This . . . is surprising.
She never would’ve guessed Mikani could boil water, let alone bake. He didn’t give the impression of being particularly domesticated. In fact, he was more like a dire wolf, especially if you woke him up. Or that was the word from some constables who’d handled the paperwork for the altercation that sent him to tidy up and made her worry that he was injured worse than he’d let on to the other officers.
“You’re an exemplar. I’m certain that the people of South Ward feel safer with you guarding them, even in your sleep.” Ritsuko let a trace of mild chastisement creep into her tone. There was a guilty silence from the bedroom, and she smiled. She crossed her arms, remaining on the threshold of the entryway to his private rooms. “A lesser woman might point out that she’d warned you repeatedly about dozing on trains.”
“Which is why I’m grateful to have a great one as my partner.” Mikani emerged, straightening his tie and tugging at his jacket enough to rumple it. He flashed a cocky grin as he finger combed his shaggy hair and reclaimed his cane. “I’d offer you tea, but that would delay us further. And I don’t drink tea. So there’s that.”
After executing a half bow, he turned, brushing her hip as he stepped into the foyer; in that same moment, she shifted to let him by. That sudden contact, accompanied by an unexpected frisson of . . . something, surprised her into stillness. Mikani paused as well. She jerked away, a clumsy withdrawal, while he danced backward. In the confusion, he knocked a wall clock down but caught it with quick hands.
This is . . . decidedly odd.
“After you.” He cradled the clock, grinning sheepishly.
Ritsuko cleared her throat as she led the way to the foyer. “It’s a lovely house.”
Yes, definitely time to step outside.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be in the cruiser. You can drive. You’re better with the evening traffic anyway.” She wondered what he made of her staccato delivery and the heat in her cheeks as she strode out the front door.
I knew there was a reason we never socialized outside the office.
“It’s a matter of making sure they’re more scared of you than everyone else on the road.” At the cruiser, he took the keys from her, their fingertips brushing for a moment. Mikani made his way around Big Red, unlocking the door and holding it open . . . before looking up, seemingly startled at his own gesture.
“Did you take a knock to the head?” she asked, truly wondering if he had.
Mikani had never opened a door for her that she could recall. Some women might be put off by this apparent lack of manners, but she interpreted it otherwise. To her, it meant he considered her capable of doing it herself, and that, well, that was everything.
“In the last few years? Repeatedly.”
She slid into the cruiser, half fearing he meant to hold her elbow and ask if she needed a lap rug. A teasing Mikani she could handle, but a solicitous one? It made her fear that she’d contracted a fatal illness, and he didn’t know how to break the bad news.
He shook his head, then shut the door before making his way around to the driver’s side, to sit quiet as the engine warmed up to running speed. To her mind, the silence felt layered, as if he had a secret he couldn’t share. And that was . . . strange. In the past, he’d had no qualms about telling her too much—more than she wanted to know, in fact—about past liaisons. Then he teased her about prudishness and her inability to relax. It felt as though something had shifted, and she wasn’t certain the change improved matters.
Mikani drove like a man possessed; which was to say, like his old self. But when they pulled up to the theater, he wove around the block and into the alley rather than parking at the front entrance. After easing the engine to a low, idling hum, he tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel for a moment.
“We’re still waiting for the laboratory results?”
“Mr. Higgins did confirm that the greasepaint we found on Cira’s sewing kit matched what I took from the case here.” She sighed, staring at the Royale. “But it will be several days more on the ash. He received a reprimand for willfully ignoring the assignment priority list. That will teach me to employ my wiles in the line of duty.”
“I assure you, that only makes your wiles more enticing.” He gave her a cryptic smile and slipped out of the cruiser, moving toward the back doors to the theater.
Fighting a blush, Ritsuko followed. That sounded almost flirtatious. It wasn’t out of character for him to tease, but not in a way that showed any awareness of her femininity. As she walked, she rubbed the grit out of her eyes; the scant sleep she’d snatched didn’t feel like enough, and it left her with a residual headache, made more trying by her partner’s enigmatic behavior.
“Right now, our only clue leads us here, and thus, to the Royale’s owner.” Mikani pushed the door open and led the way inside.
Silently, Ritsuko agreed. Between the greasepaint and the crew’s knowing Miss Aevar, they really needed to talk to Leonidas.
A startled woman with a mop looked up at their passing; Mikani flashed her a smile and tugged his forelock. Then he headed into the dark theater corridors, tilting his head this way and that, as if sniffing out a trail. The silence was complete, unlike the first time they called and interrupted rehearsal. Trickles of sunlight filtered through cracks beneath doors, swathing the great room in shadows that seethed with movement. A faint scent of burning glass lingered, along with an astringent aroma, probably from the charwoman’s bucket. She had no idea what they were searching for, as there was nobody here to question.
Except the reclusive owner . . .
Mikani paused at each junction and door, tapping his fingertips against the wall and hinges. After a few moments of the silent search, he stopped at a nondescript door, easily missed in the half-lit corridor, then opened it.
“You think he’s our man?” Ritsuko asked.
“Maybe. The usual motives could apply.”
