Tainted Blood: A Generation V Novel

by M. L. Brennan

  I tossed a few pats of butter in the pan and cracked six eggs into the mixing bowl. I paused for a second, considered, then tossed in another two. I had no idea how long it would take to track down a murder weapon with a blood compass, and I definitely wanted a full belly. While I whisked the eggs, I remembered my days-old promise to my mother, winced, and called my sister. At least if I was cooking, I’d have a built-in excuse to escape the conversation quickly.

  Prudence listened with surprising mildness to my update about the rusalka situation.

  “That sounds fairly straightforward,” she noted when I was done. “I’ll ask Loren to look into whether any lakes in the territory have restrictions on Jet Skis. If that doesn’t work, I’m sure there are some lonely places in Canada where we can stash her.” There was a pause. Then she said, knowingly, “You could’ve done that yourself. Mother wanted you to call me, didn’t she?”

  “Um, yeah.” I poured the mixed eggs into the pan, then started poking them with a spatula to scramble them.

  “That’s fairly typical of her.” Prudence sounded mellower than usual today, though. I wondered if she was still distracted by Chivalry’s dating life. “How are things going with the Kivela murder? Have you located an appropriate suspect yet?”

  I winced at Prudence’s clear acknowledgment that all she wanted was a scapegoat rather than the actual killer. “Some good progress on that, actually,” I said. And with my conversation with Sassoon from yesterday about Prudence’s attitude toward the witches still fresh in my mind, I noted, “I actually got a nice bit of assistance from a witch,” and then filled her in about the blood compass.

  “Really?” Prudence sounded impressed. “I didn’t think old Rosamund had it in her.”

  “Oh, actually she was on vacation. This was the recommended substitute.” And that was all technically true, I congratulated myself. Valentine Sassoon had been recommended . . . just not by Rosamund.

  “Well, even vermin can be useful sometimes, I suppose. Broken clocks and all that nonsense.” Prudence’s interest was clearly exhausted.

  I winced at her phrasing. Apparently warming Prudence up on the witches was going to take a longer campaign. The eggs were ready, and I said a hasty good-bye to my sister.

  Suze shook her head at me as I brought the plates to the table. “Fort, this is like watching someone fall in love with a twenty-year-old cat that limps. Follow my advice and stay out of this. Your sister has had more than two centuries to build up this dislike of the witches—you aren’t going to be able to do anything about it. Save yourself the trouble and don’t even try.”

  “I was only telling her the truth, which was that Sassoon was useful.” She gave me a patently disbelieving look, and I shoveled a huge forkful of eggs into my mouth in response.

  Eight scrambled eggs disappeared from our plates with surprising speed, with Suze making a playful show of defending her share from me. I was still a little hungry even after we’d eaten all of them, and I regarded the last four eggs in the carton speculatively. Suzume followed my line of sight and snorted. “Jeez, Fort, you’re a bottomless pit lately. I told you that the vegetarianism would do this—I bet your poor body is protein deficient.”

  “It’s not that,” I said, irritated. “My activity level is just a little up with all the dog walking.” I checked my watch. “Come on, I’ll grab a bagel for the road, and we’ll see if we can figure out how to use a magical jelly jar blood compass.”

  Bundled up for the weather, and with my Colt .45 and Ithaca .37 stashed in a handy duffel bag, just in case the compass led us to the murderer along with the weapon, we settled ourselves into the Fiesta and pondered the compass.

  “Hey,” Suze suggested. “I’m figuring that unless the compass starts doing something wacky, we should just drive over to Matias Kivela’s house and follow it from there. After all, the killer left out of the back sliding door—there’s a shot that they just dumped the knife somewhere in the woods behind the house.”

  I nodded. “Sounds like a good plan,” I agreed, and backed the Fiesta out of its spot.

  “Oh, now you’re listening to my plans?” Beneath her fleecy bobble hat, her expression of irritation should’ve looked comedic. It didn’t, probably because I knew that she had at least one knife on her, and that since I couldn’t see them, she was using fox tricks to hide them from me.

