CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“So, you have Kellan in the holding pen?”
Keen nodded, taking a sip of his pint. Froth clung to his upper lip, and he wiped it away on his sleeve. “Seemed best. I’m afraid Catarine’s brothers might have another go at him if they see him walking free.”
“No doubt.” Hero swirled her bourbon, enjoying the sparkle of it in the tavern’s lanterns.
This place wasn’t as hoity-toity as Grantham House, but it was still rather upscale, all fine-grained wood and brass fittings, stuffed leather banquettes and heavy tables.
The clientele were mostly professionals – litigators, doctors, merchants, teachers.
Not a soiled cuff, dirt-scuffed boot or worn pair of dungarees in sight.
She and Keen weren’t the only uniforms in the place, either.
“You were right about the two of them,” Keen added.
“They were fucking?”
“Good Goddess, Inspector, there’s no need to be vulgar. But… yes.”
“So, a crime of passion, was it?” For some reason, she was vaguely disappointed.
For all her suspicions, she didn’t think this murder would prove so simple.
It didn’t mean a demon wasn’t involved – they often used weak humans as their tools – but a truly powerful demon had no need to resort to such mundane measures.
Keen shook his head. “He’s not our man. I’m certain of it.”
She wasn’t, despite everything. It could be as simple as a crime of passion; she wouldn’t know until she questioned him herself. At least he was being cooperative – supposedly – and at least now he was being truthful about his relationship with the sister – again, supposedly.
“So her brothers thought they’d take care of things themselves,” she mused. “I’m surprised they didn’t kill him.”
“I think Kellan managed to talk them out of it, thankfully. Justice at the end of a rope will satisfy them and leave no blood on their hands to boot.”
“Good thing for our case that they didn’t kill him.
” She took a quick drink, enjoying the burn of the liquor – warm like the fires of Hell.
“It never ceases to amaze me how people withhold information in an investigation.” She shook her head mournfully, then gave a one-shouldered shrug.
“Although frankly, I’ve never had to deal with it much. The dead don’t lie.”
Keen shifted in his seat, leaning closer.
“He also confirmed what we learned from Cat’s letters and from Abigail Hollander.
She’d been working to erase the stigma attached to those of demonic heritage.
” This he said quickly, keeping his eyes on his pint.
“A very unpopular stance. I also questioned him about the mysterious Mr B and the missing children from those same letters, but Kellan had no idea about any of that.”
“Of course not,” she murmured. Kellan hadn’t added much to the investigation, except to propel himself to the top of the suspect list. Unless he was lying about not knowing about this Mr B, a man, presumably, with whom his lover had been communicating.
She tapped a long fingernail against the tabletop.
“She was about to take her concerns to Mother Francesca when she disappeared, or so he told you,” she said pointedly.
“Or perhaps she did take her concerns to the mother, and that’s why she disappeared. ”
He grimaced, but didn’t deny the theory. “Someone wanted her silenced. The missing tongue was a warning to Cassie, yes? Or maybe to any number of people in on this scheme, whatever it is. Why was she held for six days first?” he wondered. “What happened to her during those six days?”
“She was collared. Chained.” Hero rubbed her pointed chin. “Forced to kneel on hard, rocky ground. The evidence supports it. That spectral chain confirms our suspicions. What is it connected to? What sort of demon does it feed?”
“We are dependent on Dr Virchow for those answers. Hopefully, he’ll be able to determine what sort of demon were dealing with, at least.”
Hero sighed. Time. It would take time and effort. “We also need to find out who runs the Academy. Look into its finances and root out who pays the bills.”
“And who has the most to lose if the Academy is shuttered,” he added. “We’ll need help for this. I’ll see if Dewey can lend us some uniforms or junior inspectors. This is the biggest case Havenside has seen in decades. He’ll have to give us help, right?”
“Maybe.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice.
They had taken a booth in the back of the tavern, like secret lovers on a tryst. “I don’t know how deep or strong this enchantment is.
Perhaps it merely inserted the memory of Bright Renewal, or perhaps it has turned the town against us. Against the truth.”
He frowned. “That would be an awfully powerful enchantment. As it stands, most Havensiders still want to know who killed Sister Catarine. They’re afraid a murderer is on the loose; that fear is palpable. This spell, whatever it is, has limits.”
