Chapter 19

Though I cannot prove my hypothesis in a scientifically satisfying way, I still insist that the goddess Fate is an absolute bitch.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Quiet

Islept soundly in Rorick's arms for a few hours. He was warm and well-fed, so I had no trouble slipping out from beside him. I prepared myself some food, pleased that I could cast an even larger fire in the grate without a single protest from the castle. I baked bread and boiled stock for vegetable stew, and the walls didn't rumble once.

When I headed out into the hall, not only was the smell better, the dead limbs of the giant coffin-dweller had shriveled into piles of soot. More ash flaked off the walls and rained from the vaulted ceiling above. The gaslights burned brighter. I didn't even need the assistance of my lightning beetles. Gilbert was able to continue to get the rest he needed in my void.

I caught movement in the corner of my eye, and I peered over the banister, but nothing looked immediately amiss.

And then I recalled that something should be amiss. I should have been looking at a massacre of troll rats and the werewolf who'd battled them. But there was nothing, just varnished floors with a few new dents and scratches.

"Hello?" I called down, sensing I wasn't alone in the castle, and I readied my wand.

Detective Sheridan walked into view, coming to stand at the bottom of the stairs. The change in him was so subtle, I didn't immediately notice the wrong hair color or the awkward way he carried himself, hunching his back slightly.

"It's you again," I said to the corpse-eater, lowering my wand. I'd told her she could come back, but then it hit me like a train. Her reappearance meant there was a way inside the castle—which meant there was a way out now too!

"Please," I called down, "now that you've had a chance to eat, would you show me how you got inside here?"

The corpse-eater opened her mouth unusually wide and chittered at me.

* * *

When the rot had turned to ash, the opening between the sitting room doors had grown larger. Best I could tell, the corpse-eater had climbed up to the balcony and knocked them open wide, letting herself in.

Now I was finally able to stand in the sitting room with my sisters. The corpse-eater stood off to the side, her face still similar to Sheridan's but she had her forelegs out now, holding up her weight.

"That's enough, I think," I told Prim, who hadn't stopped hugging me since they'd flown up from the courtyard on their artefacts.

"Mm not yet," she said, squeezing me tighter, her head resting on my shoulder. "I'm just so glad you're all right!"

Astor chuckled. I felt safer already having her inside and nearby.

"I'm just glad I can stop sleeping on the ground," Goose groaned. She'd taken on the appearance of a crone with a shock of gray hair. "My old bones couldn't stand it much longer."

The corpse-eater called to us, making a crackling sound.

Prim finally released me. "Could you please repeat that?" she asked the shifter politely.

The corpse-eater shook her head. Her face went bone white, and her mouth elongated into pincers. She chittered more loudly.

"I see," Prim said. "She would like to know where the bodies are that she's been promised. I assume you know which she's referring to?"

I did. I led the way out of the sitting room, down the hall and around the bend, past the blackened paintings to the first floor. Alex and Penance remained in their eternal peace, ensconced in the magical silk of scar-weaver spiders, laid out on a table in the dining room.

The floor was covered in ash. We left footprints in our wake as we entered, but most of the rot had dissipated. I pulled my wand from the void and cut open the silk using the dagger end, separating the two deceased lovers.

The shifter padded in closer, pincers flexing. She considered both corpses for a moment, black eyes big and glossy in her skull-like face, before letting out a hoarse warbling sound.

"Oh?" Prim said. "According to our corpse-eater friend here, she can't take these bodies back to her nest."

"Why's that?" I asked, looking between Prim and the corpse-eater.

The shifter let out another chitter, and a noise like crackling paper reverberated out of her throat.

Prim nodded her understanding. "She says there's too much darkness in the both of them. If she fed them to her children, her children would become ichors."

Another hoarse warbling came out of the shifter, and her pincers flexed.

"There are plenty of dead down below the ballroom," I told her, pushing away the image in my head of the floating bodies.

The corpse-eater clicked her pincers together.

"She'll help herself to them," Prim interpreted.

"That's it, then?" I asked.

