Текст книги "A local habitation"

Автор книги: Seanan McGuire

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That was what I’d been afraid of. “You didn’t see anything?”

“No. I just . . . it was just blood.” He frowned anxiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You did just fine, Quentin. It’s not your fault.” I looked toward Elliot. “Did you people move anythingin here? Touch anything?”

Elliot flinched, replying, “No, we . . .”

“Good. Who found the body?” Peter raised his hand. I nodded. “When?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.” His voice was steady, but I could still hear the low humming of his unseen wings. He was close to panic.

“Were you alone?”

“For about five minutes. Then Alex came in.”

“Did you see anything unusual when you entered?” When he shook his head, I turned to Alex. “How about you?”

“Nothing. I got here, we called for April, and she went for Elliot.”

“Now she’s getting January. I want this area closed off. Who else is in the building?”

“April and Jan, and Gordan.” Elliot’s eyes lingered on my bloody fingers. The Daoine Sidhe have always had a lot of control over the leadership of Faerie; I think it’s largely because the other races want to keep us where they can see us. People who can talk to the dead are sometimes hard to trust.

“And no one else?” My conviction that they knew more than they were telling me was rising. The men in front of me looked upset and nauseated . . . but not surprised. They weren’t surprised by what had happened to Colin.

Something was lying in the shadows by the water cooler. I frowned and started in that direction, even as Elliot began to answer.

“We’ve been a little light on staffing recently.”

At least he had the good grace to sound embarrassed by the lie. I shot him a sharp look, saying, “Well, looks like it’s getting lighter, doesn’t it?” as I crouched by the water cooler and reached into the shadows, pulling out a well-oiled sealskin. I ran it between my fingers, checking it for damage, and stood, brandishing it as I turned back toward the group.

“This is Colin’s skin,” I said. “Have you ever heard of someone killing a Selkie and notstealing their skin? Because I haven’t.” Selkie skins can be transferred from person to person, turning the almost purely mortal into full-fledged Selkies. They get passed down in the same families for generations; a stolen Selkie skin is worth its weight or more in gold.

“No,” Elliot said, voice growing quiet. “I haven’t.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Peter swallowed hard, asking, “Is he . . . ?”

“Yes. Very.” I allowed myself a small, hard smile. “Trust me on this one.”

“But his hands . . .”

“And his eyes,” I said. Peter looked away. I was finding it hard to dredge up sympathy for his squeamishness—after all, he wasn’t the one with blood on his lips.

Quentin tugged on my arm, and I looked toward him, asking, “You okay, kid?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.” He managed to sound both humble and embarrassed about the idea. Not a bad trick.

I tried to sound reassuring as I said, “That’s okay, it’s normal the first time. Elliot, where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the entry hall, to the left,” Elliot said, sounding shell-shocked.

“All right. Come right back, okay?” Quentin nodded and took off at a run, heading for the promised bathroom. I just hoped he’d make it in time. His pride would never let him forgive himself if he didn’t.

I waited for his footsteps to fade before turning back to Elliot, saying mildly, “If anything happens to him, I’ll hurt you in ways you’ve never imagined. You know that, right?”

“Of course. Is the boy . . .”

“He’s my assistant.” I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, looking at the smear left behind. If I didn’t know better, it would have looked like lipstick.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know better.

“You’re Daoine Sidhe, aren’t you? Both of you?”

No, we just like the taste of blood,I thought sourly. Unfortunately, some races in Faerie would mean that. “Yes, we are. His blood is purer than mine, but I’m Amandine’s daughter.” He nodded at my mother’s name. I felt a pang of regret. Mother would have been able to coax the secrets from Colin’s blood. I was sure of it.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“No. His blood isn’t telling us anything.” I leaned down and closed Colin’s staring eyes, letting my fingers rest on the lids. “Nothing at all.”

“Nothing?” Peter whispered. The Daoine Sidhe don’t brag, because we don’t need to. My mother was so strong she could taste the death of plants. She could never stomach maple syrup; she said it tasted like trees screaming. The blood should have told me something, even if it wasn’t anything I could use. For it to tell me nothing at all was impossible.

“Nothing.” I stood, resisting the urge to wipe my hands on my jeans again. It wouldn’t get them clean, or take the taste of blood out of my mouth. “The blood’s empty.”

“But why didn’t the night-haunts come?”

“I don’t know.” The obvious next question was “so what good are you? ” and I didn’t know what my answer would be.