  “Suze, I was not going to tell Mrs. Bandyopadyay that I saw local hooligans steal her newspaper, pursued them, fought with them, and liberated it.” I merged into traffic.

  “No, you told her the truth, and now I’m going to get geriatric stink-eye every time I walk by her door.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Suze, I’m not sure she liked you that much even before she knew you’d snatched her newspaper.”

  “To check the weather, Fort,” she protested loudly. “And with almost every intention of returning it.”

  “It’s a dying industry. Just pay seventy-five cents and get your own damn copy. Look at it like throwing a few quarters in the Salvation Army bucket.”

  It was a weekday, but late enough into the morning that the majority of commuters were already at work, and the drive over to Lincoln went smoothly. We were, quite quickly, cruising in front of the beige craftsman that used to house the late karhu, and I reflected that this kind of commute was probably why the bears had settled in this area. I pulled the car up to the curb and peered out the window.

  “The house looks empty.”

  “Should be,” Suze said. “I made a quick call to the Celik ghouls this morning—the Kivelas have a two-day wake planned, and it started this morning. They’re expecting just about every bear for the duration—they rented the biggest room the Celiks had, plus two side rooms for spillover. No one is going to be at this house.”

  We both looked at the compass. The green cellophane of the toothpick was now pointing down the street and a little to the side.

  “Think we should park and hit the woods?” I asked.

  “Cruise forward a little. If it swings all the way over toward the woods, then we’ll get out. But the state park is a big place—I’d rather not do any extra walking if I can help it.”

  I could definitely get behind that reason. “Hey,” I said. “Pull off your hat and sit up a little higher.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going like ten miles per hour through a residential zone. I want to make sure that people see that there’s also a woman in the car.”

  “Why?”

  “So they don’t panic and think I’m a pedophile,” I grumbled.

  Suze snickered and did as I asked, keeping her eyes on the compass. We inched down the street, past more little houses, and the occasional big one. I shook my head a little. My foster mother, Jill, had always found it incredibly annoying when new developers overbuilt on tiny lots, and I supposed that I had fully inherited that particular prejudice.

  “Hey, the compass is swinging.”

  I pulled the Fiesta over to the curb and looked over. Sure enough, the cellophane was now pointing fully away from the street, and toward another of the houses that was on the state-park side of the road. It was one of those long one-level ranch styles, with light yellow siding and a brick foundation.

  “We’re only about ten houses down from Matias’s house,” I noted. “Think the knife is in the woods behind the ranch?”

  “Or in that house,” she said. “Maybe a neighbor war got out of hand?”

  “Neighbors like the elves or like a Robert Frost poem gone wrong?” I drove down a few more houses before finding a parking spot for the Fiesta. If the killer lived in that house, I had no desire to park right the hell in front of it.

  “Either could work.” Suze patted her leg, and for just a second her fox trick lifted and I saw her long twelve-inch knife (fondly referred to as “Arlene”) strapped to her calf, where the hem of her parka wouldn’t interfere with her ability to draw it. I reached into the backseat and felt around in my duffel for my Colt
, which I tucked securely in the shoulder holster that I’d put on before we’d left the apartment. Winter wasn’t my favorite season (mostly due to the Fiesta’s lack of a functional heating system), but I had to admit that it made carrying concealed weapons quite a bit easier than in the summer.

  There were no cars parked in the driveway of the ranch house, but I took a quick peek in the window of its one-car garage as we walked up to the property. Empty. A long privacy fence surrounded the property, just like at Matias Kivela’s. I raised my eyebrows at Suze, who was sniffing furiously.

  “Metsän kunigas,” she said. “Either living here or visiting often enough that the scent is thick on the property.”

