Chapter 11

Eleven

W ith a fiendish smile, Emrys strolled over to an empty counter across the room, his every step long and showy like a peacock strutting its feathers.

An ember of fire licked at the back of Quinn's eyes as she met his shrewd gaze. He leaned against the counter in his extravagant pinstriped suit and purple vest, a devilish grin lacing his perfectly proportionate tawny face. Annoyingly perfect face.

Nonchalance and confidence poured from him like smooth liquor.

Fury burned in Quinn's core as she watched him. One way or another, Emrys was responsible for Jane's death, either by killing her at his own hand or by refusing to kiss Quinn. Both scenarios were rotten.

Clearing her throat and breaking eye contact, Quinn asked, "Are you here to gloat about Jane's death?"

He said nothing, but his jaw locked, and a muscle jumped. Then, a stilted silence met her as he took his top hat off and placed it on the counter. His nonchalant demeanor slipped away at the question, and only darkness remained.

But Quinn couldn't quite make out the nature of that darkness—the tone of it .

She swallowed, frustration hollow in her stomach. Emrys had power. And there was nothing she could do to stop him from whatever he was going to do next. Her only way forward was to gather as much information as she could from the autopsy before he ruined everything. So, she returned her attention to the body.

Quinn dumped the victim's stomach contents into a bag and labeled it. Then, she put the major organs into formalin jars to preserve them before moving on to inspect the intestines.

"You think I murdered Jane . . ." he said slowly, lingering on each word.

"Yes," she seethed, her eyes trailing to the hem of his pants.

"Why?"

"Why are you here?" she said through her teeth.

"Perhaps I enjoy watching you play with bowels. Perhaps it is the highlight of my day." His mouth fell into a hard line.

Quinn's lips pressed together, and it took all of her strength not to throw something at him. "You have very sick hobbies then."

"Conceivably."

"Like murder." Quinn sucked in a sharp breath. "Why are you trying to cover up this murder?"

Emrys glared at her, and the muscle in his jaw ticked. "What I do is no concern of yours."

Oh, he didn't like to be questioned. Not with all that power. People simply did what he wanted.

"You don't deny it?"

He let out a low chuckle. "Deny what? Watching you do a job that my house oversees? Watching you do your job is my job."

Quinn's nostrils flared. "That's rich, considering you barely ever take an interest in my job . And when you do, you destroy evidence and get me in trouble."

"Trouble?"

Quinn shook her head. Like he didn't know. The man radiated bullshit. Of course, he knew. As he said, his house oversaw the entire city. "Never mind, why don't you go back to being uninterested in my job? That would be far more enjoyable than your presence."

He scoffed. "You know, you're right; I shouldn't take an interest in you. But then you should drop your obsession with me."

It hit like a punch to the stomach. Because he was clearly referencing the night before, making her mistakes abundantly clear. She had never been obsessed with him and never would be. It was a foolish, rotten deal, but she couldn't say any of that out loud.

"I hate you."

"Right now"—his voice was low—"the feeling is mutual."

It all hurt and was too much, but damned if she let him get to her. Quinn inhaled sharply and refused to look at him. "You were at the crime scene. Why?"

He dodged the question with one of his own. "Why are you performing an autopsy on your best friend, who happens to be a gang member?"

A trickle of unease crawled up her spine. He knew things he shouldn't, like that Jane was in a gang. Even Quinn didn't know that, and Emrys was standing too far away to see the tattoo.

"Why do you refuse to answer any questions?" Her blood bubbled as her frustration rose into her tone.

"Why do you assume that I went to the crime scene?" The side of his mouth ticked as his gaze raked over her.

She was over the back-and-forth question game. "Your attire is disheveled, which is uncharacteristic of you." Disarmingly disheveled at that. She spoke clinically and without looking up. "And you're wearing dress shoes that are scuffed and covered in mud. Your hem is also coated with mud, your right cufflink is missing, and the collar of your shirt is ruffled. A splotch of dirt runs from your neck to behind your ear. I can't imagine you were playing in the mud for fun." She bit her lip, the fire in her belly bouncing to a three-four tempo. "So, I ask again, why are you tampering with evidence and trying to cover up this murder? "

Silence coated the room like coagulated blood. He sucked in a breath but said nothing. Perhaps he was shocked by her deduction.

