CHAPTER EIGHT
Her arms were bleeding where the hounds had scratched her. She would heal; she always healed – one of the benefits of her demon birthright. She was never spared the pain, of course. Suffering was inevitable no matter what your heritage.
Blood stained her cream-colored sleeves, now torn and tattered.
She seethed at the loss. There were only so many shirts in her valise and her daily stipend wouldn’t cover a visit to a tailor in hoity-toity Havenside.
The rest of her outfit reeked of Hell after two dips in one day, but a good washing would take care of that.
It didn’t help with her mood, though. She was seething.
The victim had jumped to her death rather than face whatever was coming for her – terror had driven her off that ledge more than any human hand – but it would be difficult to call it murder.
The details weren’t quite clear. The Communion wasn’t like a normal conversation.
Usually, Hero had more to go on – visions and vibes, even a glimpse of the killer.
This particular shade had been desperate to communicate, to Speak of its deep, terrible fear.
It had wanted her help, needed her help, even in death.
No girl so young should be so desperate.
The hellhounds had been sent to stop her from reaching the shade, from enjoining a full Communion, but they’d served as a warning, too: Back off.
It wasn’t the first time some angry demon had come after her in the Underworld – her meddling attracted quite a few monsters, all determined to be the one who got her, the half-demon hag who dared to dance between the living and the dead – but this had felt decidedly personal, as if the beast behind the attack knew her and wanted to thwart her specifically.
Well, aren’t I full of myself? She smoothed her ruined sleeves and leaned forward.
The unpleasant nun had given them use of a faculty board room to conduct their interviews, and now she and Keen sat at a long meeting table at its center.
Shelves lined the walls, heavy with leather-bound books, golden trophies and grim marble busts of past educators presumably worthy of remembrance.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, heavily curtained to protect the precious tomes, comprised the fourth wall.
The only light came from tabletop lamps.
It was a dim and intimidating space, the weight of years and privilege making it almost intolerably stuffy.
The DH sat hunched over, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
She’d related all she could about her aborted Communion with the dead girl’s shade – names, sensations, the terrible, terrible fear – though she’d left out the personal nature of the unforeseen hellhound attack.
That was her problem; what could he do about Underworld demons?
Only when they crossed the threshold into the real world did they become his problem.
Although his arrival had been fortuitous; the well-timed spray of hot lead had saved her from a good mauling.
“She couldn’t name this unseen assailant?” he asked again, pressing her. “Say whether it was a man or a woman? An adult or a fellow student?”
Hero sucked her teeth, frustrated that she couldn’t answer his questions and annoyed that he kept asking the same ones, and leaned back in her seat.
She had positioned herself in the largest chair at the head of the table, a ridiculous, overstuffed monstrosity of mahogany leather with a high back and massive armrests.
She felt like a queen even in her bloodstained clothing, stinking of Hell and demon dogs.
It wasn’t lost on her that when she’d lived in Havenside, a place like this might as well have been on the moon to one such as her.
A half-demon child, even one from a good family like hers, wasn’t allowed anywhere near such venerated establishments like Clementine Prep.
The stink of her presence seemed to permeate everything and everyone around her, and her very existence would have tainted the school like a rotten egg.
She tried not to dwell on the unpleasant thought, to let memories of this town cloud her judgement.
She was an inspector, a death speaker, despite all she’d endured, all the prejudice and abuse. She was better than them. All of them.
“As I explained, the shade gave me such a cascade of feelings and images. It was hard to sort them. We have names, however. A few. We’ll still have to root out the truth the old-fashioned way.”
Lips pursed, he jotted down a few more words.
Like a good underling, DH Keen had taken the seat to her left, his back to the windows.
Interrogees would sit opposite him, facing the only human in the room while she observed and absorbed their reactions.
It was satisfying that she hadn’t had to explain her plan for these interviews.
Keen understood the assignment. Maybe he wasn’t such a squirrel after all.
“You have good aim, DH Keen,” she commented after the silence between them had stretched to a thread.