The shifter let herself out through the side doors, and as I watched her retreating back, it occurred to me just how frustrating it was that we only had three days left and I still didn't know who'd murdered Alex or Penance. I'd never succeeded in finding Alex's Last Breath, because despite searching in places where I thought he might be most comfortable—

It came to me then. How stupid was I? Why hadn't I seen it sooner? I rushed to the table and began pulling up bits of the sturdy silk, exposing Alex's shirt.

"What's the problem?" Astor asked.

"Don't ask questions," Goose griped. "See that look in her eye? Our girl is on to something. Just help."

We unwound the top half of Alex's body from the webbing. Opening his shirt, I felt inside with my hand but found nothing. My sisters helped me roll him onto his side, and I pulled his arm out of his sleeve. His skin was mottled and pale.

And there he was. Fixed between his shoulder blades was Alex's face, his Last Breath. The thing he cared about most, the place he felt comfortable—it had always been with himself, watching his own back.

"Alexander Harker," I said gently.

The eyes opened. After a few rapid blinks, his mouth gaped and he began to wail. And then Alex was choking and gagging. Tears filled his eyes.

"Oh dear," Prim said.

Astor covered her ears.

"Shut his potato trap," Goose demanded.

"Tell us who poisoned you!" I shouted, but Alex carried on. He continued to sob, a spirit lost to his anguish.

Out of options, I readied my wand.

"He's not going to stop," Goose said, hands pressed over her ears.

I absorbed the Last Breath enchantment back into my wand. Alex's wailing and choking ended as his face vanished from his back, turning into an ethereal black mist that filtered inside the sharpened tip of my dagger-wand.

"Another dead end," I said, grinding my teeth, and I shoved my wand back into my pocket. "I had high hopes that he'd be able to identify the poisoner."

"I'm sorry," Prim said. She gave my arm an affectionate squeeze. Then she pulled out the leatherbound journal that had belonged to Penance. She handed it over. "Astor and Goose read it . . . I couldn't. I've decided I'd like to remember the Penance I loved rather than whoever these pages revealed her to be."

"I understand." I accepted it from her. A part of me wished not reading it at all had been an option in my case.

But it wasn't. Penance wasn't Penance anymore.

I had something to give Prim in return. I removed my hat and fished inside it. "Her wand," I said, holding the necklace out to her. "I think you should keep it, Prim."

Her kind brown eyes brimmed with tears, and I had to look away from her before mine did the same.

After that, we ventured upstairs to recruit help from the parchment lizard who called the library home, because Rorick wasn't awake to guide us with his knowledge of the castle. Prim praised him for being exceptional. After preening about amongst his collection of half-eaten books, he shifted back into the map without a fuss.

I showed them the warding near the master bedroom, a second place of interest to me. The first was the location of Alexander's laboratory. It was while we were searching the blueprints that night fell and Rorick came to join us.

He surprised me, leaning in the doorway, silently watching us fuss over the map.

I jumped at the sight of him. "I really should have put a bell on you."

He had his hands tucked deep in his pockets. His lavender eyes glittered under the brighter gaslights. We smiled at each other for so long Astor began to bellyache about it. Prim looked between the two of us and smirked.

Goose hobbled over to the settee. "I'm too old for this nonsense. I need a nap."

"You had a nap not two hours ago," Prim scoffed.

"And you're technically the youngest person in the room," I reminded Goose.

Goose showed us her middle finger affectionately, then she pulled the throw over her wrinkled body and closed her eyes.

Prim glanced at Rorick and grinned at me knowingly. "Astor and I are going to take Penance's wand and see about the warding at the master bedroom. Why don't the two of you have a look in the laboratory you're so interested in? See what's there to see."

Grasping at hope while time continued to run out through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, I agreed with her. "Between the lot of us, we're sure to find something of import."

* * *

The door that led to the laboratory crumpled to dust the moment Rorick put the slightest bit of pressure on it. I stepped over the ashy pile and began examining shelves of equipment for anything of interest.

"I don't even know what I'm looking at in here," he said. "Why don't you let me borrow your journal? I want to read over your findings."

