“Okay,” Myra said, compiling all that data into organized subsections in that methodical mind of hers. “Ryder should be back in town tomorrow. We can talk to him then, see if there’s anything that points to him being involved with Sven’s death. Maybe I’ll drive by his place tonight, see if he got in early.”
“No, I’ll do it,” I said.
“Delaney,” Myra started.
“Let me. I know you and Jean have been trying to keep him out of my way, and I appreciate that. But I’m the chief here, and I’m the one who talked to Rossi and promised him I would check into Ryder.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jean said.
“No, you’ll go back to the station, or home with the calls forwarded, okay? Let’s just keep everything about this as normal as possible.”
“Dead vampire is not normal,” Myra muttered before sipping her coffee.
“I know.”
“How about the god power?” Jean asked. “Did you hear anything else about that?”
I shook my head. “Which reminds me, where’s Crow?”
“I took him home,” Jean said.
I groaned. “Really?”
“There wasn’t any real legal reason to lock him up, and it’s not like he’s going to leave town without his power.”
“He could,” I said.
“Sure. But the gods in town would stop him before he even got one foot outside city limits. So I took him home—well, nothishome.”
She looked far too pleased with herself.
“Jean,” Myra said. “What home? If I find him at my place, in my kitchen—or in my bed— I’m going to throttle you.”
“Shit. Why didn’t I think of dropping him off at your place? I have a key and everything.”
“Jean,” I said.
“Oh, take it easy. He’s staying with Bertie.”
Bertie was the town’s only Valkyrie. She appeared to be a slight, bird-like woman in her eighties. While she was that, she was also the creature who made it her job to drag warriors off battlefields to their final resting places whether they liked it or not.
No one had ever put up a fight against Bertie and won.
It was no surprise Bertie was also the head of the community center, and pretty much ran all the behind-the-scenes events and gatherings that were hosted in Ordinary.
Those four festivals? All Bertie’s doing. Honestly, I couldn’t think of better hands, well, talons, in which to leave Crow.
“Okay,” I said. “I give. That’s brilliant. How did you get Bertie to agree?”
“I told her we’d each volunteer our time—no more than eight hours—at the next event she needed hands for.”
Myra groaned and thunked her head on the table.
Dramatic? No. Not at all. The last time I’d gotten roped into owing Bertie a favor she’d forced me to judge a rhubarb contest.
Rhubarb.
Tastes like a demon’s butt, no matter how much chocolate or alcohol is added to try to hide it. I thought giving ourselves over to Bertie deserved a little, no, maybe alotof head thumping.