He didn’t get a chance to ask. Jan rushed into the room, clipboard clutched against her chest, with a tiny white-haired woman following a few steps behind.

“Elliot!” Jan cried, voice shrill and angry. “Elliot, what happened?”

He turned toward her, expression grim. “They got Colin, Jannie,” he said. “I’m so sorry. They got Colin.”

She stopped, raising a hand to her mouth. She was either one of the best actresses I’ve ever seen, or she hadn’t done it. “Colin?” she said, anger fading, replaced by sudden, bleak despair. “Oh, no. That can’t be right, Elliot, it can’t; I refuse. Look again. You have to be wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Jannie,” he said, and opened his arms. She threw herself into them, shuddering, and they clung to each other. My presence was forgotten; I had no place in the landscape of their grief. Even Alex and Peter looked away.

The white-haired woman stepped around them and stopped in front of the corpse, studying it for a long moment before she said, “He’s dead.”

“Yes,” I said flatly. Sylvester said he was worried about his niece not checking in. He never said anything about people getting killed.

“How?”

“I don’t know,” I said, studying her. Most people are upset when their friends die; this woman looked interested, and not all that surprised. That was unusual. She was roughly five feet tall, with a blaze of white hair cut in spikes that did nothing to hide the squared-off tips of her ears. Her figure matched her height—slight, lissome, and easily overlooked. Judging from her scowl, that happened pretty often; it wasn’t the sort of expression you master in an instant, even when your friends are dying. Lines cut through her face like scars through granite. They weren’t wrinkles; she wasn’t old enough for that. They were just lines, indelibly ground into the shape of her.

“Damn,” she said, raking her hands back through her hair. “I liked him.”

I glanced to Jan and Elliot, and frowned as I saw that she was sobbing on his shoulder. What a great thing to see in a leader: hysterics. I shook my head, looking back to the white-haired woman, and asked, “Who are you?”

“What?” She looked up at me, her scowl deepening until the lines on her face became caverns. “I’m Gordan. Who the hell are you?”

“October Daye.” I don’t normally flex my titles, but this time I added, “Knight of Shadowed Hills. I’m here by order of Sylvester Torquill, the Duke—”

“Duke of Shadowed Hills, yeah, we know the drill,” she said, interrupting. “We’re not totally uncivilized out here in the boonies, you know. Have you got any credentials on you?”

“What?”

“Can you prove it?”

“I’ve already shown my credentials to your Countess, but given that you’ve got a corpse here—an impossible corpse—do I really need to prove it? I’m Daoine Sidhe, I’m a licensed PI, and I don’t exactly see you getting any better offers.”

“So you’re here to fix all our problems? Well, that’s just peachy, princess. What the fuck took you so long?”

“What do you mean?”

She gestured to the body. “This started last month—Colin’s the third death we’ve had. What took you so long? Were you waiting for an engraved invitation? ‘RSVP for murder?’ ”

I stared for a moment before I got my mouth working again. “The third?”

“Yeah.”

“I . . . see. Excuse me for a moment, please.” I turned toward Jan, eyes narrowing. She had straightened and was wiping her face with one hand, teary-eyed and sniffling. And I didn’t care. “Ms. O’Leary? May I have a word with you?”

She looked up, golden eyes wide. “Huh?”

I’ll normally forgive a certain degree of shock after a major trauma, especially when I’m dealing with purebloods; most of them see so few deaths that they don’t know how to cope. Considering what Gordan had said, however, I wasn’t inclined to be charitable. “A word, Ms. O’Leary. I need to have one with you.”

“W . . . why?” She glanced at Elliot, and he looked away. I think he knew what I was going to say. “This isn’t the best time. I . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell me that people were dying?” I demanded. Bluntness isn’t usually an asset among the fae, but it’s served me well over the years.

Jan gaped for a moment before she recovered, snapping, “You can’t just stroll in here and expect me to dump all our problems on you! What kind of a Countess do you take me for?”

I hauled my temper to heel, forcing myself to take a deep breath as Quentin walked up to stand behind me. “Did you call your uncle last night?”

She nodded. “I tried. No one answered.”

“Well, he answered for me. He’s worried. Now answer me this: do you want these killings to stop?”

Jan stared at me. “How can you even ask me that?”

“I am one changeling with a half-trained page to back me up,” I said, levelly. “Whether I’m telling you the truth or not, there’s not going to be that much damage I can do. But what I also am is a trained investigator sworn to your uncle’s Court. Let me do my job. If you think I’m lying to you at any point, you can deal with me.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“When your car breaks down, do you fix it yourself, or do you send for a mechanic?”

