CHAPTER TEN
The interior of the fabled Grantham House was bright and airy. Light poured in through the banks of windows along the east side of the dining room, floor-to-ceiling panels of sparkling cut glass splitting sunlight into rainbows. The tablecloths glowed, too white and crisp to be real.
A bevy of waiters circulated among the tables, unobtrusive in their understated black-and-white uniforms, moving like dancers in a secret ballet, filling empty glasses, whisking away dirty plates, replacing soiled napkins before the diners had to spare a thought or worry.
Food arrived on delicate plates – works of art to rival any museum’s – to jaded regulars who dug in thoughtlessly, ruining the carefully applied garnishes, the extensive efforts of a bustling kitchen sure in their skill and technique.
Into this secretive, insular, debauched world stumbled two PKs in uniforms rumpled from a day of murder and mayhem – the garb of people who worked for a living.
All the tugging and straightening in the world wouldn’t set their clothes right, not next to the fine tweeds, wool crepe and rich linens of the town’s elite.
The lively conversations of the well-dressed patrons stuttered to a halt at their sudden appearance. Two of the waitstaff stumbled in their coordinated dance, colliding and dropping their trays in a clatter.
Mortification settled firmly in Keen’s hot cheeks, and he nearly backpedaled the hell out of there.
But Hero, in her voluminous pants and bloody sleeves, continued onward, unruffled, striding to the bar and alighting on a tall stool.
Swallowing his embarrassment, Keen joined her, his steps dragging like a man walking to his doom.
The bartender ignored them for as long as he could, washing glasses at a little sink station beneath the sweep of polished mahogany.
A mirror of exceptional quality cast Keen’s face back at him, and he was somewhat alarmed at the state of his appearance, washed of all color, hair poking from beneath his cap, bandolier askew and dotted with shimmering demon blood.
He whisked off his hat and ran a hand over his hair, which had just enough pomade remaining to keep it smooth – mostly.
He settled his military cap on the bar and cleared his throat pointedly, but it was the sharp rap of Hero’s knuckles that finally got the barkeep’s attention.
The man, old enough to be Keen’s father, balding and trim in his neat black jacket, scowled in their direction before finally ambling closer.
“Bourbon,” Hero said. She jabbed a thumb toward Keen. “I’ll assume he wants something with fruit in it.”
“I will have a gin, good sir.” Oleander said, ignoring her rude remark. “With plenty of ice,” he dared to add, letting a note of haughtiness enter his voice. Bars in Otherside rarely had ice.
The barkeep said nothing, merely scowled. His gaze connected with someone behind them – Oleander didn’t turn to see who it was – and his scowl softened somewhat, became resigned. He began filling their order, noisily and resentfully.
Beside him, Hero groaned softly, deep in her chest. “You did a number on me, squirrel,” she muttered. “I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth and a head full of cotton. Can’t believe you managed to get the drop on me. Prison must have made me soft.”
Soft as marble, maybe. “I told you: You left me no choice, Inspector.”
“You won’t be able to pull that trick again, fortunately – for your sake.”
He stiffened. “Not all demonhunters carry the same stash,” he said. “We each have our own unique formulas.”
She huffed in amusement. “Please. You lot suffer from a failure of imagination. Your rigid adherence to your training may make you formidable, but it also makes you predictable.”
She wasn’t wrong. Keen said nothing. Where was that damnable gin anyway?
“Why did you bring us here?” he demanded testily, feeling the eyes of the other patrons upon them. He’d made it inside the fabled Grantham House, and it was clear he still wasn’t welcome.
“Aren’t these your people, DH Keen? All lofty and judgmental?”
“Hardly. This place is not… I don’t belong here any more than you do.”
She quirked an eyebrow, offering him a sidelong glance. “Really? I doubt that.”
He ground his teeth a moment, considering. He wasn’t after her sympathy or loyalty. Still, she should understand the situation, and his place in Havenside. “I grew up in Otherside.”
“Otherside? Yet you went to Clem? Ah!” She shook her head. “One of the lucky ones, eh? A charity case. I presumed when I should have asked. No wonder you try so hard. Well, I must ask forgiveness, then.”
