Electra. He recognized the arch of her nose and sharp cheekbones. The cards rang faintly with whispers of Cira Aevar’s essence, consistent with traces she’d left in the pink-and-gold bedroom he had read weeks before. Though he didn’t know her face as well as Electra’s, and the impressions were fuzzy, he’d stake a year’s pay that she was the second figure. The third drifted, shifted, and that movement—the very uncertainty of it—made him think she was still alive.
Mikani tried to focus on the last figure, but something blocked him. The more he tried to pin down the fleeting impression, the fainter it became, until his senses flared, slamming him with physical backlash that knocked him into the wall. On top of his existing bruises, the impact stung more than it should have, his ribs protesting in a sharp, red spike.
He struggled to breathe, hugging himself despite the pain; nothing like that had ever happened before. Blood trickled from his nose, down his lip, and onto his chest. A jagged band threatened to crush his skull, tightening in rhythm with his hammering heartbeat. He had learned more than he’d bargained for, but he needed a clear head. At the moment, he could barely sit, let alone try and piece together the clues.
Damned be, I need Ritsuko.
• • •
WITH A QUIET sigh, Ritsuko stepped into the mirror station. As a public building, it was utilitarian, various kiosks offering multiple courier services, access to the public pneumatic mail, and, of course, the mirror station itself. The bustle of early-afternoon transmissions resulted in a queue, nearly obscuring Mikani from sight. He was slumped on a wrought-iron bench, looking worse for the wear. His bruises had faded a little, turning slightly green, though the scruff on his jaw obscured some of them. A few more days, and he’ll have a proper beard.
Maybe she ought to feel strange about last night, but it had been . . . companionable. Ritsuko had no regrets. At this point, she was only mildly irritated that he felt entitled to compel her presence by courier. When we’re not even working. She had been in the midst of packing her things, as the flat she’d occupied with Warren no longer suited. But part of her didn’t mind the summons, as it was nice to feel indispensable to someone. Even a rogue like Mikani.
She threaded through the crowd toward him. His eyes were closed when she approached, but he recognized her anyway. “Ritsuko.”
How does he do that? Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have his extra senses, if it was exhausting, exhilarating, or a combination of the two.
“You look like a dog’s breakfast,” she said.
He scoffed and rose, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The front of his shirt had dark stains. “You always know just what to say to me, partner.” He offered her a wry smirk and headed for the street, limping.
“Is this CID business, or did you miss me?”
She followed him out, wondering at the wisdom of pursuing an investigation from which they had been officially discharged. Yet she couldn’t let it rest, either. The idea that Shelton and Cutler might accidentally stumble over Toombs, after she and Mikani had done all the real work? Ritsuko clenched her teeth.
“Both. I can’t let Shelton and Cutler ruin the case, and I missed your disapproving looks.” He glanced over his shoulder with a teasing air.
“It didn’t occur to you that I might be busy?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He stopped and turned to her, looking puzzled. “No. Were you?”
“Yes, actually. But I’ll always come. I suppose you know that.” She sighed, suspecting he might become unbearable at the statement that he possessed such power. “Soon you’ll have me fetching your laundry and shopping for hats.”
“Now that you mention it, I do miss my hat.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But that can wait. And . . . I’d cook for you, so it works out.” With that, he set out with renewed purpose.
She didn’t recognize this part of Dorstaad. When she was off duty, Ritsuko spent most of her free time within the walls of the Mountain District, safe as her grandfather had wanted. It was no hardship since there were shops, lush parks, and elegant gardens, a respite from the rest of the city. She loved the wonders of the arboretum, with its colossal living houses, trees shaped over long years with art and patience, but it was time to leave the Mountain District. There was a lovely rooming house much closer to HQ; she liked the owner and the tenants. It should be less lonely there.
Mikani led her to an apartment building and hesitated, leaning heavily on his cane, as if he didn’t want to enter. “This is Electra’s flat. I came to see about her things . . . and found more than I bargained for.”
