More than that . . . Advance and retreat. One letter forward and two numbers back? Or two letters forward and one number back? Maybe. Getting to the correct reference points might even require using a specific map. Trust Julian to be so cautious.
Grimshaw returned those files to the filing cabinet and checked the next drawer. Nothing cryptic about the labels on these files. Towns. Villages. Cities. All in the Northeast Region, which made sense, and not all that many.
He took everything in that drawer, spreading out the files to keep them from spilling off the table. Then he picked up his beer, opened a file, and began to read.
Places where Julian had lived—or at least stayed, although sometimes the stay wasn’t more than a few days. Healthy towns, decaying villages. The first hint of rot under a pristine surface, a rot that pushed Julian away, had him moving on.
Choosing differently colored dots, Grimshaw had marked a handful of towns on the regional map when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Casually, he set the bottle of beer on the table. Casually, he began to reach behind him for the weapon secured at the small of his back.
Black smoke curled around his wrist. Became a strong hand . . . that was attached to an arm covered in the black sleeve of what looked like a very expensive suit.
“If I wanted you dead, you would be dead.” The voice was educated, calm, polite. Chilling.
He felt another hand at his back remove his service weapon before the Sanguinati released his wrist and stepped away.
Grimshaw didn’t know all the Sanguinati who lived at Silence Lodge, but he was certain he would have heard about this one, because all his instincts told him this one didn’t take orders.
Suddenly he wondered if Ilya was still alive.
“Does Ilya know you’re here?” Grimshaw asked.
“He’s the only one who knows I’m here. The only one who can know I’m here.” The Sanguinati smiled, carefully not showing any fang. “But he didn’t know this place would be occupied, or he wouldn’t have suggested I stay here.”
“If you’re supposed to be a secret, where does that leave me?”
“That depends, Chief Grimshaw, on whether or not you can be trusted.”
So. This stranger knew who he was—and didn’t care. “I’ve held a secret or two. Whether I hold this one depends on if the people I swore to protect would be at risk if I kept this secret.”
“Not all of them would be at risk.” The Sanguinati set the service weapon on the table, out of reach. “I am Stavros Sanguinati. I’m currently the leader of the Talulah Falls Courtyard. Previously I was the Toland Courtyard’s problem solver.”
Problem solver. A specialist in killing? He wouldn’t have thought any kind of terra indigene needed such a being, but that was before Crowbones had come to Lake Silence.
“Someone thinks Ilya can’t handle this?” Grimshaw asked.
“Oh, Ilya could handle this,” Stavros replied. “He wouldn’t be the leader of Silence Lodge if he couldn’t. But Grandfather Erebus felt it was better to have someone . . . transient . . . deal with the problem. Whatever happens, I will return to Talulah Falls, and you can continue to pretend that the Sanguinati you deal with are . . . tamer.”
Gods above and below.
“Besides,” Stavros continued, “Grandfather doesn’t want The Jumble’s caretaker to develop a fear of the Sanguinati living around here, so it is best if she doesn’t appreciate the depth of what Ilya is.”
“Why not stay at Silence Lodge? Why hide out here?”
“As I said, no one but Ilya can know that I’m here—including the rest of the Sanguinati.”
Grimshaw nodded as pieces started coming together. “You’re another hunter. Crowbones for the Crowgard. You for the Sanguinati.” Another piece fell into place as he thought about the Murder game. “Who’s the other hunter? Me? Or Julian Farrow?”
A beat of silence. Then Stavros gave him a slow smile. “You’re human, but you have a bit of wild country in here.” He tapped his chest. “You, I think, although Ilya is of the opinion that Mr. Farrow can be quite dangerous if provoked.”
Stavros took a step closer to Grimshaw, then looked at the map. “Your thoughts?”
“Connected killings.” Grimshaw pointed to the dots on the map. “Crow’s feet tied to one victim like a signature—or a warning. At least two bodies in each place, one of those bodies being a crow or Crowgard. I’m guessing that someone who is involved with all those killings has ended up around Lake Silence and is trapped.”
“And these?” Stavros picked up a file.
“I wanted to see if the places Julian felt had become unhealthy matched up with any of the killings, whether those killings were before or after he was there.”
“Then let us begin.”
As Grimshaw added colored dots to the map, Stavros read Julian’s notes out loud—and a grim pattern began to take shape.
CHAPTER 55
Vicki
Watersday, Novembros 3
In the dream, I was in bed, surrounded by something warm that wasn’t soft but still felt comfy. Felt comforting. Then I was in the kitchen, wearing bunny slippers made out of real bunnies harnessed to my feet, and we hopped around the kitchen while I tried to start the coffee and put some bread in the toaster. In the center of the table was a round tray filled with pieces of wood that looked like swollen clothespins.
Then something big smacked one of the windows and made the clothespins rattle, rattle . . .
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
Awake now and frightened, I tried to sit up but a weight held me down. I tried to scream but a hand clamped over my mouth.
“Shh,” Julian whispered in my ear. “Shh.”
Julian. Yes.
I nodded to let him know I was aware.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “I’m going to check it out.”
Bad idea. Bad! People who did this in the movies ended up being buried in the cellar or tossed in the wood chipper.
Apparently Julian was going to ignore all the lessons one could learn from the movies. He slipped out of bed and pulled on the jeans he’d folded within easy reach. I’d thought it odd he’d left his shirt and sweater on a low chest I used as a window seat, and he’d put his shoes and socks next to it, but he’d wanted the jeans right beside the bed. Because the mobile phone was in a pocket?
Not a phone. I hadn’t closed the heavier winter drapes, and enough moonlight came through the sheer curtains that I saw the gun in Julian’s hand as he silently crossed the bedroom and eased open the door to my sitting room.
Wishing I’d taken to keeping a baseball bat or a frying pan under the bed in case I had reason to whack someone, I eased out of bed and crept toward the bedroom door.
“Stay here” meant stay in the room, not in the bed. That would be my reasoning if Julian or Ilya or, gods help me, Grimshaw demanded to know what I was thinking.
As soon as I reached the doorway, I felt cold air around my legs. Who had opened a window?
Julian studied the window and said softly, “Turn on a light. Low.”
I felt my way to a two-shelf bookcase. It held a decorative lamp that provided soft light when I watched TV or just wanted the friendliness of a lighted room when I returned to my own apartment. I turned on the light, expecting the girls to be instantly awake. They weren’t. Kira blinked a couple of times, rubbed her eyes, stared at me, and said, “Wha . . . ?” Aggie, perched on one arm of the love seat, barely stirred at all, and that was wrong enough to be frightening.