The change of topics was apparently a little too fast for her. She stared at me for a moment, befuddled, before she said, “I send for a mechanic.”

“The principle here is the same. When people are dying, you don’t fix it yourself. You send for a mechanic.” I looked her in the eye, forcing myself not to start yelling again. It wasn’t easy. “I’m the mechanic.”

Jan froze, trembling with fear and anger. It was a long moment before the fire in her eyes dimmed and her shoulders began to droop, making it briefly clear just how young she was. The purebloods seem ageless, but they aren’t; they’re young and stupid once, just like everybody else, and if nothing forces them to grow up, they can stay that way for centuries. Jan was more than a century old, but she was still younger than I was where it counted. Voice low, she said, “Can you do it? Can you make this stop?”

I smiled sharply. It’s not my most pleasant expression, but with a fae corpse lying just a few feet away, it didn’t need to be.

“My lady,” I said, “you only ever needed to ask.”

NINE

“TOBY, WAIT UP! PLEASE?”

I stopped briskly, turning to glare at Alex. Quentin did the same, his own motions possessing a semimilitary crispness. His terror was translating into a level of formality that I hadn’t seen out of him since the night we met. I didn’t care for it, but I honestly couldn’t blame him. I was scared, too, and I had a lot more experience than he did.

“What is it?” I asked. “Got something else you neglected to tell me? More bodies? Giant spiders in the attic? Because I’m pretty much out of patience, and you didn’t bring me anywhere near enough coffee to excuse hiding a murder.”

Alex stumbled to a halt a few feet in front of us, his hands hanging limply at his sides. They weren’t singing arias now; for the first time since I’d met him, they were motionless. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Three people are dead, Alex. Two of them were already dead when we got here. What exactly wasit like?”

“I . . .” He stopped, shoulders sagging, and sighed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t supposed to tell you anything. I didn’t know anyone else was going to get hurt.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Who told you not to talk to me?”

“Only one woman here with the authority.” Alex quirked a small, bitter smile. “You want to know what’s going on, you talk to Jan.”

“All right; I will. Take us to her.”

To Alex’s credit, he didn’t argue or try to defend himself further. He just turned, gesturing for us to follow, and led us down the hall.

We’d been searching the buildings of the knowe for almost half an hour, forcing me to admit that Colin’s killer or killers left us nothing to find. There were no footprints or signs of forced entry; all the blood was on Colin himself, and there wasn’t much blood even there. He hadn’t struggled at all. Whatever happened to him, it happened fast. His skin was under the front seat of my car, where no one would tamper with it, but I couldn’t figure out what it meant, if anything. Who kills a Selkie and doesn’t take the skin? I had three victims, a crime scene that told me nothing and offered escapes into two barely connected versions of reality, and a Countess who said nothing was wrong when she knew that people were dying.

There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to make this bearable.

Alex led us to a closed door, where he knocked. “Who is it?” called Jan from inside.

“Alex,” he said. “I have Sir Daye and her assistant here. They’d like to speak with you.”

There was a pause—long enough that I began to wonder whether the illustrious Countess O’Leary had decided to go out the window—before the door swung open to reveal Jan, looking utterly weary, standing on the other side. “Okay. They can come in. Alex, if you could . . . ?”

“Got it,” he said, with a sardonic half-salute. “This is a discussion we peons don’t need to be a part of. Quentin, Toby . . .” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. That’s all. I’ll see you soon.” Not waiting for us to reply, he turned and walked rapidly off down the hall.

I watched him go before turning to Jan, not saying a word. She stepped out of the way, letting us pass.

The office was Elliot’s, according to the nameplate on the desk; like all the offices, it was located in what I was coming to recognize as the knowe’s main building. It was as tidy as I would expect a Bannick’s office to be, with carefully sorted baskets of paper sitting atop the filing cabinets and a small collection of bonsai trees on shelves around the room. There were several blank spots on the walls, showing spaces where frames had recently been removed. Elliot himself was sitting on a folding chair to one side of the desk, shoulders slumped, still looking shell-shocked.

Jan closed the door behind us, starting to pace almost immediately. She was so clearly her uncle’s niece when she moved that way that it was hard to see how I’d ever been able to miss it. “We found the first body last month,” she said, punctuating the words with a sharp gesture of her hand. “We thought—oak and ash, we thought it was Dreamer’s Glass. We thought it was just some kind of screwed-up scare tactic gone wrong.”

