Chapter 4

Never feed a corpse-eater. They'll just keep coming back if you do.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Quiet

Iknew my former partner regretted what had happened between us all those months ago. While chasing a case, Rorick had gotten into one horrible fight with some brutish gargoyle. A situation I still didn't have all the details on because the new Duke of the Damned was as closed a book as ever before.

Emotion burned in my throat, tears I was too stubborn to shed all over again clotting there. Surprisingly, Rorick looked a bit like he wanted to cry himself, but I had even less patience for his sorrow than I did my own. I had saved him, and he'd thanked me with betrayal.

And fangs.

Now Rorick's remorse was written all over his face, tunneling two deep grooves between his brows. His hand rubbed at that old spot down his sternum over his blue paisley waistcoat, where his wounds had been fiercest, where I'd sewn him up with scar-weaver spider silk, and I knew he was remembering that night too.

The glow from the fireplace brightened Rorick's eyes to violet, and the moonlight-paleness of his skin shimmered. Whatever he was feeling now didn't matter. He would remain too proud to grovel properly, and for that he deserved all the torment I could heap on his head and more.

"What now?" Rorick found a loose thread in the lotus print on the sofa cushion, and he pulled at it. "Tell me what you want me to do here, and I'll do it. I know you've only been given seven days. I know what your coven of sisters means to you. I came to help, so use me already."

Since he was trying to be reasonable, I resisted pointing out that he could stop pretending he was doing me some great favor. He had just as much reason for being here as I did.

When I didn't respond right away, his throat bobbed. "Talking clearly isn't working for us. You might as well order me about the way you used to. While you still can, that is."

I fingered the edges of my journal, bending the corner pages, trying not to dwell on all the loss between us. The death that awaited us in the dining room, the threat that loomed over me, closing in with every tick of the clock on the mantel. Upon entering the castle, I'd been so careful not to think on it, even as a darkness attempted to settle around me.

Two brutal murders tainted this ancient space. The castle would forever be scarred by those violent deaths. Standing in the room where it happened would be unpleasant, and I didn't look forward to seeing a dear sister witch with the glow of life snuffed out of her.

"I need some time to work an enchantment," I said. "One that will aid me during the investigation. Why don't you go and have a look at Penance and . . ." It was irresponsible to connect so personally to this case. If I allowed such familiarities, even for a lost member of my beloved sisterhood, I might miss things. I corrected myself, "Have a look at the victims. I'll join you when I'm finished."

"I can manage that." Rorick rose from his seat and straightened his cravat. I couldn't remember a single time he'd worn so much as a neckcloth, and I had to repress a snort. He was dressed like, well, like a duke actually.

As he padded to the door, I reached inside the spelled pockets of my dress, fingers stretching beyond the fabric stitched with magic to the rip the spell made in space. My hand went cold as I felt around in the void, an in-between place of my making. At my beckoning, the smooth pearl handle of my wand grazed my palm. I caught it and pulled it free, fingers sliding along the spiral grooves. My wand was a long dagger with a decorative handle, the one I'd used to survive in the wilds as a child before the witches found me. I removed its leather sheath, revealing the silver-tipped blade beneath.

Flipping my hat upside down, I set it on the sofa next to me and dropped the leather sheath inside its opening, sending it to the same void that I kept in my pockets.

Just like I'd learned studying scar-weaver spiders all those years ago, I produced a silvery thread of magic from my wand with a gentle prod and a twist of my wrist. These same threads were sown into my hat and all of my clothing, protecting me.

The silvery thread elongated from the sharpened tip, hovering in the air. I wove the strands into an intricate web. Summoned by my use of magic, fuzzy black spiders small enough to fit in my palm clamored from my hat. Their long spindly legs skittered across the upholstery.

The fireplace hissed, and a cool, eerie draft tickled the back of my neck. Whatever darkness now haunted this castle, it didn't approve of my use of magic.

Well then, it could go straight back to the Nothing where it belonged and discuss its displeasure with the god Death. I wouldn't be intimidated by a mere presence.

Garlic moths the size of hummingbirds flew out next, their wings dusted in a fine powder the same color as the spice they were named for.

"Sheridan?" Rorick said, his voice muffled through the wall that separated us. "I didn't hear you return. Did you get caught in the storm after all . . . ? Wait a minute—"

A clamor sounded from inside the dining room, and the garlic moths dove for safety in the cushions. A boom broke my concentration, and the magical silken weave retracted back into my wand. I jumped to my feet. Scar-weavers scurried up the back of the sofa.

"Rorick?" I called.

