I shook myself, trying to keep any mental images from forming. “He had your personal number.” My voice when I spoke to Aaban sounded far too loud in the sudden silence. Even the sidhe prisoner didn’t move. Scarcely dared to breathe.
Aaban closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his eyes were once again the glittering flames of before. “I was trying to get him to join Scoria Security.”
That made me pause. “You were trying to hire a baobhan sidhe? How exactly does that fit in with your vision of a military company that cares? A company that doesn’t use bad people to get the job done?”
“Don’t presume to judge me.” Aaban inclined his head at the phone. “A baobhan sidhe can get information from someone with less violence than conventional methods. Hard as it may seem for you to believe, I do not enjoy violence.”
He was right, I didn’t believe that. And it horrified a part of me that Aaban did. I was beginning to agree with Ian’s warning that Aaban was in denial about his own capabilities. His own nature.
“Did he happen to mention that their gift for seeing memories is an art, not a science?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Charbel asked.
“I mean they can’t just search for the memories they’re looking for like someone choosing a book off a shelf. It’s more like looking for the perfect mango, picking them up one by one, feeling them, smelling them, trying to guess if it’s the right one. They could get lucky and find one quickly, or they could squeeze hundreds of mangoes before they find what they’re looking for.”
The ifrits narrowed their eyes, obviously trying to follow my less than perfect analogy.
I waved a hand in frustration. “I’m saying they may have to draw a lot of blood, over a long period of time, and there’s no guarantee they’ll find what they’re looking for in the end anyway. The longer their victim has lived, the more memories they have, the longer it could take. Not to mention there are way to train your mind to bury memories.”
“I don’t need to justify my business decisions to you,” Aaban said, his voice tight. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing besides offer Ian Walsh competition he doesn’t want.”
His fey prisoner snorted and shook his head. Aaban’s face darkened and he jammed the gun against the sidhe’s ear, splitting the skin. Blood trickled down the side of the sidhe’s face and he gritted his teeth.
Charbel stared at me. “You really think Aaban did it.”
Aaban stiffened, but I spoke up before he could. “I spoke to a witch today, a witch who saw Stasya leave that night.” I kept my eyes on Charbel, hoping I could get through to him. “She saw Stasya leave with Aaban. She said he looked angry.”
“I was nowhere near that club that night,” Aaban snapped.
“He was here with me,” Charbel said calmly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you how easy it would be for Ian Walsh to put on my brother’s face. Tell me, do any of our witnesses to this person who looked like my brother have the senses to see or smell through glamour? A shifter, or the like?”
Frustration tightened my jaw. He wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t as if I was going to point out that Liam had been in no shape for us to walk around the club looking for confirmation. Dammit, I’d have to go back myself. Maybe Kendrick could point me toward another witness. “No,” I admitted. I lifted my chin. “But I spoke to a wizard, and he claimed Stasya had threatened to leave Scoria Security. And that particular piece of information was seconded. By Ian Walsh.”
“Stasya was ill-tempered when she was frustrated,” Aaban said, waving off the suggestion. “She never would have left.”
“But according to Ian Walsh, she did,” Liam interjected. “According to him, she not only left Scoria, she joined Underhill.”
Charbel stiffened. “What?”
Aaban tightened his grip on his prisoner, and the sidhe clenched his teeth. “Ian Walsh said Stasya joined Underhill. He said those exact words?”
“He did.” I studied Aaban’s face, trying to read his expression. Demons weren’t easy to read at the best of times, but Aaban was so agitated it was impossible to tell what was drawing those deep lines around his mouth and eyes.
“Stasya would never join Underhill,” Charbel said, his voice vehement. “Never.”
“Stasya was loyal,” Aaban snarled. He shook his prisoner again, and the sidhe winced as a piece of iron fell out of his hair and tumbled down his face, perilously close to his eye. “Which is more than I can say for this breed.”