“So why didn’t you call the Queen?” I leaned back against a clear patch on the wall, watching her. “If Riordan had somebody killed, even by accident, she broke Oberon’s first law. You could have brought charges against her.”

“No proof.” Jan raked her hair back, frustration briefly beating back anger. “We don’t even know for sure that it was her. Who’s ever heard of the night– haunts leaving a body behind? What the hell was I supposed to do? Go to the Queen’s Court and be all ‘excuse me, Your Majesty, but Duchess Riordan maybe had one of my people kidnapped, or somehow had her killed in a way that doesn’t make sense, and anyway, I don’t know any of this for sure, but can you make her stop?’ It wasn’t going to work.”

“You could have told someone.”

“I tried.” Jan sighed. “Whether you believe me or not, I’ve been leaving messages for Uncle Sylvester since this started. I wanted his advice. But he never called me back.”

Sylvester thought she’d stopped calling; she thought he’d stopped answering. I didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be anything good. “The night-haunts didn’t come for the first victim?”

“They haven’t come for any of the victims,” said Elliot. “All three of them just . . . stayed, exactly like they were before they died.”

“And we’re sure they died.” Jan kept pacing. “There would be demands by now . . . or something. Or someone would have managed to get loose, if they’d been kidnapped and replaced with some sort of mannequins.”

“Kidnap victims don’t always escape on their own,” I said.

“The first victim—Barbara—was a Cait Sidhe Queen of Malvic’s line. The cats have been in mourning ever since.” She fixed me with a steady look. “Don’t you think they’d know if she were still alive?”

I winced. Malvic is one of the Cait Sidhe Firstborn. Most of the Kings and Queens of Cats are his descendants, and he wouldn’t be happy when he heard about this. Neither would Tybalt.

“All right, so we know she’s dead,” I said. “Where did you find her body?”

“In the cafeteria.”

“The cafeteria. The cafeteria where you left us alone?” She nodded. “Right.” They ditched us in a place where somebody died. How sweet. “I assume that means you didn’t close the scene after the body was found?”

“We tried, but . . .” Elliot waved his hands.

“It was upsetting people, and there wasn’t anything to find,” said Jan.

I bit back a groan. Being largely in denial about the existence of death means most purebloods never learn thing one about proper police procedure; when they find evidence of a crime, they’re likely to clean it up just so they won’t have to look at it. They probably destroyed any evidence before the body was even cold, oblivious to the fact that this could be a bad idea.

“Was there anything that stood out about the first victim?” I asked.

Jan laughed bitterly. “How about the part where she was dead? Exactly like Colin. We left her where she was for almost a day to give the night– haunts time, and they never came.”

That wasn’t a good sign. Twice is enough to start looking like a pattern. “How about the second victim?”

“She looked like she was sleeping,” said Elliot. His voice was bleak. “She was just . . . she looked like she was sleeping. But she never woke up.”

“Her name was Yui Hyouden,” Jan said, putting her hand on Elliot’s shoulder and squeezing. He stared down at his feet. “She was a Kitsune. She worked in software testing.”

I looked away from Elliot. “Where was she found?”

“On the lawn outside. She hadn’t come through the reception room; she was still in the mortal world.”

The statement made my skin crawl. Kitsune can be beautiful, but it’s not human beauty. If the night-haunts hadn’t come for Yui’s body . . . “When did you find her?”

“Just after sunrise.”

“Right.” That made it less likely that anyone had seen her, especially since none of the local tabloids had been running the story. It was also no help at all. A body found “just after sunrise” could have been there all night, hidden by an illusion that dissolved at dawn. “She was killed the same way as the others?”

“She was,” Jan agreed. “That’s when people started leaving. They couldn’t handle the idea that they might be next.”

“But you didn’t go because . . . ?”

Her smile was grim. “This is my County. I leave it, I’m probably not getting it back without a lot more lives lost. I’m staying as long as there’s any chance we can save what we’ve been building here.”

“Oberon save me from the idealists,” I muttered. Louder, I said, “I need to know everything. Where the bodies were found, who found them, who might have had access to those areas before the bodies were discovered, everything. Photographs would be good, if you have them.” I’d be surprised if they didn’t have security cameras, given the rest of the knowe.

“Whatever you need,” Jan said. “Of course, you realize that if it somehow turns out you’ve found a way to mimic someone else’s magic and you’re not who you say you are, I’ll have you tried for treason.”

“And I’ll applaud it. Did anyone photograph the bodies? I want to compare the wounds.”

