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  “What are you thinking about?” Shade glanced over at me as I leaned back in the passenger seat, wincing. I had the beginnings of a headache and wondered how long before the side effects of the damishanya were going to hit.

  “I’m wondering who I know among the dead. Which families I’m going to have to shatter with the news.” I rubbed my temples, glancing at Chase and Sharah in the backseat. “You guys have it worse . . . I know. I’m not complaining. It’s just never . . .”

  “Never easy,” Chase said, finishing my thought. “Trust me, I understand and if I didn’t think you’d be a helpful influence, I’d never ask you to do this with me. I wish we’d brought Nerissa, too. Part of her job is as grief counselor.”

  I pulled out my cell phone. “Let me give her a call and see how she’s doing.” The phone rang three times before Iris picked up. I ran down what we’d learned and where we were going. “Is Nerissa in any shape to pull herself out of the house and get down to HQ?”

  “Hold on.” Iris set the phone down, and as I waited, I thought about how entangled we’d all become in each others’ lives. After a moment, Iris returned. “She’s sober. I’ll have Bruce’s driver take her over to headquarters in the limo. If you could see that she gets home when necessary . . .”

  “No problem. Bless you and bless Bruce. Tell her we’ll see her when she gets there.” I punched the END CALL button. “Nerissa’s coming down.”

  Chase grunted a thank-you. “Odd . . . how this has all worked out.” He didn’t say anything more, but I knew he’d picked up on my mood—I’d been around him long enough to tell.

  We’d been involved after he struck out with Camille, and we’d made a good stab at a relationship, but the rocks on that ocean were just too sharp to navigate. Now he was involved with Sharah, the elfin medic, and they seemed to be a more compatible couple. He’d hired Nerissa as a crisis counselor, and she and Menolly were promised to each other. One by one, our extended family kept growing involved in ways we’d never have been able to predict. It kind of made up for the isolation we’d first felt when we came over Earthside.

  By the time we arrived at the FH-CSI headquarters, Morio was fully sober. Apparently alcohol sped through his system quickly. Camille looked vaguely ill, as did Shamas, and I was starting to feel like they looked. But we were all clearheaded as we followed Chase and Sharah into the building.

  The Faerie-Human Crime Scene Investigation building took up at least four floors, though there was a rumor of a hidden level. The top floor housed the police headquarters and medical unit. First floor down was a highly secure arsenal. Second floor down—the OW offender jails. And on the bottom floor were the laboratory, morgue, and archives. Tonight, we were headed for the morgue—a place we had been all too often.

  As the elevator descended with a silent rush, a somber mood settled over the group, and I stared at my feet, Shade’s hand on my shoulder. I didn’t want to go in—didn’t want to look at the faces of my fallen friends. The Supe Community was tight-knit; everybody knew everybody else.

  The doors opened with a swish and we stepped out onto the hard-tiled floor, our boots leaving a series of staccato tattoos echoing in our wake. The walls here had been recently painted sterile white. Whether they thought it was brighter than the pale blue it had been, I didn’t know, but it felt cold and hollow. As Chase pushed through the doors, Sharah right behind him, I watched them go in.

  They fit . . . they really fit. Both of them had to deal with the leavings of society—the aftermath of battle. Whereas I was on the front lines, Chase was better suited to picking up the pieces and making sense of it all, of organizing the back lines. Chase and I never found our niche together. And yet we both had our place in the battles we were facing. And we’d become blood brother and sister. No matter what, we had each other’s back.

  Chase glanced back at me, his eyes shimmering, and he blinked, then slowly smiled and inclined his head, as if he’d heard me speaking. He was changing, evolving, and none of us knew what he was becoming. Not even him.

  He stood back, holding the morgue doors open for us. Sharah headed over to examine the bodies and talk to Mallen, her right-hand man, who was also an elf. He handed her a series of charts and she flipped through them.

  I slowly approached the tables—five of them, each covered with a snow white sheet. Or what had started as snow white. Blossoms of blood spread across them, petals staining the undersides of the sheets, and as I watched, the patterns seemed to form the silhouettes of flowers. Or perhaps it was my imagination—like some gruesome Rorschach test.

  The bodies were still, no breath, no movement. No fear they’d turn into vampires, like when Menolly had come here to identify victims. Just . . . dead. Cold, forever gone. I took a deep breath and looked up at Mallen.

  “How bad are they?” Swallowing my fear, I tried to remind myself that I was a Death Maiden. I escorted—or would soon escort—souls over through the veil as part of my duties. I would be leaving the empty bodies of not just my enemies, but anybody whom the Autumn Lord ordered me to take.

  He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “They aren’t good. It’s not . . . it’s bloody. But the faces are fairly intact. I think they’re recognizable enough. The bodies were pretty mangled and burned. Four of them were right near the blast. The fifth . . . he never made it through the ride to the hospital.”

  Menolly and Camille joined me. I reached for Camille’s hand as Mallen pulled back the first sheet. I flinched. I knew the face. “Tom. Thomas Creia. He’s a member of the Verde Canis Clan. They were a group of Weres working for environmental causes. He’s married. Two children.”

