by Carol A Park
“I find the third and fourth women interesting,” he said, startling her once again.
Burning skies, she was jumpy all of a sudden. “And why is that?”
He leaned over her to pull those two reports forward. “Because they have anomalies. The third was assaulted, and the fourth was apparently tortured.” He traced the relevant sections of the reports with his finger. “And then the perpetrator goes back to the more cut-and-dry approach.”
She turned to look up at him. “Cut and—was that supposed to be some sort of deranged joke?”
He just blinked at her.
“Never mind,” she muttered, and she turned back to the reports.
He, on the other hand, didn’t move. He was still hovering behind her, even closer since he had leaned over to point at the reports. Close enough that she could feel the brush of his shirt against her own as he breathed.
It would be nothing for him to catch her throat in the crook of an arm. Nothing for him to draw a dagger or produce a garrote.
If he were the murderer, it would be absurdly easy for him to strike again.
What was she thinking? Obviously, Elidor was a murderer—whether he had killed those women or not—and always had been.
Even so, his presence was making her neck prickle, an uncomfortable feeling she didn’t often have.
She might pay for it in his anger, but perhaps she could make him go away.
“How old were you when you became an orphan?” she asked.
“I don’t see what relevance that has to the task at hand.”
“No relevance. I’m just tired of you lurking behind me. It’s disconcerting, with a killer on the loose and all.” And a good excuse as to why she was so unusually jumpy.
Elidor made a soft noise in his throat. She wasn’t sure if it more resembled a grunt of amusement or annoyance. Either way, it accomplished her goal of getting him to move away from her.
Not, however, in getting him to leave. He moved over instead to the chair at a right angle from hers, though he didn’t sit down.
“Surely, by now you are confident that you could handle yourself against some common criminal,” Elidor said. “To meet such an end, after your training… How humiliating.”
“Yes. Humiliating. That’s exactly the word I would use.” She doubted he would catch the sarcasm. “Anyway, I hardly think whoever is behind this is some ‘common criminal.’” She held herself still and kept her face placid, avoiding anything that might suggest she was trying to assess his reaction to the latter comment.
The poke didn’t seem to disturb him. “Are you concerned that I would let anything happen to you while under my charge?”
“Elidor. That’s almost touching. I didn’t know you cared.”
“I care about the time and money I’ve invested in your training. What a waste their loss would be.”
Was that why he hadn’t murdered her? Because it would be wasteful? She could almost believe that would be the way his mind would work. Better to slake his thirst for the blood of Fereharian women on whores and beggars.
The idea of Elidor having to slake his thirst for anything almost made her laugh aloud. It was just so not him.
And in the end, everything came back to the same question: after almost five years of living with him, why would he do this now? It was a pressing question that punched the largest hole in her wavering theory, and it irritated her so much that she almost asked him.
Before she could do or say anything so foolhardy, she changed the subject. “In any event, I can examine all the details of these murders, and I still know nothing about the killer himself—other than, apparently, he likes Fereharian women and…beds.” She snorted. “And that could be said of a lot of men. I don’t know how I’m supposed to catch him on that.”
He didn’t respond, and she swept the papers in front of her into a pile and stood up. “If you have any revelations about the killer, I wouldn’t turn down hearing your thoughts,” she said. “Otherwise, I’m going to go occupy my mind with something else for a while.”
She had almost reached the door when he spoke.
“Five.”
She turned. “Pardon?”
“I was five when my parents died.”
She stared at him. She had never expected him to answer her question.
He tilted his head and looked back.
Not knowing what else to say or do, she inclined her head and left the dining room.
It was only after she had returned to her room, tossed the file on her cot, and plopped down next to it that a chilling thought occurred to her.
What if that had not been an answer to her original question, but a response to her later ruminations? Her need to know more about the killer?
Was he toying with her?
Her imagination?
She swallowed and glanced at her bedroom door, which was cracked.
She didn’t know, but she would find out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ivana didn’t have a chance to investigate her theory further because Elidor left for a job the morning after their discussion. She had been hoping to follow him if he left around the time another murder ought to occur; instead, she spent the rest of the week with the house to herself before she finally received the message that the murderer had struck again—or so they thought. She had a slip of paper with an address and the word “probable.” It had been exactly one week since the last body had been found.
She was pulling on her boots when another pair of boots, already on their owner’s feet, appeared in her vision.
“You’re home,” she said without looking up. She hadn’t heard him come in last night, but then again, that wasn’t unusual.
“I arrived late last night,” he said.
How convenient. The body was found in the fifth district, on the other side of the city. Had he stopped for a treat on the way home? There was no way of knowing.
She tucked her smaller dagger into the sheath secured to the lower part of her right calf, laced up her final boot, and stood up. “There’s another body,” she said. “I’m headed to meet the chief investigator at the scene.”