Elliot looked sickened. Jan squeezed his shoulder again, saying, “No—”

“Damn.”

“—but we have the bodies, if you’d like to see them.”

I stared. “What?”

“We have the bodies.” Jan looked at me levelly. “They’re in the basement.”

The cafeteria was an unmarked murder scene and the basement was full of bodies? Cute. On the other hand . . . a firsthand examination might give me something to go on, and I needed it. Colin apparently died of three small punctures, none of which hit a major artery, and some minor blood loss. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Have you taken Colin there?” I straightened, gesturing for Quentin to come. He moved to flank me, silent.

Jan nodded. “Peter and Gordan will have finished moving him by now.”

Those two were toting bodies down the stairs while the full-sized people sat around? Oh, thatwas a fair division of labor. “Good. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Elliot asked. It was clear he knew the answer but was hoping to be wrong.

Tough. “The basement. I need to see the bodies.”

“Right.” Jan straightened, taking her hand off Elliot’s shoulder. “Follow me.”

“Can I stay here?” Elliot’s voice sounded shaky. “I don’t want to go down there.” Jan gave me a pleading look, and I nodded. With the way the morning was going, he’d throw up on the bodies. I’m no forensics expert, but even I know that vomit doesn’t usually improve the evidence.

“You can stay here,” I said. When he brightened, I continued, “I want you to get me everything you have on the victims. Personnel files, medical records—anything.”

“I can do that,” he said, tone almost painfully grateful.

“I’m going to want to search their offices and work spaces. I’ll also need to examine the murder scenes.” There might be something,unlikely as it was starting to seem. “All right?”

“No trouble at all.”

“Good. Jan, Quentin, let’s go.”

“All right.” Jan looked over her shoulder, asking, “Elliot, will you be okay?”

“No. But I don’t think it matters right now. I’ll cope.” Elliot stood. “Take them to the basement. I’ll start finding the stuff they need.”

“Do you need anyone to help?” They spoke like equals, but there was an underlying unease there—I got the feeling he was usually the one taking care of her, not the other way around.

“I’ll call April if I need help,” he said, forcing a smile.

“All right, Elliot.” She moved toward the door. We hurried to catch up.

“What do you think?” I murmured to Quentin.

“I think we should leave a trail of bread crumbs,” he replied.

I barked a humorless laugh and picked up the pace.

The route followed a series of twisting halls over what the windows indicated to be multiple floors. I was learning not to trust my eyes at ALH. By the time we stopped, I was so disoriented that I didn’t know if we were on the roof, the ground floor, or the island of Manhattan. The last hall was lit by dim fluorescent bulbs, with a floor covered in industrial gray linoleum. The only door in sight was painted dull orange, trimmed with yellow. A sign at eye level read “Warning: Hazardous Materials. Keep Out.”

Jan saw me eyeing it. “It’s a joke. It’s been hanging there for years. We didn’t put it up because . . .”

“Fine,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. “Can we get this over with?”

“Right.”

The stairs descended almost vertically into a large, well-lit room. Judging by the stacks of computer parts and desk furniture lining the walls, they used it for storage before it became a makeshift morgue. The air was cold and tasted faintly bitter, like machine oil and carpet cleaner. Three army cots sat in the center of the room, covered by white cotton sheets with unmistakable shapes beneath them. The dead have their own geometry.

Jan stopped at the base of the stairs. I gritted my teeth and walked past her.

“Jan?”

“Yes?”

“Come here. Quentin, you too.” No sense coddling him now—he was going to have to face the reality of our situation sooner or later.

They walked over to me, both frowning. Quentin was trying to look stoic; Jan just looked sad. I held my hand over the sheet, asking, “This is . . . ?”

“Barbara,” Jan said. “She was the first.”

“Right.” I studied the shape through the sheet, trying to get an idea of the body before I disturbed it. Under normal circumstances, I leave the dead to the night-haunts and the police . . . but the night-haunts had opted out, and I couldn’t exactly call the police when the bodies belonged to clearly inhuman creatures. That left me. Reaching down, I folded the sheet away from Barbara’s face. Jan turned away. Quentin put a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide.

Alive or dead, Barbara was beautiful. Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her lips were naturally red, making her look like every Disney princess that’s ever graced the silver screen. Her hair was a long, toffee-colored tangle, and bands of matching fur tipped her sharply pointed ears. The only marks on her were the punctures at her wrists and neck, identical to the marks I’d seen on Colin: clearly missing the major arteries and just as clearly fatal.