  The fence was not a little one—six feet high. We poked around cautiously, but there wasn’t a gate, so the only way through was the house—or a hop. Suze crouched down on the ground, enough to give me a quick foothold to boost myself up with. As I scrabbled over the fence, I had the awful vision of a busybody neighbor looking out their window and then rushing to call the cops about a break-in. “You’re masking us, right?” I muttered to Suzume.

  “Don’t worry, Fort. No one is seeing you huff and puff your way over that except me.”

  I grumbled a few choice phrases at her, but finally made it over. The yard was that dull brown that just about everything in New England turns in late October, with a bright yellow children’s swing set and a few of those big plastic toys that people with little kids seem contractually obligated to litter around their property. At the edge of the yard were the tall trees of Lincoln Woods State Park.

  From the other side of the fence, Suze tossed me the magical jelly jar, which I caught. Then I heard some scuffing sounds as she backed up, took a running leap, and got enough of her upper body over the fence to hook a leg and pop over.

  “Nice,” I complimented her as she brushed off her jacket.

  “Eh. On four feet I could’ve just hopped it. How’s the compass?”

  I looked down. It had sloshed a bit during the toss, but as I waited, the fluid settled, and the toothpick began turning again. But instead of pointing at the woods, it was aimed directly at the house.

  “Interesting,” Suze said. We walked up the back patio to a sliding glass door, which she knocked loudly on. I looked at her and lifted my eyebrows—apparently the “stealth” part of our plan was being ditched. She ignored my expression and waited, then knocked again—this time really pounding hard. Another pause, then she smiled at me. “No one home.”

  “And if someone had been home?” I asked. “With their setup, I bet most people knock on the front door.”

  Suze was already kneeling, and she slid her lockpick kit out of one pocket. As she started picking through her small tools, she answered, “So we would’ve said that we’d gotten lost in the woods, and could we please use their phone.” A few twists of her slender picks, and there was a small click. She smiled. “Everyone always cheaps out on the sliding-door lock.”

  “Probably because if someone really wants to get in, it’s not exactly hard to just break the glass,” I noted, following the kitsune as she slid the door open and walked in. We found ourselves in a combination kitchen and dining room. There were at least a day’s worth of dishes piled haphazardly into the sink, and a woman’s business jacket was slung over the back of a chair. Children’s drawings papered the front of the refrigerator, and I had to step carefully to avoid the toys scattered around the floor.

  Suze nudged a pile of bright purple DVDs decorated with animated characters with her foot. “Dora sign,” she noted. “The kid in this house is little. Two to five, probably.”

  I checked the compass again. The toothpick was moving, now pointing us to the left. We walked to the side of the room, where there was an outside door. I flipped the locks and opened it. There was a pair of steps, which led down into a small laundry room, with a cement floor and a screen door on the opposite side that clearly led into the garage. This spot had probably started its life in the house as a possum-trot or a screened-in porch, and had been converted into a full laundry room.

  The washer and dryer were shoved against the woods-side wall, and a folding table was across from it. Three overflowing laundry baskets were on the floor, with one filled with nothing but a very rancid collection of weird white fabric.

  “Oh crap,” Suze said as we eased into the room, slapping a hand across her nose. “Fucking cloth diapers.” She made a low sound of disgust. “And someone’s at least three days behind on the laundry.” She pulled up the turtleneck of her shirt so that the fabric covered her face up to the eyeballs and gagged.

  I lacked a kitsune nose, so my full experience of the rank odor of baby poop was probably a bit less Technicolor than what Suze was currently suffering through, but there was something else in the room. I sniffed again, harder, and there it was, teasing me below the poop. It reminded me of being in a crowded room and catching the hint of an old girlfriend’s favorite perfume. The compass was spinning now, not pointing, and I handed it over to Suze, who was still bitching loudly.

  I followed my nose straight to the basket of dirty diapers.

  “Fort?” Suze asked behind me, confused.

  “Something’s here,” I said. “And . . . I think . . . no, it’s definitely blood.”

