“It’s possible. I may not be a part of the Society, but I’ve heard of possessions or people who think they see something in the trees and turn up dead. If Sister Mary Agnes had an episode and died of natural causes, I will be saddened but satisfied, but for all of our safety, I want to be sure.”
“I don’t think she died outside.” Oliver froze at the sudden pulse of attention at having two sets of eyes on him. He swallowed hard and focused on the dead woman’s fingers instead. “When people die, the environment affects them differently than the living because their blood isn’t moving. You can see that the cold did affect her skin, but the injuries don’t reflect a living body. She doesn’t have frostbite or blackened fingers from being in the cold for a significant period of time. She may have stumbled outside and diedveryshortly after, but you’re right about her not dying from hypothermia.”
“I don’t think she could have stumbled all the way to the graveyard. It’s a fair walk from the building.”
“Sister Mary Margaret, would you be willing to let me examine Sister Mary Agnes’s body?” At the hesitancy written across her face, Oliver continued, “Here. Not at the Society. It won’t be a full examination, but it might be enough to eliminate some more common things.”
“If something did try to lure her, it may have left a mark,” Galvan said gently.
The sister frowned, her hand instinctively moving to the crucifix hanging around her neck. “If you must. I would like to see her buried sooner than later, and I don’t think Father Gareth will consent to a full inquest.”
“It won’t be.”
“It may be better if you wait outside. We will let you know if we find anything.”
With one final look between Oliver and Sister Mary Agnes’s body, the other sister nodded and stepped out. The moment the door closed, Oliver released a tight sigh. This was why he preferred to do things on his own behind closed doors. Even if he wasn’t doing anything wrong, he hated people watching him, and victims’ families were never meant to see what he did. They didn’t like it, they didn’t trust it, and they saw his work as hurting their loved one. He understood, he truly did, but he wished it was easier.
“So what do you think?” Galvan whispered.
“I don’t know. Help me turn her over, so we can take a closer look at her back.”
Oliver didn’t want to disrobe her. It would upset the other sisters and was, frankly, unnecessary. Instead, they lifted each article of clothing and investigated piece by piece. The only stains on her habit came from lying on the wet snow, and there was no blood or wounds to speak of. Her back, legs, torso, and arms were unmarred. As Galvan replaced her stockings and shoes, he paused.
“Look at the watermarks on her shoes.” While the soles were scuffed with age and use, they weren’t dirty or muddy. The shoe closest to the ground was soaked through with moisture, but the other, which had lain on top of it was nearly dry. “I don’t think she walked outside.”
“Me neither.”
Fishing through the pockets on the outside of her habit, Oliver pulled out a wad of crumpled paper, a stub of a pencil, a pair of scissors that looked like the kind used for sewing or mending, a coin imprinted with a saint he didn’t recognize, and a plain wooden rosary. None of it seemed out of the ordinary. Passing the coin to Galvan, he studied it in the dull winter light filtering in through the window.
“Looks like a St. Catherine medal. Nothing suspicious as far as I can tell.”
Unfolding the paper, Oliver squinted at the tight, narrow handwriting. It took a second to register that it wasn’t in English. Nor was it in Latin. He could passably read Latin and German. From the accents dotting e’s, y’s, and z’s, he knew it couldn’t be Russian, Greek, or any language of Asia he knew of. “Galvan, can you read this?”
Felipe plucked the paper from Barlow’s outstretched hand and tilted it into the light. “No, I only know Spanish, a little conversational Cantonese. This looks like it’s from Eastern Europe, maybe Scandinavia. I’m sure someone back at the Paranormal Society could read it.”
“Bennett Reynard in the library would know someone who could,” Oliver replied without looking up from carefully pulling the wimple the rest of the way off the nun’s head.
Reynard and his budding union of immigrant shifters had nearly as many nationalities as Ellis Island. The man worked in the library with Gwen and had taken her under his wing when she arrived. He could be a little testy sometimes, but he was hardly the worst person in the Paranormal Society to deal with. He appreciated Oliver’s respect for books and rules.
Tucking the letter into his coat pocket, Galvan leaned forward to watch Oliver inspect the rest of Sister Mary Agnes’s body. Desperately trying to ignore the man’s presence at his shoulder, Oliver focused on the sister’s neck and face. He kept each movement purposeful, concise, quick. There was a rhythm to the routine of inquests that made them less personal. A body was a body, and close inspections made them no more than parts of a whole. As Oliver bent over to examine her face, he wrinkled his nose at the searing sensation in his sinuses. Sitting back on his heels, he forced out the air and then leaned in even closer. Sniffing twice, Oliver’s brows knit in confusion. There was no doubt it was there, a spicy floral scent, like peppercorns mixed with roses. The cloying smell was physically painful to breathe in. The hairs of his nose felt singed, and his throat itched. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered before.
“Poison?”
Barlow flinched, forgetting Felipe Galvan was still there. “No, at least, I don’t think so. It doesn’t smell like cyanide or food. The other obvious poisons don’t have a smell, but I can smell something I can’t place.”
Oliver cautiously sniffed near her cheek before trailing lower to her chin and neck. When he hit her shoulders, he went back in the other direction. “It’s concentrated here,” he added, waving his hand over her throat and collarbones.
Stepping closer, Felipe crouched down and drew in a long breath. “It’s faint. What do you think it is? The assailant’s cologne or something? Could it be the incense they use?”
Oliver Barlow's grey eyes flickered across Felipe’s face before he turned back to the dead woman. This was where he would get in trouble. His senses were acute, so acute it hurt sometimes, but when he asked others what that sound or smell was, they rarely noticed. Or if they did, it was little more than a minor nuisance that could be easily ignored. But he had smelled magic before. Just venturing into certain parts of the Paranormal Society were torturous because the scent of magic hung so thickly in the air. He preferred the library and the dining rooms for a reason. The magic in the latter was usually so old it was barely noticeable, and almost no one called fire or electricity during breakfast.
He braced himself for a rebuttal and said, “I think it’s magic. Sometimes, I can smell it clinging to things.”
“You can smell magic? I’ve heard some of the werewolves complain about that in the training rooms. Are you—?”
Relief and something more nebulous clenched Oliver’s chest. “Am I a werewolf? Unfortunately, no. My sense of smell is not nearly so acute, but I can smell it if it’s concentrated. Whomever or whatever attacked Sister Mary Agnes used a lot of magic on her throat, mouth, and neck. Have you ever dealt with something otherworldly and smelled eggs or gun powder? That’s part of their magic.”
Galvan nodded thoughtfully. “Hmm, and that might explain why some say selkies smell like the sea even when on land.”