"I am not tampering with evidence nor trying to cover up the murder," he said finally.

Lies. It was all lies. The guilt was plain to see on his clothing.

Emotions bombarded Quinn from every angle, and she could no longer keep them hidden and trapped in the deep prison inside of her. They spilled out when she said, "You're such a liar." The words came out more as a sob.

"I'm not," he nearly growled. "I want to solve this murder. I need to."

"Because you feel responsible?" She spat out, "Because you threatened her last night."

"Because I care." His voice was hollow.

He sounded sincere, but Quinn had never known him to care about anything other than having fun. He attended the Viridian at least three times a week and had the nickname of the Playboy Prince. He was callous and spoiled.

So, it was hard to believe he cared. Emrys Avalon didn't care about anyone.

Even if he didn't kill Jane, her death was not a spectacle. It was not an opportunity for a bored royal to play with or demean. Quinn wouldn't allow it.

"That is the last thing in the world I would ever believe," she said. "You don't have the ability to care."

Every muscle in his body went preternaturally still. "You're so right. All I am is a rogue to be used and abused."

Used and abused, right. She scoffed. "Who is Jane to you?" Quinn glowered.

"Perhaps I enjoy ballerinas, Quinnevere." Emrys cocked his head. "Maybe I like the taste of them, the smell of them." His devil-may-care smirk returned, but it was covered in rot and anger. "Maybe they're my type." His voice was a soft, unnerving velvet like the insides of the intestines. "Maybe I fuck them and then kill them." His broken smile stretched wider. "Maybe you're next."

He took a vicious step forward, and without thinking, Quinn picked up one of the tools on her tray, and she hurled it at him.

The next events seemed to happen in slow motion. The edge of his lips quirked up as the blade carved through the air.

She'd thrown a scalpel.

Oh fuck, a scalpel . She'd thrown a knife at his throat, and it would hit and slice through his carotid artery at its current projection. Shit , Quinn didn't mean to do that. Was she now to be a murderer as well?

"No." The word slipped from her mouth.

The last seconds were the worst because he hadn't moved, and Emrys Avalon, prince of New Swansea, was going to die.

But—

But he didn't. In the last second, Emrys moved his hand and caught the blade between two fingers, a centimeter from his skin.

"What the fuck?" Quinn breathed, stunned.

Emrys was not . . . normal. She was certain of it now.

"I see you want to murder me," Emrys said, lowering the knife from his throat.

She did. Metaphorically. Never in reality.

"How in all the mirrors did you do that?" Quinn asked. "You'd have to be Mirror-Blessed." It wasn't a question anymore. With a move like that, it was undeniable. The prince had magic.

"I know you've always wanted to hold a knife to my throat, Quinnevere"—his anger dropped, and his voice was back to his usual dark and sensual tones—"but this seems excessive."

"I didn't mean to do that."

"It seemed like you very much meant to throw the knife."

"I—" she stammered. "Yes, I . . ." Frustration's claws dug into her core. Oh, how she hated him. "Actually, no. I meant to throw a tool at you, but I never meant for it to be a knife, and I never meant for it to get anywhere close to you."

"I mean, if knife play is your thing . . . "

"Emrys."

"What? I don't kink shame." He raised his hands in mock surrender, his joking demeanor back. Apparently, it only took her trying to murder him.

"And what is your kink? Almost being murdered?"

A dimple flashed. "It's certainly one of them."

"Then it would seem we are perfectly suited." She placed her hands on the table, exhausted.

"In solving this murder, we most certainly are."

"That's only if I believe you want to solve it." Quinn glanced at the exit, her heart punching into her throat. "You were threatening her last night."

"I was." Emrys slowly walked toward Quinn like a lion observing its prey. He didn't stop until he was uncomfortably close. She refused to look, but she felt him hovering—towering next to her. His presence sent shivers down her spine.

"I think you should leave." Quinn returned to examining the intestines.

