Chapter 3

Hecate—the first witch—is credited with discovering the ability to open up a portal to other dimensions using magic and mirrors. According to legend, the god Death was so impressed by her travels to other worlds that when she came to his realm, he gifted her with his cloak, which contained within it all the knowledge of the magic inherent in time and space.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Rorick

Ihad no other option before me. Not in this horrible weather. And not with acres of twisty trees and hungry monsters separating me from the safety of the city. I dragged myself back up the steps.

"The doors appear to be unlocked. Are you done pouting now?" Quiet lifted her hat, allowing the lightning beetles to float beneath the wide brim, out of sight.

I didn't dignify her question with a response. After shouldering past her and shoving open the heavy doors myself, I motioned hastily for her to enter first.

"I'll see to the warding," she offered, a gentle peace offering. With the toe of her boot, she disturbed the trail of salt and dead man's blood in the entryway which would normally require a hunting class of immortal like me to seek permission before entering a residence.

"No need," I told her, stepping easily inside across a well-varnished floor. "I've been invited here so many times I never have trouble passing over the wards. Besides, this monstrosity is mine now."

The ceiling was arched with ribbed vaults. A carpeted staircase split apart before us, winding upwards in opposite directions, out of sight. Everything smelled like lime and lantern oil.

Everything except Quiet. She smelled annoyingly delicious. Citrus, herbs, wildflowers . . .

"Rorick." She laid a firm hand on my chest, interrupting the images that burst to life in my mind's eye, stopping me from moving farther into the foyer. Up ahead, gaslights glowed. "Someone's coming," she warned softly.

"Who goes there?" From the right, a bulky constable in a brown uniform marched into the foyer, his baton swinging at his hip. He took one look at the witch's pensive face and came to a halt so suddenly his boots squeaked against the hardwood floors.

"You there," Quiet said brusquely, "standing before you is His Grace, Liam Rorick, the Third Duke of Castleway. Promptly provide him with the keys to his residence and step aside. We have work to do here."

The constable did what most people would when faced with such ruthless competence. He followed her direction despite her having no authority over him whatsoever, nervously sliding to the side to clear the way.

"Erm, beg your pardon ma'am," he said, removing his woolen cap from his head respectfully. His blond hair was thinning on top. "It's only we don't have any keys. A butler was supposed to meet us with those before the coroner arrived, but there's not a soul here. Coroner never came and staff is all gone. Must be the weather. We were just on our way out now to beat the rest of the nasty storm that's rolling in from the wilds."

"How'd you get in through the gates, then?" Quiet demanded. "Or were those your chains barring the entrance?"

"What's that?" The patrolman's bushy yellow brows pinched closer together. "The gates were open wide this afternoon. So was the door, like the wind had blasted them apart. House is still colder than a witch's—er. I mean . . ."

Quiet's jaw firmed.

Chortling, I examined the entrance. Though the wind hissed hard enough against it to make the wood groan, the storm was unlikely responsible for the castle standing open. The locks and bolts were sturdy, and the doors were thick enough to prevent an assault. It was reinforced with an iron bar, great for keeping out burglars and the Fair Folk. Someone must have left in a hurry. But who would seal the gates if it hadn't been the law? I could tell by the constable's confounded expression we wouldn't get any helpful answers from him.

"Liam?" came a friendly voice from deeper inside the drawing room. "I'll be— It's really you. Get in here, you old tick. How are you?"

I disliked being called by my first name, but I schooled my face. With Quiet at my side, we entered through the archway and found Inspector Sheridan warming himself by a cavernous fireplace. The castle rooms were impractically large and drafty, each nearly as cold inside as it was outside. Everything was varnished and polished to a shine, evidence of a large staff recently hard at work. Even the broad east-facing windows gleamed under the amber glow of moon and firelight.

The patrolman ambled into the room behind us, and I was momentarily distracted by the pleasant thump of three beating hearts. Sheridan had his duster on and buttoned around his wiry frame, his neck wrapped in a thick scarf. His nose was red.

