She knew things were bad when the dead were trying to get her attention…
The billboard on the wall behind him, not five hundred yards from where Sybil had been murdered, screamed, “REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE BEFORE YOU FORGOT.”
It was in capital letters. As she watched, an exclamation mark added itself to the end of the sentence. The words themselves were bad enough, but when punctuation started to get on her case, it was just rude.
“Not today,” she told it firmly, closing her eyes to shut both out.
She’d seen dead people practically since she’d been born. Her first memory was of a little old witch who’d been burned at the stake during the Dark Ages. The crispy witch often bent over her crib, singing nursery rhymes to help her get back to sleep. She’d thought everyone saw them until she’d mentioned the hanged man who played afternoon tea with her to her mother.
Then it had all been banishments and warding spells, and she’d been warned that under no circumstances was she to tell anyone what she could see. They were a good solid family of kitchen witches, thank you very much. Their stock in trade was herbal concoctions, weather casting and the occasional love potion or two. They didn’t hold with such nonsense as talking to the dead. Or making cheese. According to her grandfather, that was an arcane art up there with necromancy.
“You okay?” Oberon murmured, his deep voice low by her ear as he came to stand next to her. For a moment she wanted to turn and bury herself into his strong arms. Strong arms he’d used to great effect last night, bracing himself over her. All. Night. Long.
Fuck. She put that temptation from her mind before she could get all hot and bothered again. It wouldn’t look good if she was caught dragging her assistant down a dark alley for some tonsil tennis and a quickie against the wall. Her professional reputation, fledging as it was, would never recover.
“Yeah. I will be,” she said on a sigh and opened her eyes. “Okay, Mr. Fae Expert, what do you think?”
He blinked, looking down at her. “Why am I the fae expert?”
“Helloooo… did you miss the fact you’re the only winged freak here?” Garlick asked, looking up from his perusal of Jack’s fish with an interest that was agitating ghost Jack, who kept trying to shoo the familiar away. Unfortunately, his hands went right through the cat’s head, making Garlick sneeze repeatedly.
Oberon shot the cat a glare that could have melted steel. “What? Just because I’m fae I know all about them? That would be like me asking you if you know my aunt’s husband’s cousin’s great-grand-niece’s friend just because you live in the human world. And,” he added with a feral grin, “you all look alike to me.”
Daffi reached up to swat at his massive bicep. “We’d better not all look alike to you—”
“Yeah. I’ve got fur and she’s like naked under her clothes.” There was a gagging sound. “Ugh…I need mind bleach.”
Oberon shot her a sideways look and a charming smile. “Apart from you of course, my queen. Your loveliness sets you apart like the moon herself in the heavens.”
She nodded, a small sound of approval in the back of her throat. It was an appropriate amount of sucking up. “Okay, tell me what you do know?” she asked, nodding toward Jack’s body.
The ghost of the little fae jumped up and down in her peripheral vision. She ignored him for the moment. There was a time and a place for talking to the dead. This was not it.
“Okay,” Oberon pursed his delectable lips as he looked down at the body. “He’s a Wirry Boggle. Essentially harmless.”
Daffi raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t known that. Types of fae were hard to distinguish. She’d heard with some of them, most of their courtship rituals were based on finding out what type the other person was… which was secondary to gender.
Oberon nodded toward Jack’s fish. “That’s about the extent of his capabilities. Unless cursed, boggles are rarely violent or dangerous. They’re more mischievous. Knock door and run games, moving household items, swapping the salt and pepper type thing…”
Garlick grunted. “They’re the assholes who hide the toilet paper then.”
Oberon nodded. “That sounds boggle level.”
He continued looking at the body as he walked around it. Then he crouched down and put his hand out, running it over the body slowly.
“What’s he doing? Communing with the body?” Garlick asked, sidling up to Daffi to lean against her leg. She reached down to scratch his ear and he rattled an asthmatic chainsaw purr.
“Shhh… let the man work,” she murmured, watching the big fae. Crouched down, his jeans pulled over his delectable arse. Like two walnuts in a sock, it looked just as good out of them as in… She bit her lip as memories from the night before flooded her brain.
Garlick sniffed and groaned. “Look, I know you banged the fae, but I don’t need an olfactory replay. Kthankx…”
She grinned, about to tell him to keep his nose to himself, when Oberon stiffened and snatched his hand away. He stood, backpedaling so quickly he almost stumbled over her. His face was white.
“The sergeant was quite right,” he swallowed, his face white. “This wasn’t a hellfire machete. This was a different murder weapon. He was killed with cold-worked iron.”
“Seriously?” She blinked. “You can tell that?”
Oberon nodded, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. In all the literature and information she’d studied on the fae, she’d never seen a fairy with stubble. It made him look… sinful. Quickly she dragged her mind out of the gutter and back onto the job.
“All higher fae can sense cold-worked iron. It’s… like cold here?” He rubbed at the center of his chest. “This fae was killed with cold-worked iron, which means he cannot move on.”
“Cold-iron weapons are a restricted class of weapon,” Sergeant Abberline added, obviously picking up the last part of their conversation as he approached. “It should be easy to track down any of them in the local area. And who has access to them.”
He made a note in his little book, almost identical to the one Daffi carried. “This changes things, though.”
“Oh?” So far the sergeant had been very good at sharing information, far more than she’d expected… but then, her only experience of actual investigation had been MPI Investigates, a popular TV show with witch detectives who were at odds with each other and often sabotaged each other’s investigations. She was sure the two main characters were shagging as well, but so far no joy on any on-screen action.
“Yeah. My main suspect so far had been the victim’s half-sister,” he mused. “Forensics came back on the first murder weapon. It was a stone machete. But all types of gorgon have an aversion to cold-iron… so this? It’s not the sister.”
Daffi blinked, her blood running cold. “Gorgon?”
Gorgons were rare. Really rare. In fact, the only gorgon she knew was—
“Megas Petr,” he replied. “The mother used to be a servant at the Bulcock estate and was cast off when she got pregnant. The father was listed as Tobais Bulcock. She’s Sybil Bulcock’s half-sister. I’d say that was motive. Wouldn’t you?”