I fished it out for him and handed it over. That was usually how things worked between us. I got down the details, Rorick reviewed them, and then he put the final puzzle pieces together. I knew he was as frustrated as I was that we still hadn't succeeded in doing just that. But it felt like we were still missing parts of the picture. Important ones.

The lab was clean like the rest of the house, evidence of an attentive staff—staff I tried not to picture floating down below us in the old cistern. Rorick leaned against a wall, flipping through journal pages.

He chuckled. "You listed the castle as one of the suspects."

"It's so haunted it crossed my mind for a while." I slipped on a pair of gloves from my void and scanned the shelves. I found books of no interest, records that hadn't been kept up to date, and old instruments that looked as though they hadn't been used in a while.

I sensed it the moment I discovered where the fairy bone dust was kept. The cabinet was covered in the ash left behind by the dying darkness. Fairy bone dust was such a volatile substance it pulsated with an energy that had me backing away from the locked cabinet. I bumped into the table behind me, knocking a book onto the floor.

Rorick stooped to pick it up for me.

"Wait!" I halted him just in time.

The book was familiar to me, since I'd authored it: A Witch's Guide to the Arcane. But that wasn't all I recognized. A ribbon bookmarked the back section where I'd listed out a useful guide to poisons and herbs and safe and unsafe dosages alongside a sizing chart. There was a fine egg-white powder at the book's corner. More of it dusted the binding.

"Thank Fate you didn't touch that, Rorick," I said, covering my mouth with my cloak. "That looks like concentrated blood honey. In its powdered form, it's highly toxic. You could absorb it into the skin, and even a vampire wouldn't be safe from a malady of the mind. And certain death."

I made Rorick hold a handkerchief over his mouth to prevent accidentally breathing in any particles that had stirred into the air when it fell. I lifted the book very carefully in my gloved hands, examining the edges and the powder. It had the color, granular consistency, and the stickiness of blood honey. It clung to the book.

Using my free hand, I concealed my mouth and nose with a corner of my cloak. Carefully, I set the book down on the counter and flipped open the page.

Property of Primrose.

Rorick leaned in to read over my shoulder, and I had the uncanny urge to close the book in his face, but I knew he'd already seen it.

"That doesn't mean anything," I insisted.

"I didn't suggest otherwise."

"You didn't have to," I grumbled, my words muffled by the wool of my cloak. He was shouting his thoughts at me with his violet eyes. I'd worked with him for far too long. I could hear him lecturing me about setting aside personal preferences. A good investigator didn't ignore suspects just because of the way they felt about them.

"It's possible she leant her copy to Penance," Rorick said without conviction, "and it was Penance who left it here."

"Even if sweet Prim were actually capable of murdering anyone, she's not stupid enough to leave her own book lying around as evidence," I said hotly.

Rorick shrugged his shoulders in the most aggravating manner. "Perhaps a malady of the mind caused her to be forgetful."

"She'd be dead!" I snapped.

"Would she, though? Is there truly no way a clever witch could have preserved herself?"

"I . . . I don't know," I confessed, and I wanted to throw the book at him. How dare he make a good point right now. If it hadn't been covered in poison, I might have flung it. I closed the cover, tired of Prim's name glaring up at me.

Because now my mind was spinning a story. The only rational reason Prim would hurt anyone was to save someone she loved. Could I imagine her poisoning Alex if she thought that might protect Penance from him somehow? Sadly, I nearly could. Had she been checking the dosages because death wasn't her intention at all?

What if Penance had been an accident? What if Alex had been the target all along?

"It doesn't matter," Rorick said, pulling me from my thoughts. When he had my eyes, he continued, "Even if we discovered that Prim or some other witch was responsible, I wouldn't let it hurt you or your coven."

"What are you saying?" I squinted at him, trying to see the truth between his words.

"I'm saying, if this investigation takes a turn, we turn with it. If we have to, we lie to Chief Warren."

My heart jumped in my chest. This man who cared so much for law and order would lie for me? For a coven of ill repute that had been nothing but unkind to him? "Rorick . . ." I didn't know what to say.

"You're my partner," he said firmly. "What's important to you is important to me."

"I know, but—"

"What's that on the corner there?" Rorick pointed to the spot where the blood honey collected thickest.