"Inspector," I greeted with a broad smile. While providing consulting detective services, I'd watched the young man rise up the ranks over the years. Sheridan was helpful and unintimidated by the preternatural. That wasn't something that could be said for most of his colleagues. "Why have they got you all the way out here doing a uniform's work?"

He glanced at Quiet before responding. Her smile was forced, like she'd just remembered her manners.

"When you want a task done right and all that," Sheridan said, meeting me by the sofa. He shook my offered hand warmly and nodded politely at my partner. "I didn't know Chief Inspector Warren hired you on for this one. I mean, I know he prefers to send you work on the stranger cases, so I shouldn't be surprised. This is certainly one of those."

"That's not why I'm here," I said sourly.

"Oh?" Sheridan removed his gloves one finger at a time. He ambled back toward the fire, holding his arms out, heating his palms.

Quiet leaned in and lowered her voice for my ears only. "Why are we still smiling?"

"It makes the geds more comfortable," I reminded her.

She rolled her eyes but kept a strained grin in place. Sheridan motioned me over, lifting his clean-shaven chin in a summons. Quiet moved to follow, but the constable intervened, tapping on her arm. Her grin faltered as she lagged behind.

"You're one of them witches, ain't you?" the constable asked, taking in her pointed hat which curved down over her braid. "Or do you just wear one of those to keep the beasties away?"

Most predators would think twice before attacking a witch, or someone in a similar hat, just in case. They sold them widely throughout the province in various colors. It didn't guarantee a ged's protection, but it helped in a pinch.

Quiet sighed in the affirmative. "I'm the real thing."

Her open frustration made my smile all the more genuine. I was still feeling a little bitter about being struck with the giant snowball, but her irritation was making up for it.

I joined the inspector by the fire, soaking in the warmth from the blaze. Quiet's rich scent was immediately replaced by Sheridan's, and my nose wrinkled. There was something recognizable about the ripe, metallic undertones tickling my nostrils.

Illness. A terminal malady of the blood I'd smelled before. Sheridan seemed to be in decent shape, but the poor chap reeked like he was dying. What a shame.

"Keeping busy?" I asked. I kept my expression placid and free of pity. The inspector's health was none of my business.

"I'm still dealing with the mess of those four children who went missing six months ago. And now a double murder. Damn right, I'm busy." Sheridan peeked over his shoulder before he dropped his voice. "Is she why you're here, then?"

"She is. That and the duke was my cousin, or haven't you heard?" I asked, sliding my hands into my pockets. "I assumed the entirety of the law would know by now. The constabulary has more gossipy hens than an egg farm."

"Devils blind me," Sheridan breathed. "Sorry to hear that, old chap. Well now, does that mean I need to start calling you—"

"No," I said gruffly. "And thank you for your concern, but Alex and I weren't close." Far from it.

"Between you and I," the inspector said, putting his back to our audience, "when the chief told your witch partner she had a week to turn over the one responsible, he was being a bit sardonic, you see. He called her in this morning, told her he needed a consult, but it was just a courtesy after all the times you've credited her in the past on your successful private cases. He wants all the witches out of the city before the week's end. He plans to seize their assets and haul them into cells one at a time until it's done."

Quiet hadn't mentioned she'd been given a deadline or suspects. I peered over at her. The constable chattered away while she struggled to keep a civil expression. Her coven was so important to her that her feelings about her fellow witches had rubbed off on me after a time. They were a force for good in the world. I didn't want to see any of them harmed either.

Sheridan continued, "Chief Warren is certain it's a woman from her coven we're after, but it's unlikely we'll be able to pin it on the right one. Not with the way they guard each other as tenacious and vicious as death hounds. Warren's going for all of them instead."

I matched Sheridan's cautious volume. "Hard to imagine a witch hurting another witch. They're thick as thieves." It was easy to imagine a witch hurting a vampire, on the other hand. The immortal living didn't get on with the immortal undead on account of how often the undead tried to eat them—and vice versa in special cases. "Has the coven made threats against the two victims that I don't know about?"

"Well, no," Sheridan admitted, "but it's a spell that's done ‘em both in. No doubt about it."

