“Matthew was sick,” I said quietly. “He needed help. Not someone to goad him on, farther and farther away from reality.”
“This is the Otherworld, Mother Renard. Reality is irrelevant. Running from reality brought him into my arms. And I would have held him forever.” She wrapped her arms around herself, and her shoulders wilted under the weight of real sadness. “His death is a true loss to the world.”
A thousand words rushed to my tongue. I wanted to yell at her, to tell her what a wretched person I thought she was. But somehow I believed her. I believed she’d cared from him, in her own twisted way. I believed she felt his loss. I took a slow, deep breath, bringing my emotions under control. Focus on the facts. “Your voice. How deep can you cut with it?”
“I could decapitate someone, given the time and the preparation.” She straightened her spine. “But if you’re asking me if I killed him, then no, I did not. Matthew’s killer stabbed him with a weapon that left a short, deep wound. I can cut deeply, but the deeper the cut, the longer the wound. Sound is a curve, not a point.”
“You know how he died.” I stiffened, realization dawning. “You know who killed him.”
The muscles in her neck corded, and a vein pulsed in her temple. “It is settled.”
I curled my hand into a fist. Flint stepped closer to her, not putting himself between us, but drawing our attention away from one another. “I’m surprised you allowed someone to get away with such an insult,” he said to Tessa. “Matthew was worth a great deal to you. Someone killed him, and you want no justice?”
Tessa crossed her slender arms. “My repayment will come at a future time.”
“What?” I asked.
“Favors are greatly treasured in our world,” Flint explained.
Tessa smiled, grim satisfaction glinting in her eyes. “And I am owed a significant favor.”
I swallowed my objection like the bitter pill it was. This wasn’t the time to argue about priorities. Tessa wouldn’t tell me who killed Matthew, but maybe she could point me in the right direction. “Matthew was the artist from last year chosen to feature in this year’s show. That ‘honor’ goes to only one artist, so who took his place?”
Tessa pointed across the room with a long fingernail painted the same color as her dress. “Lindsay. She belongs to Grace.”
Lindsay. I whipped around in time to watch Lindsay enter the room from the gallery. She must have been in there the whole time, hidden from my sight by one of the temporary walls. My chest tightened at her bowed head and hands clasped over her waist. Her white-knuckled grip broadcast her distress loud and clear.
Grace raised a thin glass of pale lavender liquid, tilting it to catch the light before putting the glass to her lips and draining it dry. A lacy fan on either side held the winding pile of her red hair in place like a mountain of ruby-stained silk. The hairstyle showed off the long, graceful lines of her neck and shoulders, the strapless green dress doing little to conceal her flesh. The supple material hugged her torso so tight that it gave her an impressive cleavage despite her lean frame, then wrapped around her hips and thighs before falling to her ankles in a pencil skirt style. An extra swath of material trailed after her from her waist.
“Thank you, Tessa,” I murmured. I hesitated, but only for a second. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Tessa’s voice dropped to a whisper, a dramatic contrast to the laugh of a few minutes ago. “Thank you.”
Flint held out his arm, and I accepted, letting him lead me toward Lindsay and Grace. “Do my ears deceive me, or was that genuine condolence I detected in your voice?”
I didn’t take attention off Lindsay where her mistress was leading her around flower-adorned tables to the other side of the room. “She was helpful. And as you’ve pointed out, my anger won’t get me anywhere here. I might as well try being nice.”
“Ah. So it has nothing to do with the fact you may have realized that my people are not so wretched as you first assumed? That some of us do care about those we share ourselves with?”
I held up a hand as another waiter offered me a glass of champagne and then kept walking. “If you have such a high opinion of your people, then why don’t you explain the names tattooed on your body?”
