“Look at me, Zoe. Only me.”
Snapping my gaze to his, I rein in my panic. “I’m all right. Really.”
“No, you are not,” he says with a small shake of his head. “But we do not have time for that discussion now.” Snapping on a glove, he reaches over the body for a moment. “There. I have lowered her lids. Now look at her and tell me what you see.”
Taking a single, slow breath, I return my focus to the woman. “She’s in much worse shape than Jacinda. Probably held for longer. Emaciated. Recent, rapid weight loss. Her skin is pale, but there are signs she used to have a tan, so she was probably in the dark for weeks.”
A chill starts deep inside me, like a ball of ice in my belly. The snap of padlocks echoes in my ears. Chains. I canfeelmetal bars all around me, and I suck in a sharp breath. “We need to turn her over,” I rasp.
“Zoe…”
“No. Now.” I wave the crime scene technicians closer. “Do it. Please.”
The two mages dressed all in black chant words I don’t understand, and the body rises, spins in mid-air, and then settles back onto the concrete. Sin is still wearing a glove, and pulls the woman’s dark brown hair off her neck.
The faery tattoo glows in the sunlight, and Sin swears quietly behind me, because drawn on her lower back in what looks like permanent marker is another image. An orange blossom. “He will take another tonight. He is practically gloating about it. Get the body to the morgue,” he snaps at the mages. “And tell Dr. Breslin that we need to know exactly how old the tattoo is. Have her run tests on the ligature marks as well.”
Standing, I scan the street around us. “Traffic cameras. There’s one on the corner, and another at the next block. We need the footage. Maybe we can get a make and model on whatever car was used to dump her.”
Sin strips off his glove and tosses it into the small trash bag the techs have set up at the edge of the perimeter. “Come. We need to get to the Bureau. There, we can find everything we need.”
* * *
We’ve beenat this all day, and we still have no answers. The woman’s hands were so damaged, the medical examiner couldn’t even pull her prints. She was Fae. At least one hundred and thirty years old.
“The tattoo was done over two weeks ago,” Sin says as he drops his phone onto his desk. “And from the weight loss, Breslin believes she was held for a day, maybe two longer than that.”
“How can she tell?” My head is pounding, and I drain my fourth cup of coffee, knowing it’s just going to make things worse.
“Some calculation having to do with how dehydrated the woman was when the mark was made.” He rubs the back of his neck, then stares up at the ceiling. “The timeline fits with what I can remember. Thorn wants the women weak and terrified before he marks them. Broken enough that the pain will often push them over the edge, but not so broken they do not fight him. He…enjoys…the fight.”
“Sin…” Reaching across the desk, I brush his fingers with mine. “You didn’t do this. Remember that.”
“But I did. When I chose not to kill him all those years ago. When I failed to protect—“ He jerks his hand away. “I need some air. Donotleave the Bureau. Do you understand? You are safe here. He cannot get to you behind these wards.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, rushing to follow him as he strides towards the door.
“To see an angel.”
I snag his wrist. “He’s after you too, you know. Wouldn’t we be safer…together?”
Sin steps into the fading sunlight, but then turns, bands an arm around my waist, and pulls me close. “You are safest here. Promise me,” he growls then kisses me like he’s afraid he’s never going to see me again. “You will stay.”
“I’ll stay,” I gasp when he lets go. “The commander’s handing out assignments for tonight’s stakeout in an hour. Be back by then, okay?”
“I will try.”
Twenty-Six
Zoe
Where the hell is Sin? He’s been gone for two hours, and we’re supposed to head to a seedy bar in the Tenderloin in twenty minutes. The Bureau has a full wardrobe of undercover outfits tailored for each of its agents, and one of the witches helped me choose a tight black skirt, patterned stockings, and a shimmery red tank that dips low between my breasts and leaves next to nothing to the imagination.
Oh, and no bra.
“Stop fidgeting,” Amber says as she pins my hair up so delicate ringlets tease my neck. “That spell won’t hold the top to your boobs forever, you know. The more you tug at the material, the weaker it gets.”
“Great. So I need to worry about a wardrobe malfunction all night?”