My brow furrowed. Plenty of spells could be bought or traded. A witch could have created the magic, wrapped it up in a box like it was a hat, and sold it. That didn't make them the caster. "You seem awfully confident."

"See for yourself," Sheridan said, gesturing toward a set of double doors on the western end of the drawing room that led to a private dining hall. "The dead duke and the witch in there, they haven't got any faces. Skin from chin to forehead is smooth as a baby's bum. Like they never had eyes or a nose or a mouth at all. And if that isn't witchcraft, then my name is Shirley Beards and I belong in the circus juggling eels."

"Sounds like a curse," I reluctantly admitted. Curses had to be cast using a wand, and a wand required a witch.

Sheridan shrugged. "Same difference, isn't it?"

"Well, no, but never mind that." There wasn't time to explain the complexities of witch magic. Especially not to a ged and not when I only knew the basics. "How'd you identify them?"

"We had to measure the former duke's ears and compare it to medical records. It's him all right. The witch was identified this morning by staff who were familiar with the duke's regular dinner guest."

"Then the staff was here this morning?"

Sheridan nodded. "Two of my best detectives spoke with a handful of them first thing and had a look around. They collected several good fingerprints as well," Sheridan offered. Fingerprinting was still an infant science but a vastly useful one that had resulted in two recent convictions. "I'll be hauling in every member of your partner's coven for printing and photographs as soon as the storm has passed. We're adding them all to the rogue's gallery, Chief Warren's orders. For their sakes, I hope they cooperate."

Quiet cleared her throat. Her smile had gone feral. There was nothing but a threat in the showing of her teeth now.

"Constable," I called a warning to the uniformed man, "whatever it is you're saying over there to put that look on Quiet's face, stop."

"Perhaps we should be off," Sheridan added, always the peacemaker. "Reedy, go to the stables and ready our horses."

"Good idea, Inspector," I said playfully. "Quiet looks like she's about to turn your man into a gnat she can pinch between her fingers."

The constable's bulky arms drooped sheepishly at his sides. "You wouldn't do that, would you, ma'am?"

"I wouldn't hurt a fly—or a gnat for that matter," Quiet said drolly, lips pursed. "But then, flies and gnats are actually useful to me, and I have no patience for a man who thinks my coven is just some cat house of ill repute."

"You mean you and the other witches aren't . . . But aren't you all . . . you know?" The constable scratched at his thinning hair before shoving his cap back on.

"No," she said, frowning. "We most certainly are not all courtesans. We're the Society of Academic Sorcerers. Only a small number of us practice the sensual arcane arts you're interested in, and frankly, sir, you'd never be able to afford any of them. They're highly selective about their clients."

Between the vexation on her face and the constable's dumbfounded expression, uncontainable laughter bubbled out of me. It was an unfounded but prevalent belief that all witches were doxies and street workers. Quiet stared daggers in my direction until I had control of myself again—no easy feat.

"You blimming fool," Sheridan muttered at his constable, "of course they aren't all courtesans. They've got the school for children and the Home for Foundlings, the Infirmary for the Aged and Injured, and the society of . . . whatsits and . . . the things." His words trailed off. He shot an apologetic look at Quiet and gestured toward the exit. "Come on. I'll assist you with the horses so we can get out of here. I don't like the sound of this storm one bit, and we've already lost the light."

Stricken, the constable lumbered from the drawing room, Sheridan following at his heels.

The inspector paused by the threshold, shoes catching on the edge of an ornate rug. "If you stay much longer, Rorick, be prepared to settle in for a while."

"I'd ask for a lift, but I didn't see a carriage out front." A horse wouldn't bear a predator like me on its back.

"Traveling by saddle seemed best with the path a disaster and the weather so poor. I'll send up a hackney when the storm clears. Sorry I can't do more, Detective." His grin went lopsided, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. "Or should I say, Your Grace?"

"Fuck off," I teased.

Sheridan's chortling bounced off the plaster and lath walls as he quit the room.