  Sharah jotted down the information as we moved to the second table. Again, the sheet came down. Again, a familiar face.

  “Crap. Trixie Jones. One of Marion’s sisters. Coyote shifter. Single. I think she might have been engaged, but I’m not sure.” The fire in my belly began to burn and grow larger. Whoever did this, I wanted to find them. Now.

  The third sheet. Another man. This one, I knew by name but not to call friend. But his death had not been pleasant, and the grimace on his face told me he’d died in pain.

  “Salvatore Tienes. Werewolf. He recently moved up from Arizona. I don’t know what pack he was with, but he’s been staying with a werewolf family up in Shoreline.” I bit my lip, wanting to stop. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t want to see who was left—an irrational fear took hold, that it would be someone we knew. Mallen drew back the fourth sheet.

  I stared. Menolly and Camille squeezed my hands, and Camille let out a little gasp. Even Chase moved closer, hanging his head.

  “Exo Reed,” he said quietly.

  Everybody in the Supe community knew Exo. He ran the Halcyon Hotel, catering to Supes. He’d called us in on several jobs and was an upstanding member of the NRA and a member of the chamber of commerce for the greater Seattle area. And now, he was so much fodder for worms. Bloody . . . gone to whatever afterlife awaited werewolves when they died.

  Tears threatened, but I sucked them back, holding myself rigid. Camille was doing the same, and Menolly had one of those horrific looks on her face that told me she wanted to do nothing less than hunt down the scum who did this and rip them to shreds.

  “Show us the last, Mallen. Then we should talk to the survivors.” Chase glanced over at the elf but paused when Mallen held up his hand.

  Mallen barely looked old enough to be in high school, but he was far older than most of us. “They aren’t in any condition to talk. They may not be for a long time. But I’ll do my best to have them conscious by tomorrow.”

  “Crap. We need to know everything we can about this blast.” Chase looked flummoxed but then shrugged. “Whatever . . . we’ll play it as we go. So, who’s our last victim?”

  We were all afraid that it was going to be someone else we knew, but this time it wasn’t a Were, but an elf, unfamiliar to any of us. Neither Mallen nor Sharah recognized him, either.

&nb
sp; “We’ll have to go through the records of who came over from Otherworld recently . . . track down anybody who might have seen him come through the portals.” I was shaken, and I hated to admit it, but I’d been relieved that our last casualty wore a stranger’s face. Somewhere, he had to have family or friends who would miss him. But for us, he was easier to handle—a cold statistic in what had become a terribly personal crime.

  “Did the fire or explosion kill them? I know it’s an obvious question, but is there anything we overlooked? That we don’t know?” Camille spoke up, looking to Mallen for answers.

  “Good question,” Chase said.

  Mallen consulted his charts. “Toxicology is still out, but the most obvious cause is massive trauma due to whatever explosive device this was and third-degree burns over most of their bodies. Although . . .” He paused.

  “Although what?” I pulled out my notebook and began making my own notes.

  “The odd thing . . . when a bomb detonates—a homemade bomb like those commonly used by hate-crime groups—they usually make sure it’s loaded with shrapnel. Now, there are injuries due to shrapnel here, but it wasn’t from the bomb. The fragments obviously came from the surroundings. Wood from the beams, metal from the tables that exploded. Whatever blew up doesn’t seem to have left much of a residue.”

  “That’s because the explosive factor was canya.” I watched as Mallen’s expression turned from perplexed to horrified. “Yeah, we’re thinking sorcerers. The question is: Who did it, and how did they get hold of this crap?”

  “Then toxicity results aren’t going to show anything.” He closed the folder and set it down on the table. “The fact is, the amount of canya needed to blow up a building the size of the Supe Community Hall points to some very powerful enemies. If they have enough canya for that, I wouldn’t put it past them to have more—or worse—tricks like this up their sleeve. You have to find them, or I predict a body count like we haven’t seen in a long while.”

  Chase let out a long sigh. “Thanks, we so didn’t need that information. Okay, let’s go have a talk with the families. I know some of them are waiting upstairs.” He shook his head, looking resigned. “I’m used to breaking bad news to people, but the sting never goes away.”

  Berkley titles by Yasmine Galenorn

  THE OTHERWORLD SERIES

  Witchling

  Changeling

  Darkling

  Dragon Wytch

  Night Huntress

  Demon Mistress

  Bone Magic

  Harvest Hunting

  Blood Wyne

  Courting Darkness

  Shaded Vision

  THE INDIGO COURT SERIES

  Night Myst

  Night Veil

  ANTHOLOGIES

  Inked

  Never After

  Hexed

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Yasmine Galenorn

  Ghost of a Chance

  Legend of the Jade Dragon

  Murder Under a Mystic Moon

  A Harvest of Bones

  One Hex of a Wedding

  Yasmine Galenorn writing as India Ink

  Scent to Her Grave

  A Blush with Death

  Glossed and Found