“Sex or money,” she guessed, trailing him through the doorway. “With Cira, both are possible. He might have recognized her and demanded money for his silence. How else do you explain all the renovations?”
Mikani said, “So, a blackmail scheme? Then he killed her when she threatened to charge him with the crime . . . possible. She’s also a pretty young thing. Perhaps she found his reclusive nature fascinating.”
“But the charm would pall after a while.” They had always done this, filled in the blanks for each other. Despite outward appearances, their thoughts often marched along the same lines. “So perhaps—”
“He murdered her rather than let her leave him.”
“A terrible devotion,” she said softly. “But what about that bizarre apparatus?”
“A puzzle indeed.”
“Leonidas did appear troubled,” she conceded.
“And there’s the matter of the secret he’s hiding.”
She nodded. “So it can’t hurt to ask him some questions. We should have done so the other day, but I couldn’t find him. And I did look.”
“I know, Ritsuko.” Distracted in his reassurance, he was examining a blank wall.
Mikani knocked on it lightly, listening with a satisfied smirk before pressing on one side, then the other. She had seen that expression before, usually right before he did something that would get them in trouble should they be caught at it. Over the years, she’d learned to ignore minor infractions in favor of results. Like the Dreamers. She knew he used them occasionally, but never on duty. That must’ve been some headache. Wonder how often he takes them.
And then . . . then there was the Moment.
Which never happened.
Heaving a sigh, she followed him down the staircase revealed when the panel popped open. No wonder she hadn’t been able to find Leonidas; Miss Wright hadn’t been exaggerating when she said the theater was built on a labyrinth. There was no light down below, just an endless darkness, that of no stars, no breath; it whispered of the grave and of small, creeping th
ings with too many legs and claws that skittered across damp stone.
“Perhaps we ought to get a lamp,” she said.
“He might see us coming, then. And that would ruin the surprise.”
With a resigned glare at the back of his head, she dogged his heels, then she smothered a gasp of surprise when his warm fingers wrapped around hers. It was probably to lead her, or ensure she didn’t get lost. But it felt profoundly affectionate for him to serve as her only tie to the living world in this sea of shadows.
They descended for eternal moments, the soft rasp of leather on stone the only sound other than their breathing. Then the darkness gradually lightened: she glimpsed his outline before her, growing darker as the passage below grew lighter. He squeezed her hand lightly before releasing it, casually swinging his walking stick over his shoulder and turning enough not to block her view when they reached the bottom of the stairs.
At irregular intervals along the wall, gaslight flickered in smoky glass sconces. Ritsuko could tell these tunnels were very old; the mortar had crumbled in places, so that crevices puffed out stale air from somewhere deeper in the earth. The stone itself was dry and clean but dark with age. She found no signs of vermin or the creatures she had feared while they descended that endless staircase. Mikani cocked his head, visibly drawn, and he moved off down the hall at a quickened pace, clever enough to keep his cane off the stone floor. She tried to step lightly, not allowing her boots to click, as Leonidas doubtless knew this warren like the back of his hand and could slip away if he heard them coming. As if he shared her fear, Mikani led her through breakneck turns, winding left and right, seemingly at random, but she was sure he’d sensed their target.
Up ahead, the dimness kindled with a faint glow that grew brighter, the closer they got. At last, they reached a chamber memorable only in its despair. The amenities might’ve been chosen by an ascetic seeking to do penance: a simple bed and a pile of books. A lavish velvet throw draped across the thin mattress comprised the only concession to comfort, but that was practicality as well, for as they’d gone down, the temperature dropped as well. Leonidas was sprawled against the headboard, reading, when they stepped in.
“Good evening, Mr. Leonidas. I’m Inspector Mikani, this is my partner, Ritsuko . . . and we have a few questions for you.”
The theater owner glanced up from his book, a weighty tome entitled Cults of Winter. The mass of scars that twisted his mouth into a grimace made his blossoming rage impressive to behold. “How in the blazing hells did you get in here?”
Ritsuko produced her notebook, and said politely, “We have a number of questions . . . somehow, you eluded an interview last time. It won’t take long.”
“You enter my private quarters uninvited, and you expect me to cooperate?” The Royale’s owner fumbled with cloak and mask, desperate to conceal his disfigurement. Only once he was covered did he look at Ritsuko directly, his eyes shaded. “Is there some reason you couldn’t make an appointment?”
“You’ve given us no reason to imagine you would keep it,” Mikani said coldly. “If a man hides in a burrow like an animal, one must presume he is guilty of something.”
She caught an unmistakable flinch and saw the moment when pain edged toward anger. If Mikani continued in this vein, Leonidas would become overtly hostile. So she said quickly, “If this isn’t a good time, sir, please direct us when to return.”
Beside her, Mikani huffed out an impatient breath. He preferred to charge at problems head-on, but sometimes it was best to use a more tactical approach. She noted that Leonidas didn’t care to dignify their inquiry with a moment of his time; and he was ferociously angry at the invasion of his privacy. It would require some finesse not to get banned from the theater entirely.