Aaban was so angry. It was hard to tell what emotions he might have been feeling beyond that. I cursed to myself and wished we’d been able to catch Charbel alone.
“You didn’t know about Stasya’s death before you came to Arianne’s hotel,” Charbel said slowly. “What else have you learned?”
“I can’t—”
The sidhe screamed. I jerked my attention to Aaban and noticed his fingers were glowing where they touched his prisoner. My skin crawled, and I tried to block out the sizzle of flame against skin, the stomach turning image that hovered in my mind.
“Stop it,” I said.
“Tell me,” Charbel insisted evenly. “It will only get worse from here.” Charbel took a step closer to Liam, his intention clear. He met my eyes, waiting.
“Roger Temple is in the hospital,” I said quietly. “I believe he witnessed Stasya’s murder, and whoever killed him put a binding on him to keep him from telling anyone. He tried to tell me, and now he’s in a coma fighting for his life. I have to find the person who put the binding on him, or he’ll die.”
It wasn’t information they couldn’t have gotten on their own once they realized Roger was missing, but I still hated telling them. Bullies should never be rewarded.
“You’re telling me Roger knows who killed Stasya and could clear my name, but he can’t because someone has bound him?”
Aaban’s voice had dropped to a dangerously low tone, and I could almost hear the crackle of flame in his voice.
“I will find out who’s responsib—” I started.
“No.” Aaban shook his head. “I will find out.”
“That would be a mistake,” Liam said evenly. “Any attempt on your part to clear your name would only make you look more guilty.”
“I will have my answers.” Aaban put his hand on the sidhe again. “Swear to me you will abandon this case, Ms. Renard, and I will let all of you go.” He nodded at his prisoner. “You can get him the healing he needs.”
I shook my head, my stomach rolling as I watched the sidhe’s face tighten, waiting for more pain. “I can’t walk away from this investigation.”
“Why?” Aaban met my eyes and held them, pinning me in place.
A hard rock of dread settled in my stomach. I couldn’t tell him about Flint. If he learned I had a sidhe master, someone who could control every action I took, there would be no convincing him that I wasn’t working for Ian. That I wasn’t trying to frame him. He’d kill us all.
“Get out,” Aaban snapped. “I will keep the sidhe. You can stop his suffering anytime with a simple promise to walk away.”
I closed my hands into fists. I noticed that Aaban wasn’t feeling quite so brave as to try and keep Liam. Not willing to risk interfering with a police officer. “What do you care if I’m working this case? Are you so afraid of the truth?”
Aaban’s eyes hardened. “I don’t believe you’re capable of the truth. And I believe Arianne when she says your presence brings nothing but trouble. Why do you insist on meddling in affairs that don’t concern you?”
“Brother, it is obvious that Ms. Renard has no intention of taking your advice.” Charbel took a step forward, drawing his brother’s attention. “I would suggest a different tactic.” He turned to face me, angling his body so his back was to his brother. “Ms. Renard, it must be apparent to you that the baobhan sidhe who killed Stasya did not do so for his own satisfaction. He is Ian’s pawn.”
His voice tightened on Stasya’s name, but beyond that, there was no e
motion in his voice now. I nodded. “I believe Nathan acted on someone else’s orders.”
Charbel nodded. “Then find out whose orders they were.”
“Charbel,” Aaban objected, his voice hot. “We don’t need her help. She is clearly working for the sidhe. She’ll pin Stasya’s murder on us, Charbel.”
“You are innocent, Aaban. And I believe Ms. Renard will prove it.” Charbel looked at Aaban, and his face was serious. “If Walsh is framing you, then we will not prove your innocence alone. He would have known we would seek to clear your name when he first began plotting to frame us. He will be prepared, he will have measures in place.” He looked at me. “But he will not have been prepared for you. He could not have predicted your involvement, and so perhaps you can find the truth.”
“We can beat him,” Aaban insisted, biting out the words past clenched teeth.
