“Indeed.” Vyse lowers the handkerchief slightly, a look of vague distaste on his features. “The necromancer must have planted the spell as a failsafe. If any of the captured coven members came close to revealing useful information, the magic would activate and eliminate them. Accelerated decay of some sort. Not exactly artful, but highly effective.”
“So we have nothing.” Rowan growls. “Our best lead is fuckingsludgenow. We can’t exactly interrogate sludge and the same thing will happen to the other prisoners if we try it with them.”
“I wouldn’t say nothing.” Vyse produces a blue latex glove from somewhere and pulls it on with a snap. He crouches beside the puddle of remains and swipes his finger through the purple-gray substance.
Rowan gags again. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Collecting evidence.” Vyse examines the sludge on his gloved finger with a scientist’s curiosity. He pulls a small glass slide from his pocket and carefully transfers the sample.“Necromantic magic is messy and volatile, but it’s also distinctive. Every practitioner leaves a unique signature in their work.”
He holds up the slide, sealing it with some kind of preservation spell. “Now I have something to track.”
Rowan makes a strangled sound and turns away. He barely makes it to the trash can in the corner before he loses his lunch. Sean goes over and pats him on the back, as if he’s choking. “You need the Heineken, man?”
“It’s Heimlich, andno,” Rowan moans.
I should probably feel worse about watching a woman dissolve into magical goop right in front of me. And the fact that my questions literally killed her.
But all I can think is that we’re one step closer to finding the necromancer who raised that werewolf.
Which means we’re one step closer to saving Killian.
I’ll process the trauma later.
Afteran hour-long shower the approximate temperature of the surface of the sun.
Chapter
Eighteen
REGINA
Villeneuve’s living room is bursting at the seams with wolves and witches tonight.
The wolves have claimed most of the available seating, except for Killian, who’s yet again standing by the window, keeping himself apart from the rest of us.
Actually, I’m starting to think he’s photosynthesizing.
Sean is in full storytelling mode, perched precariously on the arm of the couch with his hands moving in increasingly dramatic gestures. His eyepatch has shifted slightly off-center. The one with the flames, because that’s his “evening look.”
His words, not mine.
“—and then she just startsscreaming, right? Like a fucking horror movie. And this purple shit starts spreading all over her skin and?—”
“We were there,” Rowan says weakly from his corner of the couch. He’s got one arm pressed against his stomach and his face has a distinctly greenish tint to it. “We don’t need the play-by-play.”
“Dude, Killian and Micah and Sadie weren’t there,” Sean protests. “They need to know what happened, it’s journalism.”
“It’s absolutely not that,” Killian says flatly.
“So anyway,” Sean continues, ignoring him, “the purple stuff is spreading, and it’s like watching someone melt in fast forward. Her face just startssliding the fuck off.”
Rowan makes a noise that sounds like a cat with a hairball.
“And then her arms go all goopy, and there’s thissmell, like if you left a can of ham in your car for six weeks in August?—”
“Sean.” Rowan’s voice is strained. “I’m begging you. Stop being so descriptive.”
“What? I’m just painting a picture.”