A muffled shout was his reply. I side-stepped the sofa and rushed the doors, shoving them open with enough force to send them crashing against the opposing walls. Two large shapes moved so quickly around the dining table that I couldn't make sense of them. A ceramic platter came hurtling at my head. I lifted my wand. A jet of silvery webbing stuck the platter to the wall inches from my face.

"What the devil?" I grunted.

Rorick and a shadowed figure jetted out the opposite doors in a blur of movement.

A flurry of garlic moths carrying spiders floated in after me, their thin wings beating frantically at the air. Hoisting my skirts, I sprinted after Rorick.

Rorick shouted curses. Wooden furniture was tossed aside. It shattered in the foyer moments before I made it into the corridor. A portrait had been knocked from the wall. It sat askew on the floor. A sideboard had been flipped upside down.

"Quiet!" Rorick roared. "Get in here and save my bloody no-good life right this instant!"

"Stop running around!" I shouted. My dress was designed for protection, not racing. Magic made the fabric heavy.

The two of them ran another complete lap back into the drawing room before I finally caught up.

Rorick dove behind the sofa, stalked by Sheridan. In addition to having inhuman speed, there was something not quite right about this inspector's appearance. His hair wasn't the same shade of walnut that it had been before. He wasn't wearing gloves, and the ink on his wrist—the crescent shape that had drawn my eye—was gone.

Something rippled beneath his coat.

"That's not the inspector!" Rorick warned between heaving breaths.

"I've worked that out on my own, thanks." I took up a defensive stance just inside the doorway. A kaleidoscope of butterflies flew out of the hat I'd left on the sofa. Garlic moths streamed in around me, hoisting scar-weaver spiders.

The imposter spotted me and my bladed wand, and he came to a halt. Sheridan shook his head, and his face went bone white. Dark orbs appeared in place of his eyes. Pincers stretched out from his mouth.

"Ah, a corpse-eater. You must be drooling, what with the two deceased in there," I said flatly, gesturing at the dining room entrance with my wand, "and the undead bastard running about in here. It's no wonder you've come to visit us."

Rorick circled the sofa, then leapt behind me. The shifter made a move to follow but hesitated, dragging glossy black eyes worryingly between us.

Rorick grabbed hold of my hips, unbalancing me. He moved me in front of him like a shield. "That's right, you monster. Look at the scary witch and come no closer!"

"Name-calling seems unnecessary," I noted. "He's only staring at you hungrily the same way you look at everyone with a pulse."

Rorick's grip on my hips tightened. "He's done more than just look at me! He's trying to eat me whole. That's not the same as the conservative sips I take from the willing."

"Conservative sips—ha!" I scoffed.

The shifter made a sound in his throat, a click and a chitter. Something rippled under what appeared to be a heavy duster but was actually a clever illusion created by the creature's outer shell. Large spider-like legs spread out from Sheridan's back. His limbs separated, forming forelegs. Spindly feet landed one at a time on the rug with a sharp thud.

"Eight legs— Oh, I see," I said gently. "You're a mother."

The shifter purred and clicked in response.

"Stop talking to the creature," Rorick hissed, "and get rid of her!"

Annoyed by his tone, I lowered my wand.

"Please!" Rorick pushed my elbow back up. "Curse her and make her go away before she finishes me off."

"Don't be so melodramatic. I won't let her kill you." I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment. "But I am considering letting her bite you just a little."

"You're not funny," he groused.

I chuckled. "I'm a little funny."

The shifter's pincers came together with an audible snap. One bite from those and a vampire like Rorick would find himself temporarily paralyzed, but living people had nothing to fear from corpse-eaters. They weren't needlessly violent like ichors—a humanoid shifter that bled gold and shed its skin after each change. The corpse-eater let out a crackle that sounded like crinkling paper in her throat. Her skull-face cocked to the side.

I raised my wand higher in warning. "I apologize for not being well-versed in your language, but I'd wager you understand me just fine. You'd have to know a whole lot about mortal geds in order to mimic one so well. That would include their languages, yes? Well done, by the way. Very convincing."

"For the love of the goddess," Rorick breathed in my ear, "stop having a pleasant chat with her and get on with it. Turn her into a gnat and shoo her out the window, or so help me—"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," I told the shifter with a sigh. "I know you must be hungry to have risked departing from whatever cemetery you call home to come here of all places. Given your size, you probably have a large nest of littles that are hungry too."

"Less talking," Rorick barked, "more cursing!"

At that, the shifter let out a chorus of clicks, snapping her pincers threateningly.

"Please don't make me hurt you," I begged the shifter, and another garlic moth alighted on my shoulder. "Not for Rorick of all people. Frankly, he doesn't deserve my help, but for the moment I require him to remain uneaten. I can't let you do as you please, even if you are very hungry and have other mouths to feed."