"Fingerprint!" I shouted. "I'd need two days to compare this print to the ones on the bottle of sweet wine used in the murders. I still have it safe in my void. Rorick, I think we're looking at the poison and the fingerprint of the poisoner."

Dropping my cloak, I wrapped the book carefully in wax paper taken from my void, then I slid the evidence down into my hat for safekeeping.

Rorick lowered his kerchief. "We're not trapped in the castle. We could go to your lab now."

I sighed. "There's just one issue. If the poisoner touched the blood honey . . . they might well be dead—or very near it—and if I spend all my time looking at fingerprints with no clear suspect to compare it to, what good is that?"

"It's still something," he said encouragingly. "A solid lead."

The tiny lock in the cabinet looked familiar to me. I borrowed Rorick's ring, pushing the top of the signet until the small key popped out. It fit, and I unlocked it, covering my mouth and nose with my cloak again, just in case, before I opened it.

The fairy bone dust was kept in a heavily warded metal container beside dried herbs, pickled jars of alchemy ingredients, a mortar and pestle, and a glass container I recognized because it was one of mine. It was the jar of concentrated blood honey I'd given to Penance simply because she'd asked me for it. It was still labeled in my tight and small handwriting. Whoever had used it last had been hasty. They'd made a mess of the sticky powder around the jar. Then I closed the cabinet and lowered my cloak.

Rorick continued to peruse my journal while I paced about the laboratory, stewing unhelpfully. The ruffling of pages stopped suddenly. I peered at Rorick.

"You never mentioned about the detective's smell," he said, holding his place between the pages with a finger.

It took me a moment to remember what he was referring to. "Yes, the werewolf. He said a detective was suspicious of Alex after the children went missing. He couldn't describe him very well save for a smell."

"Inspector Sheridan stinks like he has a malady of the blood," he said. "He smells like he's dying. I noticed it when he met us here at the castle."

My eyes went wide. "The inspector is sick," I said, checking off the facts as we knew them on my fingers, "he knew about the missing children, he inserted himself into the investigation, and he has that crescent shape on his wrist like the werewolf had. I think we need to speak with Sheridan right away."

* * *

Rorick and I stood out on the balcony of the east wing sitting room. Winter wind whipped through my cloak and skirts as I readied my enchanted traveling artefact.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Rorick said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"How else are we going to make it to police headquarters before Inspector Sheridan leaves for the night?" I reminded him. "It's already rather late. Come on now, chicken-heart," I teased him.

I helped him make himself comfortable on the bike seat, tucking the artefact between his legs. Lightning beetles warmed me overhead.

"I hate heights," he grumbled.

"I'm not going to let you fall," I promised him, straddling the staff piece and gripping it with both hands. "Now, hold on to me."

Rorick's hands came around my body, slipping inside my cloak to cup my breasts over my bodice.

His brazenness knocked a chuckle out of me. "That's not what I had in mind when I suggested you ‘hold on.'"

"Your beautiful breasts are distracting me from thinking about my inevitable fall to my next death."

"Well, then, who am I to argue with that?" I kicked off the ground.

As the artefact lifted us into the air, his hands dropped to my stomach. He held me so tight I could hardly breathe, squeezing me to his chest and against his thighs.

"Slowly," he panted.

"We are going slowly," I told him, my smile in my voice. "Rorick, dear, you may not need to breathe, but I do," I reminded him, patting the steel-like embrace around my belly.

He allowed me a few more seconds of air, and then his grip turned into a vice again. For the most part, we did travel slowly. At least in terms of my usual speed. We arrived at police headquarters wind-whipped, much sooner than we would have on horseback.

Rorick was looking a little green as we landed.

"It takes a moment to get the blood flowing back into your legs," I cautioned.

But his legs seemed fine. It was his stomach I was worried about. He looked queasy as we found our footing on the stoop of headquarters, a brownstone building still referred to as the Salt and Iron Company by aged individuals like myself. A habit from back when lawmen were privately funded. I tucked my wand away, and we headed inside.