The heavy front doors slammed shut a minute later, closing us inside the great old tomb alone together. I joined Quiet. She'd made herself comfortable on the sofa, her hat in her lap, her cloak hanging over the arm. Loose sable hair framed her face in wind-whipped waves. Broken charcoal pencil at the ready, she sketched in her journal.

I craned my neck to peek at her work and caught the top of a crescent shape before she jerked the journal forward, hiding it against her breasts. She had an impressive set. It was downright rude of the goddess Fate to bless the most aggravating woman in the world with such excellent breasts. I didn't like it when I noticed Quiet was attractive. It made me forget for a time that I was supposed to hate her for constantly thinking of me as a monster.

"What's that?" I asked, struggling to keep my tone level. Quiet brought out the worst in me, all my irritation and impatience—and that blasted guilt that refused to abate. It was giving me indigestion which made absolutely no sense considering how long I'd gone between meals.

She huddled against the cushioned arm of the sofa, considering me for what felt like a tiny epoch. In the silence, I could make out the strong, steady thump of her immortal heart. A comforting thud-thud I could listen to for ages—had listened to on the regular at one time. When we were proper partners, we'd hole up in the old firehouse she'd converted into her laboratory, waiting on one of her experiments to finish so we could identify a poison or reveal a fingerprint or . . .

Finally, Quiet relented, lowering the journal. "It's Inspector Sheridan's tattoo. I only caught the top of it. A crescent shape on the underside of his wrist. I saw it when he was warming his hands."

I hadn't noticed his markings. "Does having ink on his body make him a murderer like I supposedly am?"

"Of course not." Her pencil scratched against the off-white pages while she shaded in her sketch. "But I heard you mention that he was doing a constable's job, and it got me thinking. Why is he waiting here to hover uselessly over the coroner instead of reading his report later like any other inspector would?"

I shrugged. "Sheridan's a thorough man, or perhaps he was eager for preliminary findings."

"Possibly," she said, shrewd as always, "or he's inserting himself more thoroughly in an investigation he has a special interest in for nefarious reasons. But don't worry. I'm not just picking on your friend just because he's your friend."

"‘Friend' is a bit too familiar. We're more like colleagues who respect each other. Like you and I used to be."

"Right," she snarked, "you don't have friends because you're no more likeable than you claim I am."

I snorted, more amused by the truth in her statement than offended. In most circumstances, I did a better job at pretending than Quiet managed to with others. But anyone who got too close soon learned the truth. I was only really interested in my work. Everything else failed to keep my attention long. Other people tired of me constantly getting distracted and falling short of their expectations, and eventually they stopped coming around. Quiet, on the other hand, used to simply boss me about when I got too fixated until we finished what needed finishing.

She pressed on. "I'm not just picking on the inspector all the same. I added Constable Reedy as well. No one is that damn stupid. He had to be pretending to throw us all off the scent."

A bark of laughter escaped me. Enjoying the game, I tapped on the end of my nose like I was about to share an illicit secret. "Or he really is that big of a buffoon and Sheridan brought him along because he'd be easy to trick while he tampered with evidence."

The corner of her mouth twitched as she jotted down notes around her drawing.

The fire warmed me through enough that I took off my frock coat, draping it over the back of the sofa. "How'd you get to Eckert, anyway?"

"By an enchanted traveling artefact."

"You mean a broom?" My voice wobbled with the effort to keep from showcasing my amusement. I removed my gloves next, tucking them away in my pockets.

Quiet lowered her journal to glower at me properly. "Don't start that battle again."

"I won't say another word if you don't," I challenged.

She hunkered down in her seat, pressing the pencil so hard against the paper that the scrape of charcoal was audible.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I added gently. "If we're going to do this right, we need to be able to talk to each other like we used to. We both work better that way."

"Fine," she said, not looking up from her page. "I'm thinking about the First Duke of Castleway, the original vampire. Why isn't he here? Where'd he go off to all those years ago?"

I should have known she'd make this difficult by asking questions I couldn't answer. It was her nature after all. "There's no telling for certain. It's not like he left a note."

"You have insight. You're a detective and this is your coven." Her piercing eyes seemed to pass straight through me. "Give me your theory at least. I know you must have one. He's been gone for ages. Someone must know where."