If I hadn’t been holding his arm, I would have missed the way he tensed at my mention of the tattoos. I hadn’t seen the names in question—I hadn’t been so foolish as to study the sidhe’s flesh so closely—but I knew all about them. I knew what he’d done to get those tattoos, the enchanted lines he’d painted with the blood of his victims to steal their magic for his own. People had died so he could overcome the leannan sidhe’s natural immunity to the life-draining ability of their own kind. Any leannan sidhe could attempt to influence the emotions of one of their own, and possibly succeed, but none of them could feed on a member of their own race. None of them, that is, except Flint and his enchanted tattoos.
“I do not underestimate our capacity for cruelty. But we are not the single-minded monsters you are so determined to write us off as.” He pressed his fingers against mine as if he could will me to believe him. “Perhaps you should get to know me before you judge my sins.”
I resisted the urge to laugh in his face. Barely. “I appreciate your assistance tonight. And if you help me save these children, I will be grateful. But don’t overestimate this temporary partnership. I know where I stand, and I know where you stand, and I do not trust you to stand behind me.”
Grace stopped to say hello to someone, gesturing at Lindsay as if she were showing off a new necklace. Flint and I stopped, waiting for her to finish.
“You are being cruel tonight,” Flint said.
I refused to meet his gaze, afraid that if I looked away from Lindsay, she’d disappear into the crowd. “I’m always short-tempered when there are children in danger.”
“I see.” Flint paused. “Do you get this upset over everyone you try to help?”
I bristled, but the question had a ring of honest curiosity to it, so I swallowed the harsh retort. “Yes,” I said.
“My dear woman, you must grow a thicker skin. Or you’ll never survive being a witch, let alone a private investigator.”
Again, there was no judgment in his tone. Only genuine observation.
“You’re wrong. Mother Hazel feels the same way I do, make no mistake. Witches don’t always show their pain and fear, but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel it. Empathy is the quality that separates a true witch from a woman flinging about magic and potions. A witch who feels nothing can offer nothing.”
Flint considered that for a moment. “You would not last long in my world, I don’t think.”
“Nor you in mine,” I replied. Grace’s companion moved on, leaving her and Lindsay standing alone. “But you’re right. Let’s find the kids and get out of here.”
Three feet before I reached them, Lindsay turned to Grace and said something in a voice too soft for me to hear. Grace nodded, and my heart fell as Lindsay scurried in the opposite direction to vanish through a side door.
“Damn,” I said. I fixed what I hoped was a convincing smile on my face and waited for Grace to face me. “Excuse me. Was that Lindsay glimpsed at your side a moment ago?”
The sidhe woman had a polite if confused smile on her face. “Why yes. And you are…?”
“Shade Renard.” I didn’t add my title this time. “I was speaking with Tessa, and she told me your Lindsay won yesterday’s competition and will present her work tomorrow with this year’s artists. You must be so proud.”
“Oh, I am,” Grace said. “Lindsay is so talented.” She tucked a stray red curl behind her ear. “I knew as soon as I saw her work last year she was something special.”
“And yet you threatened to sell her to the red caps,” a familiar voice added.
I turned at the sound of the masculine voice behind me and found the same sidhe from the gallery, the one who’d pointed out that the large black cat had been protecting me. He no longer held the
beer, and his tie hung loose around his neck, the first few buttons unfastened to reveal a triangle of tanned flesh. His attention settled on me, his irises glittering like raw hematite.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I am Raphael.”
“Shade Renard,” I responded, letting him lay a kiss on my knuckles.
My skin sparked where his lips grazed my skin, a sensation just this side of pain. I swallowed the gasp of surprise, but something about the flicker in his gaze told me he heard it anyway.
“I had no intention of selling Lindsay,” Grace snapped. She smoothed the skirt of her long dress. “I was motivating her. I am leannan sidhe, am I not? It is my nature, my instinct to inspire.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” I tore my gaze from Raphael. “Tell me, do you think that’s the best way to inspire a young girl? Frightening her?”
“It was not fear,” Grace said crisply. “It was sadness. Lindsay mourned the thought of no longer being mine, and that pain drove her to new creative heights.”
“Emotion has always fueled art,” Raphael explained. “Some find inspiration in joy, some in sadness.” He smirked at Flint. “Some rely on crude physical stimulation.”
