Chapter 19

Nineteen

Q uinn held her arm out, blocking her equally curious friends from entering the room and contaminating the scene. Everything needed to be handled appropriately.

"Emrys, find a telephone and ring my uncle," Quinn said before turning to Giselle. "Do you think you could find a camera?"

"Yes." Giselle scurried off and out of the room.

Quinn continued to bark orders like a highly skilled admiral, and everyone listened, even the prince. "Jevon, guard the hallway and make sure no one enters. Constance, I need you here to help me gather the evidence."

Slowly, not trying to disturb the scene, Quinn walked into the hallway, searched for her medical kit, and dropped her bag next to the door. She tied her cinnamon hair into a tight ballet bun and slipped gloves onto her fingers. Once everything was in place, Quinn retraced her steps and carefully tiptoed over to the body.

Her hands shook as she reached out to grasp the man's wrist. Inhaling sharply, she tried to steady the hailstorm of emotions cutting at her core. This man was the one person who had answers, the one person who might be able to lead them in the correct direction .

He was the key, and now he was dead.

As she slid her fingers across the victim's wrist, she was struck by how warm his body felt. If the body was this warm, it meant that his time of death would've been less than an hour before.

The human body lost temperature at the rate of 1.5 degrees per hour, and although she didn't have a mirror thermometer on her, this body felt nearly alive. But she would need Uncle Matias's equipment to confirm.

The killer was one step ahead of Quinn. Ruining her chances of discovering their identity. It was almost as if they watched her and knew precisely what she'd do next.

A chill crawled down her spine.

It might be possible to have a mirror object that could spy on people, but the cost of an object like that would be astronomical. Quinn's heart rattled. The type of person willing to make that large of a bargain scared her.

No lacerations, no puncture wounds. No tattoos. This body didn't fit the profile, but it was too coincidental that he showed up dead right when they sought answers from him. The only logical reason for killing the reporter was that he might know the murderer's identity because if his information had led to a Blood Mirror, there was an incentive to keep him alive and let Quinn get closer to finding the information.

Worse still, there were no longer any good suspects. Emrys was with her all morning. He couldn't have killed him.

The victim, a roughly middle-aged man, seemed to have died from a broken neck. The victim's head was tilted to such an inhuman degree it looked like it was barely attached to the body.

Someone—or something—incredibly strong killed this man.

At the morgue, Uncle Matias started the autopsy on Sir Andrew St. John, a wealthy aristocrat who had turned freelance reporter. The body's internal temperature was ninety-seven degrees, which placed the time of death likely minutes before Jevon discovered the body.

Emrys was the only one observing the procedure because her friends were not allowed in the lab.

Wringing her hands and contemplating the best way forward, Quinn stared at the corpse on the exam table.

"So, child, what were you doing at the crime scene?" Uncle Matias asked.

Oh, scratched mirrors .

She placed a false smile on her face. "We were . . ." Quinn tried to come up with something clever to say that would get her out of trouble, but she was the worst liar. Lying was not practical, functional, or helpful on most occasions. It usually caused more problems and led to a lack of control. And because she hated trouble, she had no idea what to do or say.

"Quinnevere Igretta Ashelle, I know you are lying to me." Her uncle shot a withering glare with his hands, wrist deep in a corpse. "Please don't tell me you are investigating the gang victim."

"I—"

"Igretta," Emrys whispered to Quinn with a raised eyebrow.

She flashed him a look that screamed, shut your mouth, or I'll devour you , which was met with a low chuckle.

Her cheeks warmed outwardly, expressing just how caught she was, and of course, her uncle's shrewd gaze noticed everything. "I specifically told you that you were not allowed under any circumstances to investigate her murder."

It was true, but it was abnormal for him to forbid investigations. Something was off. "I—"

"Dr. Ashelle." Emrys tilted his head as if acknowledging a gentleman of higher rank. Of course, no gentleman in all of New Swansea out-ranked Emrys. "I asked Quinnevere to look into Jane Whitfield-Wryte's murder. She's helping me. That is all."

Emrys rolled his shoulders back, power and arrogance pulsating from his pores—it was real and physical. It was like he lit a flame of magic, and no one or nothing could look away from his tango of dominance. Her eyebrows creased.

"Oh, I see. Castle Hill business, then?" Uncle Matias asked.

"Yes."

"Perhaps you should let Quinn work on the investigation while you continue your autopsy." Emrys's voice buzzed with enchantment, each word coated with magic and force.

Uncle Matias rubbed his left forearm and clenched his teeth. "You could ask. You don't have to do that." A chill rushed through her body, and she gaped at Emrys as her uncle turned back to the corpse. "Well then, Quinnevere, get to work," Uncle Matias said as he pulled organs out of the chest cavity.

Quinn's feet felt like concrete blocks. She didn't know what to do. She bit her lip, her eyes flashing between the two gentlemen.

Emrys had used magic on him, and Uncle Matias noticed it but brushed it off. What in all the mirrors was going on?

Emrys prowled over and whispered, "Are you okay?"

She rounded on him and whispered back, "I am guessing you can't tell me about that either."

"No," he breathed, his eyes alight with shimmering enchantment.

"Wonderful." Her mouth grew sour. Even if he wasn't a murderer, he was insufferable. But if he weren't the murderer, then Quinn would need to visit a mirror, which she absolutely didn't want to do. The reporter was the last lead, and now that he was dead . . .

Quinn glanced at her samples and hurriedly asked, "Can I take your prints?" Hopefully, he wouldn't be offended, but it was important to cross him off the list of her suspects .

A side of Emrys's lips jerked up. "You think I am the murderer?"

"I would like to rule it out."

Emrys followed her gaze to the fingerprint samples. "You have a fingerprint from the murderer?"

"Yes."

He gave a slight nod. "Then you shall inspect my fingers, and you will know that I only mean to help."

She prepared the ink and paper for his samples. Reaching out, she clasped his hand, and it tremored. "You have magic."

"So it would seem." His words were hurt and clipped.

Quinn dipped his fingers in ink and methodically rolled them on the paper. Her heart danced in her chest, speeding up like bourrée steps. "So, you are Mirror-Blessed?" she asked, rolling his final finger on the paper.

"Or am I something else? That is the question, isn't it?" His eyes dripped with unreadable thoughts like an ocean of mystery.

Something else, like . . . a vampire?

Quinn was nearly convinced vampires were alive and well. Emrys had implied it before, and the markings on all the victims were too much of a coincidence. Plus, what would be strong enough and fast enough to kill the reporter before they arrived?

A vampire.

She shuddered as she placed the paper down next to the other samples. Quickly, she checked, cross-checked, and checked again.

The vein in her neck pulsed to the rhythm of a war drum. "Whatever you are, at the very least, you are not Jane's murderer."