"And I think you should look me straight in my eyes and tell me I am a murderer."

"I've already told you that a handful of times." She felt his dark chestnut stare raking and assessing her.

"Now tell me to my face."

"Is this another kink?" She turned and tilted her head up to find his eyes. "I think you are a murderer." She tried to keep her voice steady and mechanical but failed spectacularly.

He slid a gloved finger across her jaw, and his body tensed, pain flashing on his face for a moment before it disappeared. "Jane and I—"

"Don't say her name." Tears coiled in Quinn's eyes. "Just don't . . . please."

He stepped closer, his vest grazed her arm, and he tilted his chin down to better meet her. "I did not kill her. I needed her help, and now I need your help to find her murderer." The words made Quinn gulp. "I know that you think I'm a careless, rich fool who spends all of his time partying and wasting my life away—you made that abundantly clear last night—but perhaps there may be more beneath that facade."

His presence tingled like energy in the air between them. And although she didn't want to admit it, something was shining through his mask of indifference, but she couldn't decipher exactly what. Maybe he was a narcissist and able to manipulate people and their emotions easily.

She wanted to ask why he needed Jane's help, but instead, she said, "I think you should leave." Then Quinn turned back to the intestines.

"Think of me what you will, but I'll search for Jan—her killer, with or without your help."

"I don't want you here." Quinn's chest rose in tight breaths.

"Trust me. If it were up to me, I wouldn't be here with—" you . The last word hung in the air unsaid. "I cannot let the killer roam free. It's—" He cleared his throat and stepped back. "I'll watch from over here. You have more work to do."

His audacity. Oh, he was so frustrating.

Emrys strolled to the closest counter and leaned against it, sliding his fingers into his pockets, and striking a devastating pose.

But he was right. She did have work to do, so ignoring him, Quinn pulled out the top of a long worm from inside the small intestines. She pulled and pulled and pulled, and the worm kept coming. White and slimy, the tapeworm was nearly three feet long. Considering how long they could grow to, this one was rather small.

"What in all the mirrors is that?" Emrys cursed, his expression one of pure disgust.

"A tapeworm." Her words were clinical and unimpressed.

Emrys's face lit up with horror and shock. "What? That's disgusting."

"It is a tapeworm. Some girls used to swallow an egg to try to get the tiny waists that you would see on some of the Starling Ladies, and many courtesans do it, too," she said. Starling Ladies were high-class, high-fashion ladies.

But why would Jane use one?

Quinn thought she knew Jane, but as the minutes ticked by, she realized she understood nothing about the other redhead.

"I didn't know that girls were still doing that." Emrys stepped closer to get a better look at the worm.

"I didn't know people still held suitor balls. I guess some people like to keep up their archaic traditions." Quinn shook her head at his hypocrisy.

Emrys opened his mouth to respond but then abruptly shut it. He visibly swallowed before finally saying, "Why do it? The beauty standards are changing. There is no need to do this."

"Some girls still feel a lot of pressure to be skinny and to look like the ‘ideal woman.'"

"But—"

"Or perhaps the Fant?mes gang requires their girls to look a certain way," Quinn said clinically.

"That is . . . excessive."

"Indeed," she agreed. "Or perhaps it was another mirror deal gone wrong. Clearly, I know nothing about Jane."

Emrys's eyes darkened, and he let a long pause linger before he said, "How did she die?"

"Blood loss."

He took a hesitant step forward. "Drained entirely of blood?"

"Yes," Quinn breathed. Her hands shook, and dread crawled up her throat.

"What do you think killed her?" he asked.

Quinn shuddered and pretended to examine the bowels, but in truth, she didn't want to say that her best hypothesis was a vampire. It sounded ridiculous.

"Do you think it was a vampire?" His voice was wary.

Quinn bristled. It was like he read her mind. Or, possibly, he believed it. She faced him. "Vampires are extinct." She was a machine devoid of emotion .

His only response was to place his hands in his pockets and nonchalantly rock on his feet. Quinn glared up at him, a snake coiling around her heart and baring its fangs. He was so annoying. Emrys only suggested it to get under her skin—to toy with her.