She didn’t comment on the unusual impulse; most times, family gathered the deceased’s personal effects. But the Summer Clan probably wouldn’t take the time, and Mikani likely hated the thought of all Electra’s belongings ending up in the rubbish bin or a rag-and-bone shop. He wouldn’t thank her for noting his sentimentality, however. So instead, she followed him up the stairs and into the apartment, not understanding why he needed her. At the same time, she sensed he wouldn’t have called for no reason; it wasn’t like Mikani to ask for help, ever. So whatever this was, it must be vital.
“Where should I start?” Presumably there was some evidence to collect.
She couldn’t imagine how they would explain this to Gunwood. More to the point, she didn’t care. Mikani stopped at a desk and picked up a few seashells, rattling them in his hand before replacing all but one. “These shells. The prints on the walls. And there is a deck of cards in the kitchen. But really, I need you to help me figure this out.”
“You’re being more opaque than usual. Figure what out?” If he’d truly sent for her just because he didn’t care to be alone with the task of disposing of Electra’s things, she’d have no choice but to hug him.
“She was a fortune-teller . . . turns out she had a true gift, too. And she did a reading before she died. For herself.”
In fits and starts, Mikani described something Ritsuko found hard to picture—mental images from the cards, blowback of power—until she was shaking her head. It wasn’t that she disbelieved his account; she’d witnessed his gift many times, but it was eerie to consider Electra helping them catch her killer from beyond the grave. She rubbed her hands up her arms in reflex, fighting a chill.
With some effort, she gathered her thoughts, striving to be logical. “From what you’re telling me, there might be a third victim. Could it be someone she knows?”
“It seems an unlikely coincidence that Cira appeared in her reading, otherwise. Connected to them?” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Can you tell me anything specific about this third person?” That seemed like a natural question.
“No. When I tried to see her, something stopped me.”
She fought the urge to demand to see his back; Mikani was a walking battle scar. “Did it . . . Were you hurt? When you hit the wall.”
“Please don’t be kind, Ritsuko. At the moment, I don’t think I could stand it.”
She accepted his words at face value, but the quiet pain in his voice twisted her heart. Her response reflected only professional considerations. “This means something, but it isn’t the evidence we need to convince Gunwood to reassign us to the case.”
“Then let’s look for some.”
Ritsuko wished she had brought her evidence kit, but she had her notebook, at least. Maybe there was something in the flat that would help. “I’ll start in the bedroom.”
She could tell at first glance there had been a struggle. Maybe Mikani flung all his covers and pillows on the floor, but it wasn’t normal for most people. To her, it looked as if Electra had been yanked out of bed. The rug was askew, pulled toward the window, and the contents of the bedside table lay scattered on the floor: five coins, a scarf, and a novel, open to some random page.
She opened her notebook, drawing the scene, which let her visualize what might’ve taken place. In her mind’s eye, she saw the girl being hauled fr
om a sound sleep. She’s a fighter. They stagger back against the night table because he didn’t expect her to react so quickly. He expected her to be paralyzed with fear, whispering, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt me. But she fights. The coins hit the floor. Momentum carries them toward the window, his arm’s around her throat.
“But is that how he took her out of here?” she whispered, still sketching.
The front door meant going through the hallway, past other people’s flats. Definitely the window. But he must’ve incapacitated her first. Otherwise, it would be difficult to get a struggling girl over a sill and down. The roof, not likely.
“Toombs isn’t superhuman.”
If there was anything in this room to find, it would likely be between the bed and the window. Ritsuko dropped to her knees, then pressed her chest to the floor, searching. She crawled all the way under the bed and emerged, dusty, on the other side. Though it took ten full minutes, she scoured every inch of the floor. Nothing.
Next, just to be thorough, she lifted the pile of covers from the floor and a shiny object pinged against the parquet, rolling to a stop against the wall. Her heart lurched, and she scrambled after it. Dropping to her elbows, she peered at a fairly large silver button with a stag’s head imprinted on it, along with some glyphs around the edges. She couldn’t read them, but she recognized the shape of Old Ferisher characters.