“Not when he has the vampire’s support,” Charbel said shortly. “The vampire considers severing his alliances as seriously as he considers forming them. He has worked with Underhill for decades. Do you truly think we have a hope of convincing him that it was his pet sidhe rather than two ambitious demons who threatened his plans?” He shook his head. “He does not trust us.”
My heart seized in my chest. The vampire. He meant Anton.
Charbel met my eyes then, and for what felt like an eternity, I waited for him to say something. Did he know I’d talked to Anton about this case? Did he know I’d worked for him before? A lump rose in my throat, keeping me from swallowing. If he knew about either and he commented on it now, in front of Liam, then whatever trust I’d built with the alpha would be gone. I had to be the one to tell him. I had to find the right time to tell him.
Charbel glanced at Liam, then back to me, so quick I didn’t think the werewolf noticed. But it was enough to get his point across. He knew I didn’t want Liam to know about the work I’d done for Anton.
“Clear my brother’s name, Ms. Renard,” Charbel said quietly. “He has worked hard to build trust between our company and Mr. Temple, and Mr. Winters. And I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to rebuild trust once it’s broken.”
That sounded a lot like a threat. I bristled, but kept my lips pressed together.
“We’ll find more evidence,” Liam promised. “And we’ll be back.”
I didn’t realize he’d moved until he took my arm, pulled me gently toward the door. Aaban’s jaw tightened as we left, his grip on the gun constricting as if resisting the urge to swing the barrel away from the sidhe and make us his new targets.
When we got to the door, I stopped, planting my feet and staring at Charbel. “We can’t leave without him.” I nodded to the sidhe.
Aaban’s eyes widened. “She admits it! He’s her confederate!”
“He is not,” I said, loud enough to hear over my pounding heart. I stared at Charbel, hoping there was one demon in the room I could reason with. “You’ve obviously researched me. Tell your brother whether I would leave even an enemy behind when I knew…” I paused, shook my head.
“She would not,” Charbel agreed, his voice soft, considering. “But just as I know you don’t want to leave without him, so you know we can’t let him go. Walsh is already moving against us, setting up his lies. If we let this man go, he will report back to his master, and Walsh will move faster. We need time to protect ourselves, time to prove he’s lying. We will hold him and try to make him tell the truth.” Charbel stepped closer to me, meeting my eyes. “Find the truth, Mother Renard.”
“I can’t leave him behind knowing you’ll hurt him,” I said quietly. “Turn him in to the Vanguard. Or let me take charge of him. I can lock him up.”
“He’s done nothing to merit the Vanguard’s interference, and you could not hold him prisoner,” Charbel chastised me. “Go and find your proof. Go.”
I lifted my chin, but whatever I’d been about to say died on my tongue as the color bled from Charbel’s face. My lips parted as his feature softened, his flesh and blood turning to grains of sand, leaving him a perfect sand sculpture for a few seconds before his clothes fell away and his body gave up its form. I barely had time to register what was happening before all that sand hurled itself in my direction, a cloud of stinging, tiny grains.
I closed my eyes and hunched over, instinctively trying to protect myself as the concentrated sandstorm shoved against me, pushing me off balance. I heard a growl, and then someone lifted me off my feet, ran with me toward the door. The sidhe screamed behind us and I gripped Liam’s arms, not daring to open my mouth to shout, trying to signal to him to stop, not to leave the sidhe behind.
The door slammed behind us, and Liam stumbled a few steps before hitting his knees on the grass near the truck. He coughed and choked, putting me on the ground before turning to spit out grains of sand, his breath raspy as if he’d swallowed some already.
The sidhe’s screams didn’t subside. My skin crawled and I looked back at the isolated farmhouse, already getting to my feet, feeling the burn of magic as it rose, ready to go back inside.
“Don’t,” Liam gasped.
A second later he choked, bending over on the ground. I knelt to ask him what was wrong, then found myself doubling over as well as all the grains of sand that had managed to get in my mouth and nose were suddenly ripped out. The ifrit reconstituted himself from the grains of sand, calling them under the door without ever stepping outside.