He stood aside so she could grab her fall cloak from the peg behind him. The weather had finally turned chilly enough that she needed more than long sleeves.
She turned to leave, but he was still standing there, so she paused. “Was there something you needed?”
“Be on your guard. Don’t give the Watch a reason to look into who you are.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Obviously.” She threw her cloak around her shoulders, nodded to him, and left.
If she had any doubt as to the house she needed to go to, it was washed away when she reached the corner of Fourth and Cedar in the fifth district. Two horses with saddles marked with the insignia of the Watch were tethered to a post outside the rowhouse, along with a carriage and its horses. The front door was open, and a small crowd of onlookers was being held back by two Watchmen, presumably the owners of the horses.
She approached the door, only to be stopped by one of the Watchmen.
“Sorry, Da, you can’t go in there right now.”
“I’m here to see Xathal,” she said. “My name is Ivana. Just tell him I’m here.”
The Watchman looked dubious, but he gestured to his partner and disappeared into the house.
While she waited for him to return, she glanced around the area. A man leaned against a building on the other side of the street, reading a newspaper. The top of the paper flipped down, and he met her eyes.
Llyr. He nodded, folded the newspaper, and strode away.
Making sure she showed, she supposed.
The Watchman returned. He jerked his head toward the door. “Up the stairs, to the left,” he said, and then he returned to his share of the crowd-control duties.
She entered the house and took his directions.
The first door to her left was guarded by another Watchman. Before she could open her mouth to speak, a g
ruff voice spoke from within the room. “Let her in.”
The Watchman made no move to stop her, and so she stepped into the murder scene.
It was almost surreal. She supposed this was what happened after some of their jobs—especially the higher-profile ones. But she was usually long gone before any real law enforcement showed up.
And here she stood, right in the middle of a crime scene, surrounded by them.
Well. Sort of. She shook her head and turned toward the only other person inside the room itself. The stark contrast of his light skin compared to anyone else she had encountered so far that day marked him as a Fuilynian; she assumed this was Xathal.
Xathal stood next to a double bed, his back partially toward her, and between his profile and the post of the bed, she couldn’t see much yet. He made no move to invite her farther in, so she took it upon herself to move to the other side of the bed.
She looked down at the body that lay there.
She expected a young, Fereharian woman with slit wrists. Instead, the body was a middle-aged Fereharian man.
His wrists weren’t slit.
He had no visible bruises.
Only one large, bloody stain on his shirt in the center of his chest.
That was unfortunate. If it were Elidor, why would he have changed tactics so drastically? Six Fereharian women, and now a Fereharian man, who wasn’t even killed the same way? Perhaps she had been too hasty.
Xathal shoved his hands into his vest pockets and looked up at her from under the rim of a round felt hat. He studied her face for a moment, and then his eyes made one critical sweep over her before returning to her face. Whatever his first impression of her was, it was hidden behind a perfectly impassive expression.
“Da Ivana, I presume,” he said.
She inclined her head. “Ruios Xathal.”
He directed his attention back toward the body. “Initial thoughts?”
Straight to the point then.
“He’s not a woman,” was what came out first, only because she was still surprised. “And his wrists aren’t slit.”
He remained silent, no doubt waiting for more, since that much was obvious.
Ivana leaned over the body to pull back the hole in the shirt. The wound was smooth and clean. She had seen many of the same. “He was stabbed with a sharp blade,” she said.
“That was my conclusion as well.”
She let the flap of the shirt fall back into place and rolled the body onto its side to look at the back. The stab wound didn’t go all the way through. “No other signs of violence?” she asked, letting the body roll back.
“None.”
“This doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“Correct.”
“So what makes you think this is connected to the other murders?”
Xathal gestured toward the body and the bed. “It’s been about a week, he is Fereharian, and he was killed elsewhere and then put in bed. Even though this one is a man, at this point, I don’t want to overlook anything.” His lips tightened. “They’ve already overlooked far too many.”
“The first three?” she asked, thinking of the boarder, the beggar, and the whore.
“The first six,” Xathal replied.
“There were only three in the file before the merchant’s daughter—at least the file I received.”
“That’s because only this morning was I made aware that in fact there were three more murders prior to that first one—the one the Watch initially ruled a suicide—that might also be related.”
“Slit wrists? Found on a bed?”
“No. Two were strangled, one had taken a vicious blow to the head. Two more beggars and another whore. They were left on the streets, presumably where the killer found them.”
“Other injuries?”
“The first two had bruising, likely where they were grabbed, but nothing like the third victim from the report you have.”
“Timing?”
“They didn’t find the bodies as quickly as the latter murders, but the medical examiner placed the times of death close enough to a week apart that we can suspect they are related.”
