Chapter 9
“Oh my god,” Jak whispered, horror in his voice. “That can’t possibly be—”
I flung out an arm to stop him from moving into the room. The gesture was automatic. My gaze had locked on the gore and blood scattered around the room, and a sick sense of déjà vu crawled across my skin. Though this murder—and my mom’s—were similar to the MO of the Rakshasa, this wasn’t her work. She fed off her victims. Whoever was responsible for this simply tore their victims apart. Somehow I managed to say, “It can and it is. We need to call the Directorate.”
He glanced at me sharply. “Why? This is gruesome, no doubt about it, but there’s no indication it’s the work of a non-human. I mean, not even a vampire could tear someone apart this completely. Some kind of power tool must have been used.”
“It wasn’t. Trust me.” I took a deep, shuddering breath and closed my eyes. Bad mistake, because the minute I did, I saw Mum bits, Mum’s head… Bile rose and I swallowed heavily, then grabbed Jak’s hand and dragged him out of there.
“What the fuck?” he said, trying to wrench himself free. “Risa, there’s one hell of a story in there—”
“And it’s not one you’ll ever be allowed to print,” I said. I stopped in the garden and sucked in several deep breaths. It didn’t do a lot to ease the churning in my stomach, but it at least cleared the scent of blood from my lungs.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve seen this before.”
He studied me for a moment, frowning. “Where?”
“When my mum died.” I waved a hand toward the house. “That’s precisely the way she was killed.”
“Oh, fuck,” he said, his face going white. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “No one knew outside the Directorate and me, so you have nothing to apologize for.”
“And that’s the reason you want the Directorate called in? Because they’re the ones that investigated your mom’s death?”
Azriel? Are you near? I thought, then said out loud, “Yes. Only there were no clues and, until now, the killer hadn’t resurfaced.”
Azriel appeared behind Jak and lightly touched his neck. Jak froze, his eyes going suddenly blank.
“Are you okay?” Azriel asked.
“Mostly.” I wrapped my arms around my body, and wished they were his arms, not mine. “I guess you’ve already been inside?”
“Yes. As before, there is nothing to suggest who is behind this murder.”
As before… I shivered, and again tried to ignore the images that rose.
“No scent or spiritual essence—or whatever it is that you Mijai track by—whatsoever? How in the hell is something like that even possible?”
“The lack of scent is understandable,” he said calmly. “Humans have had scent-erasing soap for many years now.”
I waved a hand in acknowledgment. “But how can the killer not leave any other trace of himself behind?”
“Anything is possible if one is extremely careful, and our killer obviously is.”
I took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Then what the hell is the link between my mum’s murder and this man’s?”
“That is obvious.” His voice was grim. “You are the connection.”
I blinked. “Why would I be the link when it comes to a retired photographer I didn’t even know?”
“You might not have known James Blake, but you were intending to question him about Nadler. You were also investigating Nadler and his consortium when your mother was killed. I doubt it is a coincidence.”
“But—” I paused. Pain and guilt rose like a ghost, but I pushed them back down and added, “I can understand someone killing Blake to keep him quiet, but Mom didn’t really know much about my investigation.”
“She was a very strong psychic,” he replied, his voice soft. “You do not know what she might or might not have known.”
And now never would, I thought bleakly. “Do you think they’ll go after Nadler’s ex, as well?”
“It is possible.”
I swore, dug my phone out of my purse, and said, “Uncle Rhoan.” The psychedelic patterns ran across the screen as the auto connect sprang into action.
Then Uncle Rhoan appeared. “If you’re ringing to tell me you’ve discovered another dead body, I will not be happy. You know I wanted you off these investigations.”
Fortunately, there was a resigned weariness in his voice rather than anger. I had a suspicion that either Aunt Riley had talked to him or he’d simply come to accept that I wouldn’t stop sticking my nose into events. “I’m afraid there is another body and his name is—was—James Blake. He was a retired photographer who happened to be the attending photographer at John Nadler’s wedding. He was killed the same way as Mom.”
