Chapter 2 #4
Ruadhán stood with three other officers toward the end of the long, featureless room, but turned as we approached.
He was basically an older version of Mathi—though his eyes were much colder than his son’s and lacked the mirth that often flitted through Mathi’s—with age lines creasing his forehead and frown furrows near his mouth.
Mom always said such furrows were a sign of deep-set unhappiness, though if she’d known what lay at its cause here, she’d never let on.
I stopped a respectful few feet away. He didn’t like me, I didn’t like him, and we tended not to get within each other’s personal space unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Let’s be clear, Bethany,” he said. “I believe this to be a fool’s errand, but given your recent success hunting for the council, I am willing to give in to their request and allow you access.”
The council hadn’t made that request, which meant Mathi had stretched the truth a tad when he’d called his father. “Then let’s hope such generosity results in me finding something worthwhile.”
His blue gaze darkened a fraction, but all he said was, “Please, follow me, and remember, you are not to touch anything without first clearing it with me.”
“Understood, but please tell your people not to react when I draw my knives, as I’ll need them to find whatever magic remains.” Had it been Mathi or even Cynwrig I was speaking to, I would have added, “I promise not to stab you,” but Ruadhán would not have appreciated the humor.
“They have already been warned. This way.”
He turned and led us to the left and then down a set of stairs that, though now concrete, still retained the lovely old oak handrail.
I ran my fingers down it, listening to the wood’s muted song, hearing the sadness in it thanks to the disconnect with the rest of the building.
All pixie lines had some sort of rapport with nature, be it controlling water, plants, insects, or bending trees to their will.
Aodhán pixies could hear the song of, and manipulate, any sort of wood, whether it was alive or dead, in the forest or in furniture.
Of course, the females of our line also had one other skill the others didn’t—while all pixie women had received the blessing of the goddesses, giving them the so-called six virtues of womanhood, we Aodhán had a rather handy variation on one of them—we could control people’s actions with voice and touch.
Unfortunately, it worked on everyone except elves, which was a pain in the ass because I’d really love to know why Ruadhán disliked me so much.
Had it been any other Ljósálfar of royal blood, I would have said it stemmed from me being a part of what they consider a lower- or working-class family, and therefore a far from suitable partner for his son, but he’d always been aware our relationship had been based on friendship and sex rather than anything truly emotional.
In some ways, his dislike felt almost instinctive.
It was as if he couldn’t help it, thanks to what he was and what I was.
Which had never made any fucking sense, especially since he had seemed to like—or at least, respect—my mother.
We continued on until we hit the basement, then walked down a long concrete corridor interspersed with several sets of heavily barred metal doors.
The vault room lay at the far end. The vault’s door was not only massive but also surprisingly opulent.
Its surrounds were Neoclassical in style, with stone—marble?
—a textured golden color that gleamed in the muted lighting.
In the half arch above the doorway was a mosaic tile flower decoration that almost looked Roman in style and was, again, simply gorgeous.
The only modern part of the whole vault lay on the wall to the right of its frame, where there were a couple of small, linked metal boxes and a slightly larger but separate one.
I had no idea what any of them were for, but presumably they had something to do with the multiple number of locks and thick metal pins that radiated around the inside of the door.
Just beyond the vault’s frame, on the inside of the vault itself, was another barred door that was no doubt meant as a final line of defense if the two timed locks and the backup generator went down, and a would-be thief had the lock combination.
We stepped through the thick metal door frame into the main vault area.
The room was narrow but long, with safety deposit boxes stacked ceiling high on either side—the higher ones being accessible via antique-looking rolling ladders—and three privacy booths down the end.
There was also a rather untidy pile of about twenty boxes sitting in a middle of the tiled floor midway down the room.
Money, jewelry, and a number of rolled-up parchments lay scattered around them, which lent credence to our suspicions the thief had been after something specific.
“Anything?” Ruadhán asked.
“I only just got in the door. Give me time.”
He didn’t say anything, but I sure as hell felt the roll of his annoyance.