“Indeed.” Flint fanned strong fingers over my hip, drawing me closer to his side. “But that is a young man’s game, is it not, Raphael? It is best for the elders to stick to spiritual methods to avoid the embarrassment that could come with comparison.”
My eyebrows shot up, despite my resolve to remain poker-faced. Surprisingly, Raphael did not seem offended. Quite the contrary—he chuckled.
“Ah, Flint. You’d best hope that your elders never show you how much experience matters when it comes to…inspiring women.”
He looked at me when he said “inspiring,” and that same spark that had crackled over my skin with that pleasure-pain lit somewhere much lower in my body. Gooseflesh flowed down my arms.
“So you’re like vampires,” I blurted out.
The two men blinked, and Grace’s mouth fell open.
“Excuse me?” She faced me now, her right hand trembling as if fighting the desire to slap me. “Did you compare me to a vampire? An undead—”
“I meant no offense,” I continued quickly, avoiding Raphael and his amused expression. “I mean only that there are different breeds of vampire. They feed on blood, yes, but some of them can also feed on emotion. On fear, or lust. As I understand it, you operate in a similar fashion.” I pointed at Flint. “Some of you inspire through lust.” I forced myself to meet Raphael’s steely gaze. “Some through…” I didn’t know what to call it. Fear? That frightening anticipation in the moments before you leap out of a plane, or when you pay to walk through a haunted house. I gave up and waved at Tessa instead. “And some through pain, sadness.”
Grace kept the frown in place, but some of the anger melted from her stare. “I accept your reasoning, if not your choice of words. Yes, we all appeal to a different aspect of the human experience when we strive to inspire others. And I know how it must seem to you, the nature of my inspiration.” Her gaze clouded over, and she stared into the distance. “But there is a certain beauty in sadness. It is painful, but one can find strength in those quiet moments. Lindsay understands that. It was pain that first led her to art, and it is the well from where she draws her greatest work.”
Such a pretty excuse for torturing a vulnerable young girl. I let a smile curl the corners of my mouth upward, baring my teeth. “Word around the auction is that Tessa’s artist, Matthew, was the real winner yesterday. If the gossip is true, Lindsay wouldn’t have stood a chance if someone hadn’t killed him.”
“The quality of art is not something measured by mundane instruments on a predetermined scale,” Grace snarled. “It is for those with taste to judge. And those with taste will find Lindsay’s work superior to Matthew’s. If the gossipmongers can’t see that, then that is their shortcoming, not hers.” She anchored her hands on her hips. “And next year, I would have proven it. Next year, Lindsay would have shown them all.”
I frowned. “You mean you meant to keep her even if she didn’t win?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “I have planned for us to spend the entire coming year in Paris. We leave next week. And I made those arrangements last week.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t care what you think of me, witch. I care for Lindsay, and I will continue to nurture her talent until everyone recognizes her obvious gift.”
“But he said you threatened to sell her.” I pointed at Raphael.
“And as I already told you, that was to motivate her,” Grace said impatiently.
Dread curled like a serpent around my spine, bowing my body forward. “Did you tell her that?”
Grace frowned. “Tell her what?”
“When did you threaten her with the red caps?” I asked, trying to speak past the growing lump in my throat. “Did you ever explain the threat was empty, that you only wanted to motivate her?”
“Why would I do that?” Grace asked. “It rather undermines the motivation, doesn’t it?”
I almost didn’t hear her over the sudden roar of blood in my ears, the voice screaming at me from the dark corners of my mind. “Where is she?”
Grace and Raphael were both staring at me now, as if I were losing my mind. Only Flint seemed to understand.
“Where is Lindsay now, Grace?” he asked quietly.
“She asked permission to go to the art room,” Grace said, confused. “It’s not unusual; inspiration strikes at all hours.”
“Take us to her,” I said, fighting the desire to grab Grace and shake her until she felt the same urgency I did.
