke slowly and calmly, trying to treat this as clinically as possible. If I concentrated on the facts, only the facts, then perhaps I could ignore the part of my brain that had started screaming, the part that wanted to run from the room and find the nearest receptacle to vomit into. If Flint had tattooed Tybor’s name on his skin, then the wizard would be trapped with the leannan sidhe. He would know what had happened to him. He would understand his fate. Denied an afterlife. Robbed of his next turn of the wheel.

  “Do you think you could get me a copy of the autopsy report?” I asked Vera, when I was sure I could speak without vomiting.

  “I believe so.” She stared into my eyes, the look a little too intense, as if she needed to look at me, as if I was her reason for not looking at the body. “I think we’re done here?”

  “I doubt the Vanguard would appreciate me taking any samples, or poking around for more clues.” I didn’t take my eyes off her, accepting the safety that having something else to concentrate on offered. “If you can get me the crime scene reports, I’m sure that would be all I need.” I swallowed hard and asked the next question before I could talk myself out of it. “If you could get any reports from Flint’s previous victims, that would also be helpful. It looks the same, but I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

  “All right.”

  Something about her voice sounded off, and her brown eyes held a haunted expression that hadn’t been there before.

  “Vera, what’s wrong?”

  She stared at me even harder, then her gaze bounced from the floor back to me, as if she had trouble meeting my eyes.

  “Vera, what’s wrong?” I repeated.

  She rubbed a hand over her face, then looked at me for a long moment. Finally, she sighed. “I just think… Perhaps Anton should have hired someone else.”

  I jerked back as if she’d punched me. It was on the tip of my tongue to defend myself, to point out that I was doing just fine. I’d found Dabria, hadn’t I? I’d found out about Tybor. But there was something about that look in her eyes. Fear. Fear for me. My earlier question to Anton repeated itself in my head. Why me? Why had he hired me?

  “Vera,” I said carefully. “Am I the first person Anton has hired to find the thief?”

  At first, I thought she wouldn’t answer. She pressed her lips harder together and started to turn away. Then she stopped, visibly forcing herself to meet my eyes. “No,” she whispered.

  My heart lodged in my throat. “How many?”

  “Two. Both dead within twenty-four hours of taking the case.” Vera swiped a hand through her hair, pushing it back off her shoulders. “Shade, I—”

  “Why me?” I interrupted. My pulse roared in my ears, so loud that I had to raise my voice just to hear my questions. “Why did he hire me? I assume the first two detectives were more experienced?”

  Vera nodded miserably. “Yes.”

  “Then why hire me? Two experienced detectives are killed twenty-four hours after taking the case, and he decides to hire me next? Did he think he’d try the other end of the spectrum? Try someone the murderer wouldn’t think was worth killing?”

  Vera met my eyes, but her expression remained as closed as the gates of a dragon’s hoard. She wasn’t going to tell me either. No one wanted to talk about why the vampire chose me.

  “I will speak to Anton if you wish to drop the case. You will have nothing to fear from him, or his contract. Confidentiality is all he will ask.”

  Irritation rose, fighting back some of the fear. I lifted my chin. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been on this case for more than twenty-four hours, and I’m not dead.” Hysteria bubbled just under the surface of my skin, and I threw up my hands. “What makes you think the killer would let me live if I walked away now anyway?”

  “Shade—”

  “No.” I shook my head and turned away from her. “No, I’m done talking. You obviously have no intention of answering my questions, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to get home. I need to research that spell—oh, and try not to get killed. Please send me that file as soon as you can.”

  “I’m sorry, Shade.”

  “You can update Anton, can’t you?” I asked.

  She sighed. “Yes, of course.”

  I had nothing more to say that I wouldn’t regret later. I turned my back on Vera, marched past Chad without a word, and made a beeline for my car.

  I would find my own answers.

  Chapter 13

  “Mrs. Harvesty, do you think it’s possible that perhaps your kitten is just moody?”

  I braced my hand on the open grimoire on the desk in front of me, trying to hold on to my temper long enough not to snap at the woman on the phone. My skin itched from the dust of piles of old texts, and I’d drunk enough soda that my hands shook as I turned the pages. Today was the deadline. I had twelve hours left till midnight, twelve hours until the vampire would demand results. I’d been up since dawn researching the stupid ritual, and I probably had hours more ahead of me. I had no time for this.

  “Majesty is not moody, he’s sick. I know he’s sick. And you promised you would come last time—even though you forgot.”

  My jaw tightened. “And if I remember correctly,
he was fine by the next morning. Perhaps that will happen again, hmmm?”

  “I could bring him over right now. It’s only noon.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t work. I’m sorry, but I have a lot to do today.” I scowled and stared down a page depicting a kapala, a cup made from a human skull used to catch sacrificial blood. Decorated in gold, but not made from gold. I slammed the book shut and added it to the discarded pile of texts.

  “Tomorrow, then? First thing in the morning. The very first thing?”

  I swallowed a growl. “Why don’t you call me tomorrow morning if he’s not feeling better, all right? We’ll chat more then.”

  “I will call you because I’m sure he’ll still need help.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.” The last part came out too sharp, almost a yell. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was angry, yes. I was scared, yes. But that was no reason to take it out on a woman worried about her cat. “I know how scary it can be when someone you love is sick,” I said, my voice softer this time. I said a silent apology to the kitten, then added, “Make sure you give him lots of love. A mummy’s love is always best.”

  “Oh, I will,” she promised.

  I could almost hear her hugging the poor creature. Perhaps his bones were brittle and cracking from all the loving embraces from his mummy.

  When I got off the phone, I grabbed another book from the stack on my desk and flipped it open. I needed to know more about Flint’s ritual. I had to know everything that ritual would give him. Did he get Tybor’s knowledge? His magic? His life force? If it granted the murderer access to Tybor’s magic, then Flint would have a spellcaster’s ability. He could have done the magic himself, taken down the wards himself. It would make him a much, much stronger suspect. But if it only granted him access to Tybor’s knowledge, he would still need help. He could tell someone how to take down the wards, but he couldn’t do it himself.

  I dropped my head. Why hadn’t I had these transcribed? If these were digital text, a simple search would be all I needed. Minutes of research instead of hours.