"Can you please leave? You are too distracting." Quinn returned to her task.

"I can be quiet."

"No. You should leave. You are too distracting even with your mouth shut, which by the way, is always preferable."

Part of Quinn craved the distraction, though. Because she had to admit that since he entered the room, her devastation was held a little bit at bay. She was too focused on the prince to acknowledge her broken heart, and that made the autopsy easier.

But he was still an irritant.

Emrys chuckled. "You are refreshingly honest."

Were people not generally honest with him?

"And you are not quiet." She flashed a glare at him that could cut deep wounds in his chest.

He raised his hands in silent defeat and went back to leaning against the counter in a pose that must have been on purpose. No one leaned like that on accident. He looked like a hero in a silent film.

Quinn huffed. He was too distracting. Distracting because she hated him but also because his face disturbed her. She changed her mind. His presence was no longer useful. She'd deal with the devastation instead of whatever this was. "You are too diverting. Please, leave."

"How am I diverting if I am silent?"

"Your face is unsettling." Quinn grunted. "It is too perfect. Perfectly proportionate, with sharp cheekbones and sculpted eyebrows. Your nose is just the right size to fit your face. Your lips too full. Your eyes are too golden brown to be naturally human, and even your ears are just the perfect length, like they were gifted to you by a mirror. It's all too distracting. I want to measure it and study it. "

Emrys's face flickered with an emotion Quinn couldn't read. "Thanks?" he asked hesitantly.

Quinn sighed. "Perfect does not equal beautiful. Beauty is in the flaws. Which you have none . . . unless you count your charming personality."

Emrys laughed, and Quinn gathered samples from the large and small intestines before preserving them in formalin. Then she packed up and cleaned the body.

As she was nearly finished, Emrys asked, "How was your birthday?"

Quinn glowered. "I much prefer the company of corpses. They don't talk bac—"

Her voice drained of all its power as she pulled a note out of an intestine. It was paper, and it should have been eroded by stomach acid, yet it wasn't. It was perfectly intact. It had to be mirror-spelled. Quinn's brain swirled with emotions and letters, and it took all her concentration to read the words.

Find the second Blood Mirror by the Suitor Ball, or you will be my next victim, Quinnevere.

She gasped and dropped the note back into the bowels. She felt the blood draining from her face, and every muscle in her body was as taut as a harp string. Whoever killed Jane knew that Quinn would do the autopsy. They knew she wouldn't be able to resist, which meant the killer either knew her or was watching her very closely.

Shivers coursed through her body, and she trembled.

The note gave her nine days to find the second Blood Mirror. An object she knew absolutely nothing about.

Her heart pounded, and beads of sweat rolled down her temple.

"Are you okay?" Emrys took a hesitant step toward her .

Quinn sucked in her emotions, sewed a smile on her face, and lied through her teeth, "Yes, everything is fine."

Emrys couldn't know about the note. Because if he were the murderer, she didn't want him to see her find it. And if he wasn't the murderer then . . . then she didn't know what, but she needed the note not to exist, and maybe if she pushed it away, it wouldn't.

Emrys cocked his head. "You don't seem—"

"Everything is swell. Truly, I should probably be finishing up." Her nostrils flared as she rolled the victim's body toward the negative temperature chamber.

Emrys's eyes narrowed for a moment before trailing down to her wrist automatically, almost as if he was expecting something to be there, and when he saw the tattoo, he oh-so-slightly cringed. Quinn felt naked and had the sudden urge to hide her marking. But at the same moment, she was curious to know what he knew about it.

Jane had the same one. It was a clue, and Quinn could use all the clues she could find.

So, instead of hiding, she decided to be straightforward. It was the most practical thing to do, after all. "What does my tattoo mean?"

Quinn had hers since before she could remember. Her entire family had them, and she never knew why. No one was alive to tell her.

Emrys crinkled his eyebrows in false surprise. "I have no idea what it means. It's your tattoo."

"You're a terrible liar."

"It would seem we both are." Emrys's lips slowly curled into a cruel smirk, and then he did something genuinely abominable. He strolled over to Quinn's process notes and started reading.