I dragged one of the knives out of my purse, then handed the bag and my tea to Mathi and walked on, being careful to avoid anything that looked like evidence.
A woman squatted a foot or so away from the pile of metal boxes, and it took me a second to realize it was Marjorlaine Blackguard, the head of the spellcasters’ guild here in Deva.
She glanced around as I neared, and her eyebrows rose. She was a well-dressed woman in her mid-forties with spiky silver hair, silvery eyes, and dark brown skin. A thick veil of energy surrounded her that, while it didn’t fizz with lightning, still felt electric.
“You do pop up in the strangest places, Bethany Aodhán.”
Her voice was dry and amused, but then, I had the feeling she saw me as nothing—as an untrained joke. Could be doing her an injustice, of course, but I doubted it.
“When it comes to godly relics, I’m apparently the latest go-to girl.”
I stopped beside her and scanned the pile.
I couldn’t see anything that suggested magic had been used, but given none of the boxes had been opened, our thief had obviously just used his vaporous state to reach in and draw out whatever lay inside.
“I’m just as surprised to see you here, Marjorlaine, given your talent leans towards weather manipulation. ”
“That’s my primary ability, certainly, but I am also sensitive to the detritus that remains after the casting of a spell.”
“Did you find anything here?”
“I didn’t expect to, given we are dealing with a godly relic, but surprisingly, there are lingering remnants of a leash spell around each of these.
” She motioned to the boxes. “Our thief presumably created it to drag them from their positions at the same time rather than retrieve each one separately.”
“It would certainly have saved him a whole lot of time and effort.” I scanned the rows of boxes for a second.
The boxes had come from all over the place, high and low, so it did make sense that they’d all been ripped free at the same time.
“Will you be able to trace the practitioner through the remnants of magic he or she left behind?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That would normally be our next step, but in all honesty, a leash spell is simple enough and can be formed by anyone with the barest minimum of magical talent. There’s a good chance he is not even registered.”
“So we are dealing with a male?”
She glanced up. “The detritus feels male. I take it from the questions you are not sensing anything?”
“Haven’t tried yet.”
“Then perhaps you should do so.” Ruadhán’s voice held a colder, sharper edge that hinted at deepening impatience. “We do have a crime scene to finish documenting.”
I bit back the instinctive need to make a tart comment, squatted beside Marjorlaine, and lightly touched the tip of the knife to the nearest box.
Purple lightning flared down its fuller and danced briefly across the pile before fading.
There was something here, but its pulse or presence was neither dangerous nor traceable.
At least, that was what instinct was telling me.
It wasn’t like I had a how-to book when it came to using the knives or indeed the triune as a whole.
“Does that flash mean the knives have detected something?” Marjorlaine asked, in unsuppressed surprise.
But then, she’d never actually seen the knives in action; the only other time I’d drawn them in her presence was when the witch controlling the Horn for my aunt had been icing over the Fae Museum, but she’d retreated before I had a chance to use them.
“Seems like it.” I rose and scanned the vault again. Instinct twitched as my gaze fell on the privacy booths at the far end. I turned and pointed. “Am I okay to approach those? I won’t mess with any evidence collecting, will I?”
“If there is information down there to be gathered, then probably. Daniel, go with her and record everything.”
Daniel was a thin stick of a fellow, with grayish, scaly-looking skin, red eyes, and pupils that had a distinctly oval shape.
He moved toward me, and I had to stop the instinctive need to step back.
While it was extremely rare for snakes to be seen around these parts—they were generally found in the warmer south coast areas—it was even rarer to see a snake shifter.
This was certainly the first time I’d come across either, and to be honest, I hoped it was the last. There was something about the way he walked that was decidedly. .. unnerving.
I spun and went down to the end of the room and the three privacy booths.
Each one was three sided, with the vault’s rear wall providing the fourth, with a small walkway separating them.
They were constructed and paneled with oak which was so darkly stained with usage it was almost black, and the doors were worn with age.