“Toby . . .”

“I know, Quentin. Jan?”

“Yes?”

“You know who we’re supposed to be looking at. Is this Barbara?”

“Yes.” She sounded strained.

I knew how she felt. “When did she die? I need a time frame.”

“Sometime over Memorial Day weekend. She stayed late on Friday—she had a deadline to meet—and that was the last time anyone saw her alive. Terrie found her on the cafeteria floor when she came in on Monday.”

“Barbara was already dead?” I bent, prying her left eye open, and stared into the jade-green iris. Her pupil didn’t contract. I let go.

“She was . . . like this.”

“Did Terrie check for a pulse or try to perform CPR?”

“She said Barbara was cold and didn’t respond when her name was called.” She grimaced. “Terrie couldn’t call the ambulance. She couldn’t spin an illusion that would last long enough to fool the paramedics if the night-haunts didn’t come.”

“Don’t you have security cameras?” I raked both hands through my hair. “Is there a way we can get a better idea of when this happened?”

“We have cameras, but they weren’t running.”

I dropped my hands, turning to stare at her.

“We don’t know what happened. All the records were wiped.”

“So you have no idea when this woman actually died, and a four-day window for the event.” Jan nodded. I groaned. “Lovely. Terrie works nights, right? When does she get in?”

“She works from nine at night until six in the morning, usually. She’d taken the weekend off for a convention—she stopped in Monday morning to turn on the lights and make sure the place was still standing.”

“So Terrie wasn’t expected?”

“No.”

“And what time did she find the body?”

“4:52 AM.” The exactness of the answer startled me. I blinked at her, and she shrugged. “She paged us—Elliot and I—as soon as she realized Barbara was cold.”

“How did she page you? Alex said the phones here don’t work normally.”

“Most of us have modified cell phones. There are also pay phones in the cafeteria and near the third– floor bathrooms, and most offices have landlines. Any of those can dial outside the knowe, if you press nine first.”

“All right. When did you get here?”

“About five-fifteen. I don’t know exactly. All the gate time stamps after Friday afternoon have been wiped.”

I frowned. “I see. You say you got here around five-fifteen. Where do you live?”

“Here, mostly—we have some offices that we’ve converted into bedrooms—but I maintain an apartment for storage and so I can get my mail. We’re not zoned for residence.” She shrugged. “It’s about three miles away. I came straight over.”

“Had you recently lost any employees who might have been angry enough to try for revenge? Anyone you might have fired or otherwise pissed off?”

“No one. We haven’t had any personnel changes in the last three years, except for the recent departures, and those came after the killings began, not before.”

“I see. Quentin, come here.” He stepped over to join me, looking less than pleased. I knelt, patting his shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring fashion, and studied the wound in Barbara’s neck. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but that’s never stopped me before.

“Look at this,” I said, turning her arm over to show the underside.

“What about it?” he asked, uneasily.

“The color’s wrong.” I indicated the skin between Barbara’s elbow and shoulder. “Blood seeks the lowest point in the body after death; it should be pooling here. But it’s not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” I lowered her arm, my frown deepening. “This is all new ground, Quentin. I always knew fae bodies wouldn’t decay, but I assumed at least a few systems would break down. Jan? Have there been any changes in the bodies since they were found?”

“No.” She scrubbed at her face with one hand, knocking her glasses askew. “At first, we thought they weren’t really dead, just sleeping. We were waiting for them to wake up.”

“But they didn’t,” said Quentin.

“No. They didn’t. We moved Barbara down here after a week, to keep her cool. We didn’t know how long . . .”

“How long it would take her to start to rot?”

She sighed. “Yeah. But she never did.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“What?”

“She’s never going to start to rot.” I rose, crossing to the second cot. Quentin followed. “Is this Yui?” I asked. Jan nodded. “Right,” I said, and pulled back the sheet.

Yui could have been a normal Japanese woman in her late twenties, if it weren’t for her four tails and her pointed, red-furred ears. Her hair was braided, exposing the puncture wound on her throat. This wasn’t good. Kitsune express their power in the number of tails they have, ranging from the usual one or two up to seven or eight. Keiko Inari, their Firstborn, supposedly has nine. The Duchess of Shadowed Hills only has three, and there’s not much that could take her without a fight . . . but Yui looked as calm as the others. Unless we were dealing with someone the victims knew, we were looking at something big and mean enough to take down a four-tailed Kitsune before she had a chance to get angry.

I didn’t like that idea one bit. “She didn’t struggle.”