"Don't look at that." Her voice cracked. She tried to grab for the notepad, but right as she was about to reach out, she remembered body juices covered her hands and apron.

Emrys stepped back—taunting—his eyes still on the paper.

Shame pierced at the back of her throat like falling icicles. The last thing that Quinn wanted anyone to do was to read her notes. Because if they did, they would finally know. The girl who couldn't read. The girl who couldn't spell. The girl who would never succeed, no matter how hard she tried.

The slow, stupid, foolish girl.

At the age of six, Quinn was diagnosed with word blindness, a disease that caused her to be unable to differentiate words and sounds. Sounding out words, understanding meaning, and decoding sentences seemed impossible. Everything blended together and became a scrambled mess. She was unable to break down the sentences and words into smaller parts to learn them.

She'd managed to keep it secret for most of her life, but if Emrys read her notes, he would figure it out.

"Everything is spelled wrong.You really can't read, can you? That's why you refuse to do the murder briefings now?" His smile disappeared like crumbling ash.

Quinn gulped. "I can read." Her voice was far smaller than she intended it to be.

"But you certainly can't spell." There was the mocking she expected. He smoothed the silk lapels on his suit jacket before taking out a pen and writing something. "Can you read this out loud?"

Reading aloud. The number one enemy. A muscle twitched in her jaw as she decided if she would humor him. If she didn't read it, he would certainly think she was an idiot. But if she did, he would also think she was stupid because it would take far more effort than it should. Quinn huffed and jerked the paper out of his hand.

It had a sentence composed of many words she hadn't yet memorized. She knew how to read it. She knew the majority of what the note said, but she couldn't understand the words she hadn't memorized, and she was unable to break them down into more understandable chunks. Her uncle had taught her how to take apart words and sound them out, but sometimes it was so hard. But she had an excellent memory, and once Quinn learned a word, she would know it forever.

The sentence read:

Quinnevere Ashelle wants to help Prince Emrys find the murderer, and she thinks he is devilishly attractive, and that's why she wants to fuck him.

Quinn refused to read it out loud and instead tossed the paper at Emrys's face. "I think you've made your point. Can you please leave now?"

"I don't understand. You're clearly brilliant." Emrys waved his hand at all the samples and the room. A fire burned at her cheeks. "How do you do all of this if you can't spell or read?"

Quinn rubbed at her temples. He was getting on her last nerve. "I can read. It's just . . . that it's hard. The words and the sounds don't make sense in my brain. But I have a good memory. And I don't want to help you do anything. Ever. I can read it, as you can see. It just sometimes feels like an impossible task."

"Oh."

A stilted quiet danced through the room to the beat of a three-four waltz as Emrys stared at her. She returned to her task but still felt his eyes prickling on her skin.

"You are brilliant, you know," he said, causing her to whip her head in his direction. An incomprehensible emotion gathered on his perfect face. "I need you to help me solve these murders. I am a great detective, but I can't solve this case without your expertise."

These murderers? There was more than one?

Quinn swallowed, not knowing what to do with these words. She didn't—couldn't help him. Especially not when he was a suspect.

"I am not going to stop, and I don't think you are either," he said. "Let's work together."

Quinn wasn't sure if she could trust him. This was the famous Emrys Avalon, who only cared about having fun and ruining things. Over the last five years, Emrys had gotten caught in three scandals that tarnished him and the crown's reputation. He even burned down his country house in Aberdare.

Trusting him was foolish. He could be the murderer. "No," she said. "I don't trust you."

"You will." Emrys bowed his head in respect and said, "Good day, Ms. Ashelle."

"Mr. Avalon. I mean, Your Highness." His honorific felt foreign on her tongue.

His exit was swift and confusing. He refused to leave, yet suddenly, he couldn't wait to get away. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled, and she wondered if she'd accidentally agreed to something she shouldn't have. She'd refused to help him, yet somehow, she knew it wouldn't matter. He'd worm his way into her investigation.

And that was dangerous.

Any time spent with Emrys Avalon was a terrible mistake.