  She appeared at my shoulder, red fabric still stretched over her nose, but now her dark eyebrows arched in surprise. I reached down and started tugging the diapers out of the basket and onto the floor, careful only to pull them by clean edges. I was two-thirds of the way down the basket and pulled away a particularly vile diaper (diarrhea had apparently been an issue that day) to reveal a long kitchen knife, with dried blood covering it from tip to handle. “There you are,” I muttered.

  Real surprise, and just a hint of concern, covered Suze’s face. “You smelled that when I couldn’t.”

  “Apparently my nose is more specialized than yours,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. I reached up onto one of the shelves and found a clean, folded washcloth. Grabbing it, I used the washcloth to pick up the knife and extract it from its diapery nest. It was a solid knife, with a good heft to it—just like Caroline Celik had suggested, I could easily imagine using this to chop up an onion. Apparently someone had pictured something very different, though. I paused, and considered the knife and the room around me again. “Why would the killer leave this here? It hasn’t even been cleaned.”

  Beside me, Suze shrugged. “Maybe they had to stash it fast.” Then she tilted her head to the side and thought it through more carefully. “This house is messy, but it’s not long-term messy. This is probably only a few days of clutter.”

  “Like the kind that would accumulate if the usual cleaners were distracted? Say, by the death of a close family member, and having to set up a funeral?”

  “Or distracted by covering up that family member’s murder?” She reached past the diaper basket and slid over a basket filled with dirty clothing. “Let’s see who lives here.” She picked the first item off the top, a small child’s shirt decorated with another appearance of Dora the Explorer. Tugging the neck of her shirt down and away from her nose, Suze buried her face deeply into the shirt, inhaling heavily. After a moment she looked up. “One little girl, metsän kunigas.” She dropped the shirt and pulled out the next item—a little girl’s nightgown, decorated in teddy bears. (“For fuck’s sake,” Suze muttered. “Can they give the theme a rest?”) She sniffed again. “A different girl, also bear, a little older than the first.” Next was an adult woman’s blouse. “Female bear. Don’t know her. Too old to be the parent.” She sniffed her way through another few pieces of clothing, some children’s, some adult’s, then snagged a cream camisole. She sniffed, and this time when she raised her head, she had a wide smile. “Ah. Now this one I’ve smelled in person. Dahlia.”

  “The karhu’s niece.” It took a second for it to sink in, but the dots came together and formed an interesting picture. “The one Matias wanted as his heir.”

  “Maybe s
he decided she didn’t want to wait around,” Suze said.

  I thought about it, but there was still a snag there. “Why stash the knife in her own house? She’s had two days now to dump it.”

  Suze dropped down to her hands and knees, brought her face close to the floor, and started sniffing carefully around the room. She was usually in fox form when she did this, and I couldn’t help but notice that the view was a little different when she was doing it as a woman. I forced myself to look at the ceiling. Unaware of my internal conflict, Suze began talking as she followed her usual grid pattern around the room. “Maybe Dahlia couldn’t get a chance when she was alone? Or maybe she wanted a trophy?” There was a pause. Then I heard her getting to her feet. I looked back down to see her dusting off the knees of her jeans. “Apart from the clothing, the only one I smell in this room is the older woman. So she’s the one who is here often enough to lay a scent that could stand up to that reek. I think she probably does the laundry.”

  I considered that. “You stash a murder weapon where you don’t think anyone else would find it, or in a spot where only you go,” I said, thinking out loud. I tried to remember what Chivalry had said about Matias Kivela’s family when I’d seen him the other night. “Dahlia’s mother is the karhu’s sister. Chivalry mentioned her—her name is Ilona.” A useful snippet reemerged, and I got excited. “Apparently her grandfather wanted her to inherit, but Chivalry wanted her brother, because he thought Matias would be less trouble.”

  Suze nodded, immediately following where I was going with this. “So Ilona got passed over for the top job. Maybe she bided some time, and then took her chance to get her daughter in the captain’s chair.”

  “Maybe they’re working together on this,” I suggested.