This definitely didn’t belong to Electra.
“Mikani!” she called. “I found something.”
She heard him come to the door, his stick sharp against the wood. He was silent for a few seconds. “I’ve never seen quite this side of you, partner.”
Blushing, she pulled upright to perch on her heels, gesturing. “Can you forget my posterior? I know it’s difficult, but look.” Ritsuko picked up the clue and rose to save her partner the pain of stooping. His ribs must be on fire. “What do you make of this?”
His smirk faded when she offered him the button and he took it between two fingers. “It’s . . . cold. Dead. It feels just like the devices.” He met her gaze with blue eyes gone icy as the winter sea. “It belongs to the killer. Toombs.”
CHAPTER 18
THE CROWD IN THE MARKET WAS HARRIED AND SHORT TEMPERED—MORE THAN USUAL. Waves of discontent lapped at Mikani’s senses, threatening to crash in uninvited if he didn’t keep a tight lid on his control. Well, I can hardly blame them. As soon as the Summer Clan cartel shut down the roads into the city, the Houses started hoarding. Damned if I can find paprika for the dinner I promised Saskia.
He shouldered past a particularly stubborn bondsman attempting to lay claim to a half dozen apples, the last in the vendor’s basket. Two days. It had taken two days for rumors to spread and panic to seep into the city. Seafood was still plentiful. Even the Summer Clan didn’t have enough pull over the myriad fishing and shipping concerns to lock down the city completely, but they’d stopped all shipping along the roads; no produce or dairy products made it past the blockades. Some staples grew far enough south that the farming concerns were sending them along the coast, making the water transport companies happy.
He checked the price on a pound of rice. Half again what it was last week. At this rate, the poor won’t be able to eat in a week.
A knot of bondswomen dressed in pressed uniforms, embroidered with House crests, were fighting over bundles of green onions—and they didn’t even look fresh. It hadn’t come to blows yet, just sharp words, but the crowd darkened, and the vendors looked worried rather than pleased. If this gets ugly, they won’t make a copper. He moved deeper into the stalls, troubled, as he listened to snippets of conversation.
“I’m telling you, they’re ready to let us starve. I heard the Summer Clan is ambushing caravans trying to get in from the southern farms . . .”
“It’s the Council’s fault, letting them get away with so much over the years.”
“The Houses need to send in the Guards, I say, make them clear the roads.”
A few paces on, he spotted a burly merchant who had a House servant pinned against the wall. “If you bastards don’t open the storehouses and share what you’re hoarding, we’ll take it!”
Mikani sighed. He’d recognize Olaf’s hoarse rasp anywhere; he owned one of the few stands where Mikani could find the spicy peppers he loved. But it appeared the man was more interested in pounding his target than doing business. A crowd gathered; the local constables were nowhere in sight.
Mikani tapped the larger man’s shoulder with his stick. “Sir, would you kindly—”
Olaf swung a backhand. Mikani caught his wrist between forearm and stick, and twisted hard enough to bring the man to his knees. “Disperse.”
He glared at the men who edged closer, and something in his eyes made them back away. Might be the bruises, come to think of it. Half Mikani’s face was still black-and-blue from his encounter with Bihár’s men. It could also be the fact that the merchant struggled against his iron grip, whimpering in pain. The House bondsman scurried away.
“Now. I’m going to release you. And you will walk away. Enough nonsense.”
Mikani straightened his coat and resumed his way, leaving Olaf nursing his shoulder and ego, muttering dark imprecations after him. Gods and spirits. He’ll either gouge me or refuse to sell me the nagas now. His signature dish wouldn’t be the same without the bite of those peppers. He altered course, devising a new menu for a dinner that looked increasingly improbable.
He stopped at a produce stand. “Mina—” A gangly youth gazed up at him. “Oh. Beg your pardon, is this not Mina’s stall?”
The boy said, “She’s not coming in. Not safe, you know. What can I get you?”