Reception was blessedly not crowded this time of night, and Inspector Sheridan was still in, but we'd have to wait a while, the uniformed desk clerk told us. We slid into the uncomfortable chairs that lined the wall and did as we were instructed. I tried not to think too hard about the time that was being wasted, sitting about, doing nothing.

Rorick's coloring was already improving. He kept rubbing at his jaw, and I was in need of a distraction, anything to stop me from overthinking all that had to be accomplished to save my coven in half a night and two more days.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked him softly.

He laid a hand on my knee, just for a moment, but the brush of affection cheered me. "I was thinking I miss shaving," he said.

"Really? Of all your bygone mortal habits, that's the one you long for?"

"That's it." His smile sparkled. "It's just that I vaguely remember enjoying the feel of a good shave. Only now I can't grow hair. It just stays the length it always is."

"Hm," I said, examining the faint shadow that covered his jaw. My next response was interrupted by a constable who called us inside through a metal door that clanked when he unlocked it.

It was the same tall, balding constable we'd met before—Reedy, I believed his name was—but he acted as though he didn't know us. He escorted us back to the inspector's office and left promptly.

Sheridan sat behind a pine desk swamped in files. "Rorick, you old tick," he greeted fondly. "Grab a seat."

"I'll stand," Rorick said, closing the door behind us, "but I appreciate the offer. My partner has some questions for you, Sheridan."

The dimple in the inspector's cheek vanished. "That so?" He turned to face me, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Well, go on then. How can I be of service?"

Rorick had once taught me that going in hard and heavy put a suspect off his guard. I was out of time, and hard and heavy was the only trick I had up my sleeve.

"Did you poison Alexander Harker and Penance because you discovered what they did to those children and you knew they needed to be stopped, or did you have another more selfish reason for bringing their lives to an abrupt end?"

Inspector Sheridan blinked once heavily. He didn't look shocked at all by my accusation. "She said you'd come for me eventually."

I blinked back at him. His lack of reaction left me feeling off my guard when I was supposed to be knocking him off his. "I beg your pardon?"

Sheridan rolled down his sleeve, revealing the inked emblem on his wrist. The top crescent piece I'd assumed was a vampire coven symbol was in fact the rounded piece of a reaping hook. "Like I said, she knew you'd be here eventually. Her instructions were rather strange. She doesn't always explain herself fully."

"Yes," I drawled, "that sounds just like Hecate." It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to roll my eyes. "Well, what message or quest or puzzle or demand did she make of me?"

"None of that, actually. Her instructions were that I make sure Chief Warren invited you in to consult, which I've done, stop Warren from making any premature arrests of witches—which I've also done—and one other odd thing." Sheridan glanced at Rorick, brow furrowed. "When I traveled to the castle, I wasn't to take a carriage. She commanded me to ride on horseback."

"So that I'd have to stay behind?" Rorick guessed.

Sheridan shrugged. "I have no idea. Like I said, the witch rarely explains herself."

"How'd you end up working for Hecate?" I asked.

Sheridan tapped his fingers along the beveled edge of his desk. "I'm not proud of that . . ."

"We need to know," Rorick said sternly. "And quickly."

"Right," Sheridan sighed. "I'm dying. I thought I'd caught a sickness, a malady of the blood, but a part of me understood it was more complicated than that. I'd made a mistake, one I regretted, so I prayed to the god Death. Next thing I know, Hecate showed up in my office, stepped right out of the picture frame behind you there, ‘bout scared me out of my trousers, she did." His chortle was strained.

"What mistake?" I asked.

He avoided my eyes, tapping out a new rhythm gently against the desk. "A few months ago, I found evidence implicating Alexander Harker in the kidnapping of—"

"Four children," I said, nostrils flaring. Hang it all, was there no person willing to stand up for those poor little foundlings?

Sheridan dug his knuckle into the wood. His shoulders slumped. "I took a bribe. Made my evidence go away."

"It's not a malady of the blood you've got," I said, understanding dawning. "You're sick with an eternal consequence. Did a vengeful spirit give it to you?"