So she added, “Please, sir. We can’t cross you off our list until you’ve answered our questions.” That angle sometimes worked; people wanted the matter done and buried. Some criminals thought they were so much cleverer than the people paid to catch them.
Finally, Leonidas bit out, “Day after tomorrow, six in the evening.”
“We’ll show ourselves out.” Mikani set a brisk pace, retracing their steps. “Did you see how angry he was?”
She sighed. “Yes, but people who come from money expect to be handled with kid gloves. Tact’s . . . not your greatest strength. Did you learn something, at least?”
“One thing. You . . . disappeared when he was close by. That means, somehow, he erases the emotional echoes I normally pick up . . . but which were gone entirely from the device that killed our victim.”
“You’re saying he felt . . . dead? Empty? Like the machine.”
“Precisely. There’s . . . too much about him that doesn’t track. We should keep digging to see what surfaces.”
CHAPTER 8
“I WILL HAVE THEIR BADGES,” LEONIDAS SNARLED.
Since he was in the main part of the theater, he wore his full black regalia. It seemed excessive to Aurelia, as other men had been scarred without resorting to such measures. But she suspected his behavior was his method of dealing with heavy guilt for surviving where his parents had not. Possibly, he was also this vain, as before the accident, he had been a handsome man. There was no doubt that he’d suffered, however; burns were incredibly painful and slow to heal even with the aid of magic.
“You disappeared without permitting them to interview you the first time. Did you think they’d just let it go?” Aurelia puffed out a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.
Her genuine concern seemed to penetrate his anger. “I’m sorry. I just . . . they came upon me unaware. I wasn’t . . . ready for visitors.”
“Why don’t you simply tell them?” It wasn’t such a shameful thing, nor as uncommon as Leo wished to believe.
A low growl escaped him. “That I’m paying one of the dancers for companionship?”
“She can verify that you’ve been here, all night long, for the past month. And I can vouch for your days. Which means you’ve nothing to do with any missing girl.”
“No, it only means I’m a monster.”
Aurelia gave him an exasperated stare, wishing he would dispense with the affectation of cowl and mask, at least in her presence. But he wouldn’t during the day. They had been friends for a long time, and he’d stood by her after she made the decision to step outside the parameters of her life as a House scion. So she was trying to help him now; unfortunately, he was stubborn and difficult.
“Other men keep mistresses.”
“Because they choose to, not because they can’t attract women on their own.”
“You don’t know you can’t,” she pointed out. “You haven’t tried.”
“Enough of this. I’m not going to the CID.”
“So your pride is more important than clearing yourself of a crime?” She shook her head. “If you don’t come forward with the information, Leo, I will. I thought the show was a good idea . . . that you’d rejoin the world a bit, but so far—”
“I’ve let you down.”
“Stop already. Please. I have to get back to rehearsal now.”
For a little while, she lost herself in the music, watching the dancers execute their steps with more precision today. It had been long enough for them to forget the excitement of the CID visit, and they were performing beautifully. Now and then, she corrected someone’s form or demonstrated the proper step. The drills continued for two more hours, and by the end, she was as tired as her troupe. Such tireless preparation would be rewarded with the first standing ovation and when the newssheets printed what a phenomenal production she’d staged.
“Much better today,” she called. “That’s all.”
One dancer lingered—Elaine Day, who would creep downstairs to find Leonidas once the others left. Aurelia raised a brow, knowing the girl harbored the wrong ideas about the long-standing friendship between Leonidas and her. “What’s troubling you?”
“I was just thinking. Shouldn’t I play a
larger role in the finale?”
Really, Leo? This one? She didn’t begrudge him the companionship, but it seemed to Aurelia he could’ve done better, chosen a less grasping female to share his bed. Outwardly, she didn’t give any sign of her thoughts.
“On what grounds? Your skills are adequate, not exceptional. Not star material.”
“That’s not what Leonidas says,” the girl said nastily.
A few other performers hovered, drinking in the conflict. She had to nip this in the bud. “He isn’t the director of this show, either. If you can’t play your part as requested, I’ll find someone who can. Do you understand, Miss Day?”
“I understand perfectly.” Her mutinous expression said she believed Aurelia was jealous of her youth, beauty, talent, and her relationship with Leonidas.
“Then you shouldn’t keep your patron waiting.”
Once the girl flounced away, presumably to seek out Leo and fill his ears with venom, Aurelia muttered, “I wouldn’t mind if she fell down a dark hole.”
“That was unpleasant.” A man stepped out of the wings, a member of the technical crew, she thought.
She’d seen him before; he was tall and slender, with dusky skin and dark hair, not handsome, but he worked hard. Come to think of it, he was always the last to leave, always tidying up and putting things away. Mr. Gideon, she remembered. Lighting.
In silence, they negotiated the wings, passing through grotesque shadows thrown by milliner’s dummies half-costumed for the show, metal stage hooks and dangling pulleys, sandbags and piles of newspaper from forgotten reviews.
In parting, she said, “One of the hazards of the business. Have a good evening.”
“I’m leaving as well.” He fell into step with her as they moved toward the exit, and she wondered with a touch of cynicism what favor he meant to ask.
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