The shifter let out another chitter and a crackle. She jutted the chin of her skull-face at the door to the dining hall.

"I'd be willing to let you have those two in there as a meal for you and yours, but I need some time with them first," I explained. "Is there any chance you could return in a day or so?"

"That creature is not coming back inside my castle!" Rorick snapped.

"Hush yourself," I whispered. "I won't tolerate your grumping just because you're not accustomed to being someone's idea of a nutritious meal like the rest of us are." Like all preternatural people were, in one form or another.

"Ack," Rorick grunted, "I told you I didn't need you to disturb the wards at the door. You didn't listen, and now you've let a monster in here."

There was no sense in arguing with him, so I ignored him. "Is that agreeable, ma'am? The people in the dining room, they've been murdered, you see. I need some time to suss it all out. Then both bodies are all yours. You have my word as a witch. My sister, Penance, she's amongst the dead," I said, and my throat clotted. I swallowed to clear it. "She had an appreciation for the natural order of things. It was one of her studies."

The shifter stared unblinkingly back at me for a time. Slowly she lowered her skull-like head in a bow of acquiesce. I stepped aside, and Rorick followed suit, keeping me between him and the shifter mother.

"After you." I made a sweeping gesture at the open archway.

The corpse-eater shuffled forward on her long legs. They clunked in an eerie staccato as she cleared the rug. Out in the foyer, she paused, lingering near the sideboard she'd upended during her pursuit. She studied it with her big black eyes.

Her skull-face tilted curiously. She chittered at me.

"In a day or so, the bodies are yours," I repeated, uncertain if that was the reassurance she needed.

The corpse-eater clacked toward the entrance. She used her forelegs to open the front doors and made her way out into the darkness. The snow had stopped, but the wind whistled unpleasantly, blowing in a drift of loose powder. Feeling exposed without my hat and cloak, I pulled my braid over my shoulder, pinching the ends of the strands uneasily.

As night swallowed up the shifter, Rorick slammed the doors shut and threw the heavy locks, dropping an iron bar in place. "The next time someone tries to kill you," he grumped, "I intend to deliver a lengthy monologue before I aid you."

Unmoved by his temper, I continued to wind a finger through the end of my braid, spotting a thread of hair that had gone silver in the mix. "My monologue got the job done. She's gone now, and you're in much the same condition as the one you arrived in."

Rorick lowered to a knee to fuss over the wards on the floor. He used the heels of his hands to scoop salt and shattered bits of glass back into a clean line over the dried dead man's blood. "Remind me again why they bother to call you Quiet, or was your witch name always meant to be ironic? I don't recall the presence of monsters bringing out lengthy soliloquies in you before."

Goodness me, he was irritable. My lips quirked. "No one could get me to talk much when I was a foundling, but that was a long time ago. As you well know, I make use of my tongue when it suits me. And yes, monsters like you bring out all my best monologues. Would you like to hear another? I have many opinions on the correct way to reset a ward, none of which you're doing properly. That salt line wouldn't deter a slug from coming in here, let alone a specter."

Disheveled dark hair tumbled in one flippy little curl across his narrowed eyes, catching in his lashes. It made me jealous that his tresses always fell just so, like it was on purpose instead of being the constant untidy mess my stubborn hair always was. Mine was so thick I had to keep it in a braid to make it mind or the knots were dreadful.

Vampires were a seductive sort of hunter, drawing their prey in with an attractive voice and enticing scent, rather than pursuing their meals the more traditional way. Rorick smelled like cider. I loved the smell of cider. Did he always carry the scent of something his prey admired, or did everyone think he smelled like apples? I couldn't ask because I wasn't willing to acknowledge out loud that I liked anything about him.

Rorick's head cocked to the side. "Why don't you fix the wards, then?"

A grin that was more threat than smile stretched my cheeks. "Why don't you ask nicely?"

He climbed slowly to his feet. At his full height, he cut an intimidating figure, tall and brooding and fanged as he was, but I was just as tall—a fact most men seemed offended by. Especially shorter men. Shorter men often acted like I'd grown so much on purpose just to spite them. Rorick, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to my height—and to everything else around him for that matter, unless it was an intriguing puzzle.

Or fresh blood in a willing vein—a usually willing vein.

He met my gaze, and I saw his exhaustion. Remorse still clung to the smudges under his eyes and the grooves that bracketed his mouth, turning his lips down. But I refused to feel sympathy for him. He'd made his bed and had been given several months to unmake it again. Now he had no choice but to lie in it.

I wouldn't allow myself to feel even a twinge of regret over my words to him earlier. I meant what I said. I needed him now, but afterward I didn't wish to see him ever again. Even if it probably had been a terrible scare for him, being chased about the castle by a corpse-eater. And right after the emotional toll of having to look at the dead body of his family member . . .

