I had given the charm’s kernel to Gabriel, who had distributed the key across his network. It was the good and bad thing about the mark I’d placed—invisible to those without a key, it had a good chance to succeed, but success took longer.
“Tell me more.”
I examined the papers around him.You feel too exposed—move one inch left.“I don’t know what Gabriel told you, but I barely attached it, the ripper was so fast. Not an unexpected quality in a Steelcrest servant, but being smacked at that speed was not my favorite.” The papers shifted. Yes!
“Who?” His chair whacked against the floor.
“The Steelcrest footman.”Move another inch.Yes!
“Name?”
I frowned and looked up. “You don’t know? Gabriel didn’t tell you?” A flicker of uncertainty lit. “I thought Gabriel discussed cases with you.”
“I’ve been out and about the last week.” He leaned forward, body strung tight. “Why don’t you catch me up? A Steelcrest footman is the Vein Ripper?”
The uncertainty spread. I liked Lucian. But his odd reactions alongside Gabriel’s were causing unsettling thoughts.
“We don’t know, but he was stalking the last victim.”
His leg started bumping up and down. “You know the last victim? They haven’t given her identity in the papers.”
“Gabriel found out through a fence. Something about her necklace was noteworthy.”
“Really?” He swallowed. “Interesting. How like Gabriel to put the pieces together so quickly.”
I chewed my lip, my uncertainty turning into flat discomfort. “Are you well, Lucian?”
“I’m feeling a bit under the weather, now that you mention it. Do you know her name?”
I looked at the kitchen door. “I’m not sure I should be discussing it with you, if Gabriel hasn’t said anything.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, with earnest eyes and a desperate face. He reminded me so much of Kennen, thougha slightly wiser, more handsome version. “Please, Marietta. Gabriel tries to protect me, and he needs to stop. He doesn’t—”
One of his elbows slipped on a bulge in the papers. He looked down, pushing them to the side and unearthing the journal. Illusion never stood up to physical touch. “What’s this?”
“Oh, nothing.” I nervously tried to take it from him.
He opened the cover before I could. His face darkened. “Who was the servant you were chasing and why?”
“Lucian—”
“Marietta, please.”
“Thorne Worley.”
He stared at me. “And you think him responsible?”
I fiddled with the papers under my fingers. “I think someone is responsible, and it’s neither of my brothers. Thorne Worley had an altar to the murdered victims.”
“A what?”
“Some sort of shrine with pictures and notes. Like a madman fallen in love with the people he murdered.”
Disgust curled his face. “A shrine? To them? Disgusting.”
Again there was an undercurrent pulling at the room that I couldn’t comprehend. “I know. What goes through the mind of someone when they kill another person and then set up a shrine?”
He blinked, as if that hadn’t been what he was saying. “Where did you get this?” He hefted the journal.