“Forgiveness for what?” he demanded, suspicious of her sudden conciliatory tone. And being called a charity case was no better coming from her than from his classmates.
Hero grinned at him, showing off her bright white fangs. “My thoughts, DH Keen. I never realized how firmly I still hold on to my resentments. They are like rotten fruit – smelly, messy and useless.”
He relaxed, softening toward a fellow outcast, even if she was a demon. “You have no need of my forgiveness. I had no idea how deep my own resentment lay. Not until I set foot back in my old school.”
Their drinks arrived with a side of surly attitude before the barkeep made himself scarce.
The two PKs shared a wry glance and lifted their glasses in an impromptu toast, not going so far as to clink the crystal tumblers together, but the implication was clear.
As he sipped at his gin while his partner downed half her glass, Keen hoped this marked a new beginning, a much more auspicious one than him trying to take off her head.
“Father Kellan was in love with Sister Catarine,” Hero said after a moment of silence.
The dining room had resumed its normal rumblings, albeit somewhat subdued, though the amount of whispering had certainly increased.
The glances thrown their way were hardly subtle, either.
A few of the men glared with open hostility.
Keen did his best to ignore them; he knew many of them by sight and reputation and he really didn’t like attracting their attention.
“I think he loved her,” he said carefully. “They were very close friends it seemed to me. Her murder devastated him.”
“Only a man in love falls apart like that. I’ve seen it before.” She turned her glass on the polished surface, her brow pinched above her long, narrow nose. “They had a sexual relationship or I’ll put myself back in a cell.”
Keen tried hard not to squirm in embarrassment. The idea of a nun and a priest fornicating did not sit well with him. They were supposed to be better than the rest of them. Holier. More righteous. More moral. It was preposterous.
Although if they had been lovers and Catarine had decided to end things, that was motive.
“You think a man in love would rip out her tongue like that? Leave her naked and exposed on a mountainside because she spurned him? It seems far too cold and calculating for a crime of passion.” He shook his head.
He was the rookie on this case, the damnable squirrel, and he was well aware of it, but he had instincts too and he had learned to trust them.
“I don’t see it, Inspector, even if you’re right and they were in a – a sexual relationship.
” He spoke the word in a hissing whisper, as if a priest and a nun having sex was worse than a brutal murder.
“It would certainly throw people off your trail, now, wouldn’t it?
Half the PKs think it was a ritual killing, a sacrifice to an older, harsher version of the Goddess.
” She knocked a knuckle against the bar.
“Human hands kidnapped her, tortured her, even if a demon was behind her demise ultimately. A spurned lover is a useful instrument.”
“Nevertheless, it would take someone of such depravity and ruthlessness… No, I just don’t see it. Maybe I didn’t catch the depth of his feelings toward Catarine, I’ll grant you that, but Father Kellan is a good man, I have no doubt.”
Hero scoffed. She emptied her glass in a quick toss.
“Always have doubt, my good demonhunter. Doubts keep you safe. Everyone is a suspect, you understand me? Everyone. And right now, Kellan is at the top of our list. There is no greater hate than love gone wrong. And hate leaves you wide open to Pandemonium.”
Keen wanted to argue, but he knew better than to go against a superior, especially one who could literally talk to the dead. He buried his reaction in a slow sip of gin. Hero was waving down the barkeep for another bourbon, letting her glasses slip just enough to reveal a ruby haze of flame.
The barman showed a bit more alacrity in delivering her drink this time. “This one is on the house,” he said as he settled the bourbon in front of Hero. “And you should find your way out the door when you’ve finished.”
Keen stiffened. He’d been waiting for a confrontation beyond mere rudeness.
It was stupid to think their status would shield them.
He was a DH first rank, not a lieutenant or a captain or a commissioner.
Those types were welcome at Grantham – PKs of high enough position to grant favors.
The rank and file, no matter how good they were at their jobs, might as well be dockworkers or dirt-grubbed farmers to the city’s aristocracy.