I don’t know if it was the expression on my face, or if her own instinct warned her something was wrong. Whatever it was, the confusion melted from her face and she quickly led us out of the room. We passed into a long hallway, then out a door and down a set of winding stairs. I should have been nervous, going so deep into a sidhe stronghold, but all I could think of was Lindsay.
Lindsay, who’d believed she was about to lose the auction.
Lindsay, who’d believed a loss meant being sold to bloodthirsty fey.
Grace stopped at a heavy wooden door. The scent of paint reached my nose even before she opened it.
After it opened, all I smelled was blood.
My mouth fell open, and I slammed my lips together to keep from crying out, swallowing fast to keep the bile from rising any farther.
A large canvas lay on the floor in the center of the circular stone room. An empty easel stood at an awkward angle, as if the canvas had been torn off it, and the wooden frame kicked out of the way. Lindsay lay on top of the canvas, surrounded by crimson liquid, her skin pale. I stumbled inside, running to the canvas and hitting my knees on the unforgiving stone floor, but I was too late. A dagger lay near the body, and blood covered Lindsay’s hand. The slit in her throat gaped at me like a screaming red mouth.
“Shade?” Flint asked, stepping up behind me.
I shook my head, slowly so I wouldn’t throw up.
“She’s dead,” I whispered.
Chapter 15
“Lindsay.” I sounded numb. Part of my brain thought that was weird. The other part of my brain was screaming. Screaming and crying because I was too late.
Lindsay is dead.
The tear in her throat offered a slimy view of her windpipe, the edges of severed skin crusted with dark, congealing blood. The overhead light did little to chase the shadows that lingered in her face, remnants of the fear that had driven her to take her own life. Her arms were bent, her hands covered in blood, as if she’d changed her mind at the last second, tried to stop the bleeding.
Pain breathed life into rage. I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached. I watched her leave. I was so sure it was one of the sidhe. I didn’t consider… I watched her go, and now she’s dead.
Breathe. Just. Breathe. I reached out to push her eyelids down.
“Don’t touch it!” G
race snapped.
Agony lanced through my scalp. My tailbone hit the ground, and someone—Grace—dragged me away from the painting by my hair. Shock slowed my reaction, and for a second, I gaped at her as she put herself between me and the canvas, pale arms spread wide. Her green skirt brushed the edge of the canvas, absorbing some of Lindsay’s blood. Grace hissed and hopped forward, holding her skirt out of the way. She stared at the canvas, then at me, her eyes too bright, her entire body trembling.
“She’s gone.” I struggled to my feet even though my knees promised they wouldn’t hold me. “I’m sorry.”
Grace swallowed hard. “I know she’s dead, you idiot.” She swept her gaze over the bloody canvas. “This is her final work. Her last masterpiece.” Tears filled her eyes. “I told you she was brilliant. I told you they would all see.”
Hysteria ate the edges of my thoughts and a fine trembling started in my legs, working its way up to my arms.
“Shade,” Flint said gently, grasping my shoulder. “Shade—”
“No!” I shoved him away and took a step closer to Grace. “No, I misunderstood her. I must have misunderstood.” My voice rose in pitch as the hysteria seeped deeper into my thoughts. “Grace, Lindsay is dead. She’s dead, Grace.”
Grace gazed at the canvas, raising her hands to clasp them beside her chin. The realization I’d wanted so badly to ignore roared to the forefront of my mind. The tears she cried weren’t born from sadness.
She was thrilled.
“It is unmatched,” she breathed. “They’ll talk about this for years, centuries. An artist dying for her art. It’s been done before, of course, many artists die in pursuit of their art, but this… She became her art.” Grace pressed her hands to her cheeks like some nervous girl before her coming-out party. “Marilyn was right. She was right—we needed to return to our roots. One year living with me, one year. And now…the perfect fusion. Tell me this doesn’t speak to you.” She drew in a deep breath and opened her arms. “Her emotions beat at me as I stand here. Flint, can you feel it? There’s power here.”
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