Sheridan shuddered. "One of them damn clowns. Biggest, scariest thing I ever saw. Carried a circus mallet, he did. Knocked me on the head with it, and when I came to . . . that was that. I won't live to see my next birthday. But then Hecate suggested I might make things better for myself if I completed some altruistic acts at her request. Maybe it'll extend my life, or maybe it'll make things easier for me, you know, in the after."

"Then do you know who killed Alex and Penance?" I asked.

Sheridan shook his head, heel tapping rapidly against the floorboards. "Afraid I don't."

We'd wasted time coming here. He had absolutely nothing for me. The frustration I felt about put me on my knees. I wanted to kick something or throw around one of the files on Sheridan's desk.

Rorick reached over and touched my arm. The graze of his fingers calmed me.

I took a steadying breath, in through my mouth and out through my nose. "Hecate must have told you something of use to me."

"Yes," Sheridan said. "She suggested I schedule a meeting for you with Chief Warren tomorrow just after nightfall, here in his office. And I've done so."

"What?" I shared a concerned glance with my partner. "And what am I supposed to say to him? He wants me to turn over the culprit. All I've got is ideas . . . My current best theory is so ridiculous I won't even say it out loud here, let alone to Warren! It's that absurd!"

Sheridan finally met my eyes. "Hecate wanted me to also tell you that she'd meet with you tomorrow at Eckert Castle, during the day. She'll help you figure things out, but . . ."

"But?" I said sourly, sensing I wouldn't like what he shared next.

"But only if you asked."

"Tell Hecate," I said through my teeth, swallowing my pride, "that I asked nicely for her help. I'll meet with her tomorrow." My words were clipped. Nothing about them had actually been nice, but that was the best I could do.

"I'll let her know," Sheridan said.

* * *

Rorick insisted on riding a carriage back to the castle. I obliged him, knowing how much the trip by broom had stressed him.

Admittedly, it was a much more comfortable ride, tucked under his arm, against his side. His skin was pleasantly hot when it was well-fed. His nearness chased off winter's chill.

"I'm curious about your relationship with the first witch," Rorick asked. "Am I reading it right, or are you and she on poor terms?"

I sighed. "The poorest."

He waited a beat. "I'm dying to know over here."

"You're already dead."

"Fine. I'm un-dying to know."

My next exhale was beleaguered. "Do you recall that night when we were stuck atop that tenement, staking out that gang of gargoyles who robbed stores?"

"I remember. You told me about your father abandoning you to the wild and how, for some reason, you'd always been a bit angrier with your mother for leaving you with him in the first place."

"That's right," I said, touched that he'd remembered my words in such detail. "Hecate is my mother."

I felt him staring at the side of my face. The carriage passed over a rocky incline, and I waited until it smoothed to speak again.

"You heard me correctly," I told him. "I'm the daughter of the infamous traveler between the worlds. The first witch. The god of Death's dear friend."

"But immortals can't have children."

My laugh lacked humor. "They're also not supposed to move between worlds. I'm confident that's why she did it. Hecate's always pushing the laws of nature. As soon as she comes across one, she's figuring out a way around it. That's probably why she dumped me on my no-good father after I was born. I was just an experiment to her."

Rorick pulled me in tighter and pressed a kiss to the side of my face. "I can't fix any of that," he said, "but . . . if you ask me nicely, I'll push up your skirts and feast on you until we both feel better. Would you like that?"

I worked my throat, face burning in the dark cabin. "I would like that, please," I rasped.

Rorick slid to his knees, raked up my dress, and got started.

* * *

I'd barely slept before the sun rose. My sisters helped me continue to search the castle for clues while Rorick slumbered in our haven. A deeper look inside the real master bedroom revealed absolutely nothing but more blackened mirrors and a message chalked onto the wall in bold letters: Death gave me wings. Next to the letters was the image of a crescent moon and a reaping hook. The words were old. The chalk had faded in places. The castle was full of darkened frames now, every painting, every reflective glass, nothing but inky black.

Except for the picture of Jonathan Rorick.

We shared a meal together, and then I sent my sisters away. Hecate would arrive eventually—completely on her own time, and I knew my sisters were exhausted. They wore it well, but they deserved proper rest.