I rubbed at my chest where her gaze pinned me. "My uncle's got nothing to do with our dead coven members."

"I disagree. Two people were murdered in his castle, he's a powerful immortal, and he's missing. An odd coincidence if ever there was one."

"Thirty years is too long ago for the events to be related. And it's not his anymore. The castle was left to Alex when he . . ." I made a flippant gesture, desperate to drop the matter. "When he went wherever he went."

"When the duke went missing," she insisted.

I rubbed at the back of my neck, suddenly uneasy. There were a great many things I didn't like discussing. Family was at the top of the list. Just thinking about mine made the air thicker in my lungs. "Ask something else."

"That symbol etched in the mantel over the fireplace," she said, jabbing a finger in its direction. I knew what she referred to without turning to see it. That symbol was all over the castle—my castle now. "The crescent that looks like a sliver of moon. Tell me what it means."

I recognized the test for what it was. Certain I was about to fail her once again, I exhaled slowly, delaying the inevitable. "It's a Castleway Coven symbol, and I doubt it has anything to do with Sheridan's tattoo, if that's where you're getting at. Lunar symbols are popular in the area. Geds think they bring good fortune."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Obviously it's a coven symbol. Tell me what it means."

"I don't always get on with my coven—you know that—but they're all I have. I owe them a modicum of loyalty for all they've done for me. I won't tell you their secrets," I said, shifting uneasily on my cushion. She already thought poorly of me. I wasn't about to tell her everything I knew so I could prove once and for all that I was in fact a monster. "It isn't even pertinent to the investigation."

"I can't know that for certain if you won't share it," Quiet fired back, lightning in her gaze. "You're absolutely right. This doesn't work unless we talk to each other. So don't you dare pretend I'm the only one holding back."

"You picked the one thing in the blooming room that I—"

Quiet snapped her journal shut. "I could pick a thousand things in this dratted room alone, another thousand things on your person, that you wouldn't tell me about if I asked! You won't even tell me why you're dressed so finely!" Her nose wrinkled. "You look like a solicitor or a banker. You don't look like you."

"You just have to trust me!" I barked.

Her face fell. Color drained from her cheeks. It took my mind a moment to catch up, then my stomach plummeted. If I could have shoved the words back into my mouth, I'd have stuffed them in until I choked. They were an echo of the vow I'd made the night I betrayed her. Her nostrils flared, and her storm cloud eyes simmered. I felt the burn of them.

She worked her throat. "I've heard that from you before."

"This is different." I ripped my bowler hat from my head and tossed it atop my coat. It dropped off the back of the sofa and landed on the floor with a hollow thump. Violently, I raked a hand through my hair, knocking loose a curl that fell over my brow.

Quiet shut her eyes tight, as though she were willing thoughts away. "You promised me that night, even though you were hurt—"

"I know," I growled.

"You promised me you had control of yourself. You begged for my help, pleaded for me to come closer and save you. You swore—"

"Please stop."

"—you wouldn't hurt me while I did everything I could to patch you up and close your wounds. But you did hurt me. And then all I get from you as thanks is months of silence!" Her hand cupped the smooth column of skin that caged her pulse. The thrum of it echoed in my ears tauntingly.

"Quiet." Her name was a prayer on my lips, and her vibrant scent was a dark temptation in my nose. My heart had been dead for decades, but it still had the ability to ache. Now was one of those moments I wanted to part with the useless organ completely. If I ripped the blackened thing out of my chest right now, perhaps that would shock her out of saying the words I dreaded hearing on her lips the very most.

"I trusted you," she whispered, eyes opening to scorch mine. "All that time we worked together, I thought we were partners. But you bit me anyway."

I could never hate her properly, no matter how often we fought, no matter how many times she threatened me or poked and prodded and irritated me. Not when I would always loathe myself far more. There weren't words that could salvage this, so I didn't even try. I hadn't then, and I didn't now, waiting for the final blow to come.

"We need only get through this case," she said, "and then I never want to see you again, Rorick. Not ever."