“True.” She relaxed against the smooth leather, appraising him. “You’re pretty sharp for a squirrel, Oleander Keen.”
He lifted his pint to her. “This squirrel has been around the block a few times, Viridian.”
Something darkened the corner of her vision, a great, looming bulk. Startled, she nearly called the fires of Hell, but it wasn’t some demon or nightmare come to life, just a man – a giant of a man who reeked of liquor. Across from her, Keen’s expression had hardened.
“Did I hear right?” the man said, unleashing a cloud of fumes. “Is that Ollie Keen, the great demonhunter?”
Keen’s upper lip curled ever so slightly before he hid it with a polite smile. “It is,” he said brightly. “Do I know you?”
Any fool could have read the recognition on his face a moment earlier.
The man chuckled knowingly. “Oh, don’t be sore, Charity.
Let bygones be bygones, right? Things turned out pretty well for you, didn’t they?
I mean, look at that fancy uniform and shiny sword. You’ve made Clem Prep proud, I’d say.”
Keen relaxed a bit, turning the pint glass in front of him in a little circle. “I suppose we can, Dirk,” he said. He stopped fiddling with his glass and threw a sharp look at this Dirk fellow. “If you stop calling me Charity then perhaps we can let all those bygones stay gone, right?”
A subtle tension filled the air. The big man – more muscle than fat, Hero noted as she readied an escape plan – snickered nastily.
“And what if I can’t manage it? That name just fits you so perfectly.
” He leaned over, keeping one hand on the back of the booth behind Hero and getting right in Keen’s face.
“When Abby told me how insulted you were when she called you Charity, I could hardly believe it. She had to be mistaken, I thought. Good old Charity would never–”
Keen’s pint glass smashed against the side of Dirk’s head, showering Hero with ale. She was astonished by how fast he’d whipped the impromptu weapon at his target. But the big man, Dirk, was no slouch. He shook off the attack and lunged at the demonhunter.
“I warned you!” Keen shouted, grappling with the much larger man.
He got his foot up and into Dirk’s ample gut and managed to shove him back, then stood, snarling, inadvertently knocking the heavy table into Hero’s midsection.
She winced and barely managed to save her drink as the table tipped dangerously.
It was hard to decide whether to be amused or annoyed. She loved a good fight, after all.
“You were always a cowardly little shit,” Dirk growled, squaring off with him with meaty fists.
He was unarmed, and Keen wisely didn’t go for his own weapons; even PKs couldn’t run someone through without cause, and barroom brawls were hardly a good enough reason to skewer someone, even an asshole like Dirk.
“Not cowardly,” Keen countered, his own fists up as he danced lightly on his toes. Good – always keep moving. Tire out a bigger opponent if you couldn’t match strength for strength. “Just a kid. You were twice my size!”
Dirk snorted contemptuously. “You were a fat, lazy fuck!”
Snapping out with brutal swiftness, Keen’s fist caught him on the nose.
Blood spurted spectacularly and Hero burst out laughing.
Maybe Keen was more fun than he’d let on?
She crawled out of the booth, drink in hand, ready to back up her partner if necessary.
Others were beginning to form a ring around the combatants, and judging by their shouts of encouragement, Dirk was the obvious favorite.
Hero was beginning to understand the dynamics – a person never forgot their first bully.
Snarling, Dirk swiped away the blood, barely fazed by the punch.
He launched a laggardly roundhouse that Keen easily evaded, ducking and swaying, then the DH came up under the bigger man’s guard and pummeled his midsection.
Hero approved. This was pugilism, pure and simple.
Keen could easily kill the man, but that wasn’t the goal here.
She took a last gulp of bourbon and gestured to a passing server for another.
The girl shot her an aggrieved look but went to fetch the drink, skirting the boxers like they were a spill on the floor.
“Show him what’s what, Hollander!” someone shouted. “Put the stuck-up bastard in his place.”
Good old Hollander wasn’t going to be putting anyone in their place; that much was obvious.
Keen was keeping out of reach, striking strategically.
Hero eyed the ardent fan lest he give Keen trouble, letting her glasses slide down her narrow nose a bit.
The man, trim and balding and wearing a vest, caught her stare and went pale, whatever he was going to say next lodging in his throat.
She smiled. He sank into the crowd, letting braver men take his place.