Mikani bought the last three decent cabbages, four potatoes. When he stepped away with his paper bag, he glanced around the market. No girls. Hardly any women, at that. If they normally worked in the market, they had been replaced by fathers, husbands, and brothers. The few females present worked as House servants or bondswomen, accompanied by conspicuous escorts or older matrons who seemed capable of dealing with anything that came their way.
He shook his head. Usually, he delighted in the open-air farmer’s market that let him forget the chaos of his work life. But the mood today was too ugly, too tight. If he lingered much longer, he’d end up with a migraine at the least, and at worst? His bruises wouldn’t tolerate worse.
He sighed, cut his trip short, and headed straight for the underground station, debating whether he should attempt an impromptu meal or ask Saskia for a few days’ grace on his debt. When you promise Saskia dinner, you’d best deliver. But he suspected she’d prefer something more palatable than fried potatoes and boiled cabbage.
When he got back to his cottage, he found an envelope had been slipped beneath his door. After tucking the sack under his arm, he stooped to pick it up, then continued through the sitting room into the kitchen. He dropped the bag unceremoniously on the table and broke the courier’s seal. Within, there was a single line on CID stationery in Gunwood’s irascible scrawl:
Come back to work. The Summer Clan insists.
Mikani couldn’t decide if he was smug or angry; the former because it meant hunting Toombs down like a dog, the latter because they shouldn’t have been removed from the case at all. Damned Shelton and Cutler. He put the vegetables away and went right back out again.
Half an hour later, he arrived at CID Headquarters. It had only been two days, but he’d missed the purpose of the place. Even the cranky banging of the lift didn’t diminish his satisfaction; Mikani couldn’t wait to see the look on the old man’s face. I wonder if he prefers salt or pepper on his crow.
Ritsuko was already in the duty room; she was comparing papers, laid out the width of her normally immaculate desk. She glanced up at his arrival, smiling, and he couldn’t remember if her eyes always looked that warm, so happy to see him.
“I see you got the word,” she said.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t mean they need a scapegoat for their latest m
ess.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Gunwood told me he wanted to talk to us as soon as you checked in.”
“That sounds familiar. Shall we, partner?”
She rose and preceded him to the commander’s office. Her knock was less perfunctory than his tended to be, and she waited for Gunwood to call, “Enter!” before opening the door.
Mikani went in, wondering if the old man would actually apologize. “Did they get lost? Shelton and Cutler, need us to find them?”
He folded his arms and leaned against the far wall, clamping down hard on his anger after that single barb. All right, must play nice, for a little while. Don’t want him shutting us completely out. With a nod, he acknowledged Ritsuko’s daggered look; she was warning him silently not to make things worse, now that they’d been recalled.
He had missed their silent rapport, even when she was trying to keep him from doing something problematic—far more common than he cared to admit. Before meeting Ritsuko, Mikani had never been able to communicate without a word.
Hells and Winter, I usually have enough trouble communicating at all. As Saskia never tired of pointing out.
“Your sarcasm is noted. First, welcome back. I hope you enjoyed those days off. You aren’t likely to be sleeping anytime soon.” Gunwood flattened his palms on his desk, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “It’s come to my attention that both of you were stupid enough to swear a blood vow to Luca Bihár.” He held up a hand to forestall interruptions. “I expect this sort of thing from you, Mikani, but Ritsuko? What possessed you? Honestly. So for obvious reasons, the Summer Clan won’t rest until Miss Bihár’s killer is brought to justice, and they’re determined the two of you will do it.”
Mikani stage-whispered to Ritsuko, “I told you Rudo liked you.”
Not the time, she mouthed back.
“This isn’t just your careers on the line anymore. Bihár will kill you both if you don’t get the job done. Officially, I’m supposed to say we’ll protect you, but I think you already know that the Summer Clan will find a way.” Gunwood sighed, and for the first time, Mikani realized the old man appeared to be worried about them, hiding it beneath a facade of anger.
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