As a single entity, every member of the Council stood. They nodded once and folded into the space of the universe. There were three people left in the room. Charon, the clerk, and me.
I glanced at the ferryman, my expression turned pleading. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you want to find out who left a body in your dumpster?”
Behind me, the clerk made a disgusted noise. “I hate that word. Dumpster.” His eyes rolled to the ceiling as if praying to the divine. “It's so American.”
Both Charon and I ignored him.
“It was a coincidence,” I told the ferryman. “Honestly, she could have been dumped anywhere. It was just bad luck.”
Charon looked at me like I had grown another head. “Do you really believe that?” He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in his chair. “I think someone was messing with you.”
Chapter 3
I got an Uber back to the office and sat in my darkened office.
The air smelt like smoke—the carpet had melted in several places, leaving demonic runes all over my floor.
I put my head in my hands. My to-do list felt a mile wide.
I had to get new carpet for my office. File all of my bargains from the previous day. Find a new personal assistant.
Solve a god damn murder.
Need to hunt. Death calls. My inner Hound whispered. The words distorted by large canine teeth. Spoken in the harsh grunts of Cyclian—the language of Hell.
With only the light from the streetlamps outside to illuminate my office, I booted up my iMac and flipped open the manila file.
Esther Duke.
I had never met a woman by that name, though I did not have the same eidetic memory that High Demons did. To be sure, I typed her name, and several variants of it, into my search bar.
I had no files under that name.
The photos of her hand rested at the top of the file. Red chipped polish, the fingers flaccid and pale alabaster. The quality of the image was good, considering. I could have traced every one of the veins in the Hounds wrist if I wanted to.
The hand told me nothing. Only that it was the same woman that had been in my industrial bin—as I had mentioned to the Council.
I moved the photos to the side and began to read the statements of various professionals, noting that each report was made in black biro. I had the original copy.
Her stomach had been full of raw meat. Low quality, high fat, supermarket-bought minced beef. Not the kind of thing that a Hound would willingly eat.
The pale skin of her legs was sliced with thin but jagged cuts. Hell Hounds had regenerative healing—so she must have died before they had a chance to heal. The time frame of seconds, if that.
The wounds could have been inflicted with Devil's Silver. One of the only known substances to inhibit Demonic healing.
Her feet were bruised, which made the Devil's Silver thought redundant.
She had been given something to stunt her healing abilities.
But what?
The cuts on her legs; the state of her feet—the Hound had been running for her life. In a place with things that could catch on delicate Human skin.
Why not paws? My Hound chuffed in my mind. Stupid whelp.
“You have a point,” I told him.
My eyes caught on the rose brand once more.
I still hadn’t received a call from Samuel Rose, Vincent’s twin brother. That left a bad taste in my mouth.
The lights turned on in my office. I glanced up. Apricot Lindsey stood in the doorway, holding a Starbucks coffee and dressed for cold weather.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” She asked brusquely, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.
The night had passed when I hadn’t been paying attention.
I quirked a brow and pushed away from my desk, folding the documents under my arm. “Cancel my appointments for today,” I told my assistant as I slipped on my coat. “And call my interior designer.”
Scotland Yard was a boxy white building, dotted with uniform square windows, along the banks of the Thames River.
A glass extension sat on the front of the building like a bloated and modern pustule, with concrete steps just ahead of the iconic square sign.
The sun has risen and woken the city, casting a dim light across the frigid landscape.
I had a name, but little else.
I skipped up the steps and ducked through the automatic doors, feeling a wave of artificial heat envelope my body as the doors swished shut behind me. I pulled the business card that Detective Harrison had given me during questioning a few days before, and slid it across the chrome surface of the reception desk.
I gave my name at the desk, and the attentive receptionist called up and confirmed a standing appointment, which was promising. I signed in but used a fake name instead of my own—Estoy Postizo had a nice ring to it.
I sat in the reception and fiddled with the red lanyard of my visitors pass as I waited for Reed Harrison—I did not have to wait long.
The detective wore a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. No tie. Tailored black suit trousers. His baby blue eyes had no smile lines. I did not know if this was a testament to ageing well, or because the man simply did not show joy. Nothing about his outfit hinted at his job role, but his confident and efficient movements screamed it.
“Luiz Ramirez?” Harrison asked as he drew to a stop past the staff barriers.
I pushed myself out of the kidney bean-shaped armchair and extended my hand.
“Detective Harrison.” He stated as if we hadn’t met a few days before.
The handshake was brief, but I got the sense that Harrison did not often waste time on pleasantries. He walked through the reception without waiting for me to catch up, and swiped his key-card at the barrier. He allowed me to walk through first, and we exchanged no words on our way to the elevators.
The doors slid closed, leaving us alone in the confined space.
My nostrils flared as I covertly scented the air. My Hound perked up in delight, and stalk under the surface of my skin as if he wanted to leap out and mark the detective. That had never happened before. My Hound typically didn’t like anyone.
I focused on ignoring my desire to rub against him.
“Right this way.” Harrison stepped out of the elevator and led us through a busy office floor, boxed in with cubicles. Meeting rooms lined the walls, running parallel down either side. Their walls were made of seldom cleaned glass—with fingerprint smears around each handle.
Harrison led us to the only room that did not have transparent walls. I immediately realised why.
A whiteboard stood at the end of the conference table, covered in photos of Vincent and Samuel Rose in various situations as they went about their day. Pictures from a distance. Their home. Their businesses. Red dry-wipe marker lines and scrawled, cramped writing.
The chairs were askew; the room smelt like stale coffee.
Harrison marched to the head of the table and sat down in a chair. He tapped the table once, implying I should do the same.
I answered with a quirked brow, taking my time to survey my surroundings even though I had already catalogued all items of importance.
Harrison’s jaw tightened.
A small fissure of pleasure shot through me. I liked annoying the detective. I didn’t know why. It was out of character as I was generally an agreeable person. I wondered what it was about Harrison that made me want to needle him.