Mother Francesca was taking her sweet time rounding up the first batch of suspects.
“How fortuitous that you decided to deliver your report immediately rather than wait for me to return to the station.”
It was the closest she would ever come to thanking him for saving her life.
It was his job after all, to watch her back, just as she would watch his.
They were partners for the duration of this case, however long or short that might be.
Still, he deserved an attaboy for his quick actions.
She’d have lost a lot more blood than the little on her sleeves if he hadn’t shown up when he did.
“I had hoped to get a look inside Catarine’s apartment, also,” he said, flipping to a clean page in his notebook.
He cleared his throat and pulled his chair closer to the table, glancing in her direction but unwilling to face her directly.
The flaring of his nostrils amused her. Did she stink? Probably, to him at least.
“Not necessary,” she said blithely. “The techs did their job and I’ve got what I needed, too. I don’t want anyone else mucking about up there.”
“I know how to process a scene, Inspector.”
“I’m sure you do, but that’s beside the point. What I needed from the scene has nothing to do with evidence and the more people are about, the more my senses get clouded. Can you understand that?”
His full lips flattened. She very nearly rolled her eyes, expecting further defensiveness. The prickly bastard. Instead, after a pause, he nodded, his face relaxing. “I can,” he said. “As a demonhunter, sometimes all I can trust are my own senses.”
Her mouth twitched. Even when he was agreeing with her, he had to bring up something unpleasant.
She was really trying to forget he was her mortal enemy, after all.
She had no idea what his upbringing had been like, but as he’d gone to Clementine, she could assume he’d been raised in wealth and privilege, like all those who’d bullied, mocked and outright shunned her.
For him to go on to be a demonhunter, too – she had to suppress a shudder – he couldn’t be anything but awful.
Hero kicked back in her massive chair and threw her heels on the table. “What’s taking that blasted nun so long?”
Keen’s cheeks darkened at her casual disrespect. Primly, he brushed away dust that had fallen from her sharp-toed lace-up boots. “We are in her house, Inspector. Show some respect.”
“Respect.” She drew out the word, making it sound as disdainful as possible. “She should be just as eager to uncover the truth as we are, so why be difficult? She’s the one with a murderer running around her school. Unless, of course, she’s involved.”
“You think the mother ran her own student off the clock tower?’ He scoffed. “You said the Communion was fraught, full of shadows and confusion. How can you be sure she was even murdered?”
“The violently departed are my purview, Keen. I know the difference between murder, suicide and accident. You stick to killing demons, all right?”
Keen fell silent. His eyes roved the room, taking in the polished wood, the leather and gilt. The look on his face did not reflect fond memories, she noted. He looked like he’d swallowed something bitter. She raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“You know, I used to envy the kids who got to go here,” she said casually. “I wasn’t allowed, you see. Why, think of the scandal! I wasn’t allowed to go to any school, actually. Not here in Havenside.”
Finally, he met her gaze and held it. “Your envy is misplaced, Inspector. But,” and this he added reluctantly, as if it pained him to admit, “you should have been sent to school. Every child in the Realm deserves an education. It is the law.”
“The laws aren’t written for people like me, Officer.” She pushed her glasses higher on her narrow nose. “I did get an education, though. Eventually. Blackstone Abbey taught me in the ways of the Shield. A very thorough education.”
“And you repaid them by burning down their home.”
His sharp castigation made her grin. “Exactly,” she said with a wink. “I’m glad you get it.”
His mouth opened, but Mother Francesca chose that moment to enter the faculty room.
Keen stood hastily and offered a bow. A very proper gentleman.
Hero put her feet down and propped her elbows on the table.
“About time,” she said. “Did you bring the list like I asked? I need to keep track of my suspects.”
The mother scowled. “Witnesses, Inspector, not suspects. You have no reason to suspect anyone at this school, no reason at all.” She waved toward Keen to acknowledge his gallantry, allowing him to retake his seat, but gave him no further attention.
Her bright eyes stayed on Hero, ripe with disgust. She approached the table, a sheaf of papers clutched in one plump hand.