He was silent for a long moment, then said, “Are you okay?”
My attempt at a smile came out more of a grimace. “Queasy as hell, but holding up. You need to get people out here, but I also need you to check on Jacinta Nadler—we talked to her yesterday, and it just might have placed her in danger.”
He paused, and barked out orders to whoever was in the room with him, meaning he was at the Directorate rather than at home, then said, “Who’s we?”
I hesitated. “Myself and Jak Talbott.”
“Jak Talbott?” His voice was incredulous. “The reporter who used his relationship with you to do that hatchet job on your mother?”
I winced. “Yeah, that very one.”
“Why the hell are you working with him?”
“Because I’m trying to track down John Nadler, and Jak’s got a lot of useful street contacts.”
His sigh was one of exasperation. “Riley’s right. You’re not only pigheaded but determined to see this through no matter what you have to do, or who you have to use.”
It was no surprise she’d said that—she knew me better than most. “If it was Riley who’d been murdered,” I said softly, “wouldn’t you react the same?”
“The difference is,” he snapped, “I’m a trained guardian. You’re not.”
“No, but I’ve been taught to fight by two of the best, I’m not without means of protecting myself aside from that, and I have a reaper following me about who needs to keep me alive.”
He grunted. Whether that meant he was finally accepting my continuing pursuit of both Nadler and my mom’s murderer was anyone’s guess. “Okay, I’ve pinpointed your location. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He hesitated, then added, “Do not go back into that house until I arrive.”
“I won’t.” I hung up and glanced at Azriel. “No matter what you think of Lucian, he can’t have been involved in this. I haven’t seen him, haven’t talked to him since last night, and even if he could read my thoughts, he wouldn’t have had time to get down here before Jak or me.”
“All of which is true,” Azriel commented. “That does not, however, change my opinion that he is involved in all this somehow.”
“You,” I said flatly, “are annoyingly pigheaded.”
“Perhaps it is the company I keep that makes me so.”
I snorted and waved a hand at Jak. “You’d better release him.”
“Do you wish me to update his memories to include your ringing the Directorate?”
I nodded. Azriel touched Jak lightly and energy swirled, whispering through me like a sweet autumn breeze.
Then he dropped his hand and met my gaze again. “And just to be clear,” he said, his voice even but a teasing light suddenly gleaming in his eyes, “I am not as immune to the virtues of that top as you believe.”
And with that, he disappeared again, leaving me shaking my head and smiling like an idiot.
“Care to share the joke?” Jak said dryly.
I glanced at him. “Sorry, just something my uncle said.”
“Your uncle the guardian, I gather we’re talking about?”
“Yeah.” I put my phone away. “To say he was rather surprised to discover I’m working with you on this is something of an understatement.”
Worry crossed his face. “He didn’t threaten violence, did he?”
“No.” I studied him for a moment. “Has he before?”
Jak cleared his throat and looked a little uncomfortable. “You could say that.”
“Really? When?”
“The first time when I wrote that story on your mom; the second when we broke up. He can be a very scary man, you know.”
“He is a guardian.” I said that a little too cheerfully, if Jak’s darkening expression was anything to go by. “But the threats can’t have been too bad. I mean, not only are you still alive, but you walked away from them intact.”
“Only because I swore on my mother’s grave not to do another report on your mother, and to keep well away from you. The latter of which I am obviously not doing.”
I patted his arm comfortingly. “Because we all know the story means more to you than the threat. And don’t worry—Uncle Rhoan knows I contacted you, not the other way around.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t be pissed,” he muttered, then plopped down on the step. “How long will they be?”
I sat down beside him and glanced at my watch. “About thirteen minutes.”
As it turned out, they arrived in eight. Or at least Uncle Rhoan did—it seemed he’d beaten all land speed records to get here.
He came through the gate, a crime scene kit slung over one shoulder. His gray eyes swept the two of us critically. “You haven’t been inside?”
I shook my head. “Other than the initial entry when we found the body, no.”