I paced up and down the stairs, waiting for my mother to arrive, growing more and more nervous that she wouldn't. It wouldn't be the first time she'd abandoned me, after all. Perhaps something going on in a world similar to ours had interested her more.

I wrung my fingers together until they were raw. Dusk wasn't far away. We'd need to leave soon to keep our meeting with Chief Warren.

I'd just about given up on her entirely, stomping up the stairs to greet Rorick when he rose, and there she was, in her crone form, standing on the landing in front of the portrait of the first vampire.

"Mother," I said. I never called her that, but her sudden appearance had startled it out of me. The informality of it had my face flushing.

Hecate turned a familiar set of gray eyes on me. Her tidy hair was kept up in a floral bonnet, Death's heavy cloak wrapping her shoulders. It was so long it draped the ground behind her. She carried a cane, though she didn't need one.

She used the rounded handle to point up at the painting. "Handsome, aren't they, the Rorick men?"

"They are," I said conversationally, ready to burst if she didn't get to the point already. "About my coven—"

"Our coven," Hecate corrected me.

Her drawling accent was not of our world. Her voice was so similar to mine—low and a little husky—that I found it off-putting. "Right. You know what's at stake."

"Yes," she said cheerfully, "and it's fortunate you have everything you need."

I absolutely hated it when she was cryptic like that. "Do I now?" I snapped. "Because my best idea for who murdered Alex and Penance is so ridiculous I think Chief Warren is going to laugh me out of his office."

"Oh, Quiet," she said gently, "it doesn't matter who killed Penance and Alex."

My nostrils flared. "If I don't bring Warren a culprit, he's going to dismantle and arrest members of our coven!"

"Is that what Chief Warren said? That he wanted you to bring him a culprit? Or was it someone else?"

My hands made fists in my skirts. "Technically, he demanded that I bring him the ‘witch' responsible, but surely you and I both know a witch didn't do this."

"No, they didn't," she said sympathetically. "But do you honestly think that if you give Chief Warren anything other than a witch, he'll accept that?"

"Maybe," I scoffed. "If the evidence is strong enough."

She didn't say anything. Lips pressed together, she stared back at me, letting me come to my own conclusions.

I rubbed at my brow and whispered a string of foul words. "I have to blame a witch. You came to tell me to lie."

"I knew I wouldn't need to do much at all. You're so intelligent, you only need the smallest push." The pride in her small smile did something aggravating to my heart.

I rubbed at the sensation warming my chest, willing it away. My mother had had all the chances in the world to know me well. She'd chosen other pursuits instead. I refused to be enamored with her, no matter how impressive she often was.

"But the murders . . ." My next laugh was breathy. "The blood honey used to poison them feels a lot like revenge, doesn't it? But the warded master bedroom was empty when I half expected to find the vengeful spirit of Jonathan Rorick there."

Hecate let me get all my thoughts out, then she put her back to me, gazing up at the portrait again. "Funny thing about Purgatory. People don't like to stay dead around these parts. Have you noticed?"

Her words had my head spinning, the final pieces falling into place so fast I had to sit down.

Rorick left the bedroom then, dressed in a waistcoat and jacket, looking sharp for our meeting with Chief Warren. I would have greeted him, but I was having trouble getting enough air into my lungs. My brain was too overloaded.

He smiled down at Hecate. The older woman was usually as tall as I was, but in her crone form, her back was more hunched.

"I know you," he said, and the creases near his eyes crinkled. "We met on the Night Train."

"Always good to see you again, Rorick," Hecate said.

He frowned. "But do we know each other?"

Hecate smiled in that mystifying way of hers. "I've met many, many Roricks in my travels to worlds very similar to this one. We're always very good friends."

"Rorick," I said softly, "I hate to even ask this of you, but—"

"You'll need to lie to appease Chief Warren," he guessed. "With the evidence we have, we could patch together a convincing story that protects your coven."

I bowed my head. "I won't ask you to lie for me, but if you'll please just agree not to give me away."

"Of course I'll help you, Quiet," he said. "Whatever you need."

At some point while we spoke, Hecate had vanished.