I will not feel sympathy for the likes of Liam Rorick. Squaring up to my former partner, I pocketed my wand roughly, shoving it into the opening before releasing it to the void. "What does a good vampire say when they need a favor?" I prodded, seeking out his ire.

Instead of ire, his expression softened beneath the beguiling curl of his hair. My heart squeezed rebelliously in my chest.

"Please," he said gently. His next inhale lifted his thick shoulders a moment before they drooped again. "And I suppose a good vampire would show some gratitude to you for stopping them from getting eaten. Even if it did take you several ages to do so . . . Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said cautiously, waiting for the punchline, but none came. "Now, step aside before you ruin everything."

The veil between worlds was weakest at doorways and in mirrors. Depending on the day of the week, it grew even thinner, requiring more ingredients to strengthen wards and prevent entry from undesirables. I shooed him away.

Rorick slunk to the side, leaning against the wall like his long limbs had lost the will to hold him upright. "It's Fratersday, isn't it? I was trying to make the salt line as thick as my thumb, just like you taught me." He held up the offending appendage.

"What? No, it's Bernsday." Brow furrowed, I reached into the void in my pocket, fishing around until I found a jar of salt. I wriggled it out of my golden skirts, then fought with the lid. Giving up, I handed it to Rorick. "Fratersday was three days ago. What have you been doing that has you so backwards?"

Rorick popped the seal with ease and returned it. "It's been a long, long"—he squeezed the bridge of his nose—"year."

He'd infused the word with so much forlorn exasperation, I had to remind myself two more times that I did not feel sorry for him. I was reading too much into his words, trying to assign feelings to a thoughtless man who had none. Clearly, he hadn't meant to suggest that my absence from his life had made the year hard, or he'd have already gotten up the nerve to come and see me ages ago.

Or he would have simply said that.

A garlic moth deposited a fuzzy black scar-weaver spider on his shoulder, dusting powder down his shirt. Rorick stared at the spider. I watched him cautiously while thickening the salt line with generous helpings from my jar. He'd never been unkind to my magical assistants before, but he'd been harder to read than usual since we arrived.

He looked like he was about to sweep the insect away. I'd curse him across the room if he did that. Let him see how he liked getting knocked about. Hurriedly, I replaced the lid on the jar of salt and stuffed it into my pocket.

Creases appeared around Rorick's lavender eyes. With the pad of his finger, he gently pet the weaver's back. The spider flexed her forelegs appreciatively.

I will not feel sorry for Liam Rorick.

Basking in his attention, the scar-weaver bobbed happily on his shoulder. I tended to the braided garlic hanging by the doors, adding another knot to correspond with the day of the week.

Rorick turned a critical eye on my efforts. "That plait is crooked."

"No, it isn't." I waved his words away with a flippant gesture, deciding that was better than trying to poke him in the eye with my finger.

"It looks like you braided it blindfolded," he drawled.

"Nonsense," I hissed under my breath. Annoyingly, upon closer inspection, it was a bit crooked. I'd been too distracted, watching Rorick with my spider. He was being nice to the sweet creature, and not enough people were nice to spiders. I unknotted the garlic with irritated tugs and started again.

"Might as well put up a welcome sign for devils," Rorick mocked cheerfully.

"I'll show you a welcome sign for devils," I groused, wishing my fingers were free so I could point the middle one up at him.

When I was finished, I retrieved my wand. Rorick stiffened and drew back from me.

"Oh relax," I said, "it's just my wand."

"A wand that looks an awful lot like a dagger," he protested.

I took his hand in mine, wrestling with him gently to open his fingers. Obviously, if he wanted to, he could shake me off, but he didn't. Reluctantly he displayed his palm. I stabbed the heel of his hand, drawing purple-tinged blood to the surface.

He jerked his hand back. "Did you just stab me, you little devil?" Rorick sucked a shocked breath through his fangs. "You said it was just a wand!"

I shrugged. "What can I say? It's also a dagger." I may have cut him a bit more enthusiastically than was strictly necessary.

"Vile woman," he grumbled under his breath.

I let him groan so long as he followed my directions, squeezing his fist until he'd dripped a satisfactory amount of dead man's blood over the line of salt.

"Are we at least a little bit even now?" he demanded. "I bit you without warning, you stabbed me—and seemed to enjoy it?"

My jaw set, and a muscle in my cheek jumped. "If you have nightmares about this later, I'll consider calling us even."

Rorick's face fell. "You had nightmares about that night?" he asked softly.

It was a vulnerability I hadn't meant to share. I marched for the dining room without answering him, determined to let the matter drop.