She considered that. “Then since there is no other commonality, they must have been Fereharian women.”
“Yes, all three. The change in method is strange, but once the second woman was found dead, it should have raised eyebrows. The third?”
“No one cared,” she said. She already knew why.
He gave her an acknowledging nod. “They might as well have been scum on the bottom of your shoe. An afterthought. A more than two-month afterthought. And the last two before him”—he gestured toward the dead man again—“would have been quickly buried in the files of unsolved murders, were it not that someone of value was killed in the interim.”
The vehemence with which Xathal spoke surprised her, given his initial rigidity.
She regarded the man more closely. His face was beginning to show its age. The skin was crinkled, and the sun had shone one too many times on his pale face. His salt-and-pepper hair fell to right below his chin, curled under at the edges, but it was dry and brittle-looking. His frame was fit, but his hands were wrinkled. She would put him late sixties, perhaps older, if he bore his age well. Probably called out of retirement.
“And why you, Ruios?” she asked. “What did you do to deserve the title ‘Ruios’ and be sent our way?”
He rubbed at his eyes, and both the stiffness and passion fell away to reveal a man who merely looked tired. “I once hunted and found another killer, some twenty-five years ago, up in Fuilyn. He was popularly known as The Painter because of the way he would use the victim’s own blood to paint landscapes on their bodies.” He removed his hat, ran one hand through his hair, and then set it back on his head again. “I suppose they thought I was the only living ‘expert’ on this sort of criminal.” He snorted, as if doubting his own words, and then his eyes raked critically over her once again. “The more mysterious question, Da, is why you?”
She was reminded of Elidor’s warning. Had he heard of Xathal—or The Painter—before? The events Xathal spoke of had taken place before she had been born, but Elidor may have already been in the service of the government then.
Before, Xathal’s face had been impassive; now, his eyes were narrowed in thought. He was no doubt noting that she was a woman, Fereharian, and far too young to be a “special investigator,” in his opinion.
He could have once added “orphan,” “beggar,” and “whore” to his list of attributes.
Given his earlier speech, he might have been the only person to care had she gone missing after Elidor had taken her in.
She crafted her response carefully. “Because I could have been one of those women at one point in my life, Ruios, before I was resurrected into something else entirely. And I will see justice done.” She raised her eyes to meet his own. “For all of them,” she added.
It was in no way an answer to his question; instead, it was a mix of truth and smooth words that contained exactly what he needed to hear so that he would never question who she was and why she was here again. All he needed to believe was that she was a kindred spirit.
He held her eyes for a moment, probing, and then nodded, seeming satisfied. “Well then,” he said. “Have you any other thoughts?”
This murder was a wide departure from the others in several key ways, which gave her pause. “It seems so strange that this victim is a man. Why the change? Could it be unrelated?”
“I’m not ruling the possibility out,” Xathal said. “But let’s work under the assumption that it’s connected for now.” His eyes were on her again. “After all, does it matter in this moment? A man is dead, we’re here to investigate a murder, therefore, we will do so.”
She checked herself. She couldn’t seem apathetic about the corpse lying on the bed in front of her. Xathal seemed a no-nonsense type, but he also didn’t seem the sort who would take in stride that his colleague in this investigation was a killer herself
.
Whether she was right about Elidor or not, she needed clues as to why the killer was picking the targets he was. She needed to be able to predict his next target—or perhaps goad him into choosing someone in particular—so she could trap him there.
The fact that this was not a Fereharian woman complicated matters, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn about the killer from it.
“Very well,” she said. “Where did the murder occur?”
Xathal gestured around the room. “Why don’t you tell me? I’m interested to hear what you conclude without my bias coloring your search.”
She gave him a curt nod and did a circuit of the bedroom. It wasn’t large, but there was no pool of blood in the room, which should have been there due to the manner of his death.
There was, however, a smear of blood on the wood floor leading into the room.
Without saying a word to Xathal, she followed the trail of blood out of the room. It went past the Watchman on duty, continued down the hallway in the direction opposite that which she had come, and into the next room over, which looked to be a sitting room or study.
A desk was pushed into the corner, its chair askew and a window ajar next to it. She walked to the desk.
There was the blood she was looking for, in between the chair and the window. A dark crusty stain on the lighter floorboards, some already dry, some still congealed where it had ceased soaking in. Had the victim been sitting at the desk when the killer had struck from behind?
But the wound was on the front of the man; inflicting it from behind would have been awkward and inefficient. Why not strangle him? The killer had apparently done that twice before.
No, the killer more likely had been facing him.
She glanced around the room, searching for all possible points of entry. There were only two: the door she had entered through and the window she had already noted. The window seemed the most obvious, but was it ajar because the man had wanted fresh air, because the killer had entered through the window, or because the killer had left through the window? Or some combination thereof?