I was lucky no sand had gotten in my eyes. Liam wasn’t.
I hissed when I saw the scratches over his irises, though they healed almost as quickly as his other small wounds like the blood clotting around his nose. I unzipped my waist pouch. “Bizbee, could I have a tissue?”
Another scream cut off the grig’s voice, and I flinched. Liam surged to his feet, grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward the truck. “We need to get out of here now. We can’t help him.”
I hated every step I took, and the sidhe’s screams echoed in my ears for a long time after I closed the door. I stared at the house until I couldn’t see it anymore.
A tiny hand touched my neck. Peasblossom.
She didn’t ask what happened. She’d probably heard it all. I closed my eyes and wiped away the tears I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.
I had a glimpse of a small concerned face shadowed by fuzz-tipped antennae, as the grig held out the tissue I’d asked for. Bizbee didn’t say anything either. I blew my nose, noting the traces of blood. Not too much, nothing that wouldn’t heal soon enough.
Liam’s phone rang as I leaned my forehead against my window, the warm glass cool against my overheated forehead. I didn’t even listen to Liam’s conversation. It took everything I had not to tell him to take me back.
“Vincent found something he says we need to see at Jeff’s house,” Liam said quietly.
I nodded. When I thought I could speak without my voice breaking, I turned to Liam. “Will it get easier?”
He considered the question. “A little,” he said finally.
“And if it doesn’t?”
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “If it doesn’t get any easier, then you’ll quit.”
I turned my eyes back to the window, staring at the scenery but only seeing the sidhe. The blood.
“No,” I said quietly. “I don’t think that’s how it goes.” I sat up and looked at Liam. “I think if it does get easier, then I’ll quit.”
Chapter 18
“Are we almost there?” Peasblossom looked behind her, side to side, then looked over the edge of the dashboard at the gearshift. “Where’s your GPS?”
“I’m not using one.” Liam’s voice was surprisingly calm for someone who’d been dealing with an endless stream of questions from an excited pixie for twenty minutes.
Peasblossom’s wings buzzed in annoyance behind her, then she stilled, as understanding dawned on her face. “You lost it.”
Liam didn’t take his eyes off the road. “No. I don’t need the GPS, because I know where the Monroe St.
Cemetery Foundation is, and Jeff’s house is right beside it.”
I spotted the address we were looking for on a crooked mailbox and pointed ahead. “That’s it.”
Liam nodded. “There’s Vincent’s car in the driveway.”
“How did he beat us here?” Peasblossom narrowed her eyes at Liam. “Maybe he used his GPS.”
Liam pulled into the driveway beside Vincent’s blue sedan, resolutely ignoring Peasblossom’s promise to get him a GPS for Winter Solstice. The house in front of us was small, and had given up its yard to nature. Ivy crawled over the roof and half the house, and the yard was more weeds than grass. It didn’t look like anyone had been home for weeks.
“Did he rent or own?” I asked, eyeing the fledgling forest where his lawn should be.
“Owned.” Liam knocked on the door and it swung open partway.
“In here,” Vincent called.
I paused to wipe my feet on the doormat before stepping inside. Jeff’s house was clean for a bachelor. Well, perhaps not so much clean as unused. The faded brown carpet was soft under my shoes, and there was no clutter on the floor, or the small coffee table in front of the dark green couch. I didn’t see a television, and the walls featured a couple store-bought paintings of forests, but not much else.
Vincent appeared at the end of the short hallway that led farther into the house. I caught a glimpse of a charcoal colored elbow patch on his grey tweed jacket as he gestured for me to follow him. “I think you’ll find this interesting.”
I followed him to a bedroom, also clean in that “hardly ever used” way. Vincent pointed to a pair of boots at the edge of the closet.
I frowned. “It’s a pair of beat up old boots.”
Vincent tapped the side of his nose with the hand not holding his staff. “Look at them again.”
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