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“D’Ambray came in at some point, with five other people. They entered as a group,” Derek said. “Also someone fired a shotgun slug into that wall.” He nodded at the opposite wall.
“Before or after the murder?”
He shook his head. “No way to tell. It’s fresh.”
Ascanio nodded at the hallway. “Dorie left after the murder. Her scent trail is separate from the others, tainted with blood, and older. You can see her bloody tracks.” He pointed to the side. “She ran out of here.”
A member of the Pack had murdered a Master of the Dead. A small part of me had been hoping that Hugh’s accusation wasn’t true, and now that hope died a sad death.
I tried to make sense of it. “So she killed Mulradin for some reason. Either it was some sort of accident or she did it on purpose. If it was an accident, how did Hugh get involved? If it was a premeditated murder, Hugh either hired her to do it, forced her to do it, or happened to somehow be watching the apartment when she did it.” That last one didn’t seem likely. “Would she kill for money?”
“I doubt it,” Derek said. “She isn’t violent. I wouldn’t call her a nice person, but she wouldn’t kill someone on her own.”
Why did Hugh let Dorie go? I rubbed my face. It didn’t make me any smarter. If I were Hugh, what would I do with Dorie? How could I use her? If Dorie was dead, the Pack couldn’t turn her over in time for the deadline, which would guarantee a war. We could still produce her corpse or acknowledge that she was the killer and offer to pay restitution. But if Dorie was alive, things would get really complicated. If we did turn her over, we would look weak. If we didn’t, we would look like we thought we were above the law. There was no good way to resolve this situation, and the responsibility for it would land on my shoulders. Whichever decision I made, the Pack would detest me for it.
No, Hugh wouldn’t kill her. Why, when he could kill a whole flock of birds with one stone? “Dorie is still alive.”
Ascanio raised his eyebrows at me.
“The question isn’t why Dorie killed Mulradin, it’s what we do about Dorie. We have to get out of here.”
“We have company,” Robert announced, looking out the window.
I willed my legs to move and crossed the room. My head was still swimming. Riders flooded the street, one, two . . . twelve. The leader rode a familiar dark horse. Hugh.
We’d been in the apartment about six minutes, and here he was.
Desandra leaned out to glance past Robert. Her clawed fingers grazed the wall.
Magic pulsed through the window in a flash of dark green. Desandra jerked her hand-paw away and cursed. “I know, I know. I touched something. My fault.”
Tiny runes ignited in the paint of the windowsill, pulsed, and vanished, as a ward snapped closed.
I spun around. “Door?”
Ascanio was already checking. “Warded,” he called out a second later.
We were trapped. Great. I moved to the window and pushed against the ward with my palm. It nipped at me with magic teeth. Not a blood ward. This was incantation-based and someone had sunk a wallop of power into it. Shit.
Ascanio returned.
“Is it breakable?” Robert asked me.
“Sure. Give me an hour to figure out how it was made.”
Derek swore.
I dropped on my knees by the window and slid my hand against the ward, trying to trace its boundaries. Magic scraped at my skin with pale green lightning. Ouch. If Hugh had warded the whole building, we’d be in trouble.
At the street, the riders dismounted.
I found an edge of the ward. Another edge. “He didn’t ward the entire building. He just warded the openings, the windows and the door.”
Derek bared his teeth. “Ceiling or floor?”
“Ceiling,” Robert said.
It would take them at least a few minutes to break through the ceiling onto the roof. A few minutes, and nothing between us and Hugh except for a busted door. I ran to the door.
“Where are you going?” Ascanio called.
“To buy us some time. Stay in the bedroom out of sight.”
“Ask him about the cops!” Robert called.
Good point. If Hugh had bought the Atlanta PAD, we needed to know.
The front door stood ajar, just as we had left it. The sound of people running up the stairs floated up.
I couldn’t break this ward, but I had enough magic left to make one of my own. I dipped my fingers in my blood and touched the bottom corner of the door frame on my side.
The pounding steps drew closer.
I concentrated. The magic rushed out from me, twisted into an invisible current, kissed the empty air of the doorway, and snapped like a broken rubber band. The pain lanced my mind and for a second the world teetered in a red haze. Ow. I forced myself upright. Breach that, you sonovabitch.
The steps reached the landing just below us.
I leaned against the wall and tried to look casual. All this practicing must be paying off, because a couple of years ago I couldn’t have broken the ward and put up one of my own in the space of fifteen minutes. It still hurt, but at least I wouldn’t give Hugh the satisfaction of passing out in front of him.
Hugh conquered the last few steps and halted by the door. He still wore jeans tucked into tall riding boots, a black wool sweater, and a plain cloak, splattered with mud and melting snow. Gloves shielded his hands. His height and broad shoulders guaranteed that people would maintain their distance, but if he pulled the hood over his face, he wouldn’t stand out too much. Hugh in his inconspicuous mode.
The hood was down now. I scrutinized Hugh’s face, looking for any sign of the wounds Curran and I had left on him. I knew they weren’t there, but my brain refused to acknowledge it. I just couldn’t help myself. No old scars on the square chin or the cut jaw. No hint of crushed cartilage in the nose. I looked higher and ran straight into his eyes. They brimmed with arrogance, power, and humor. Hugh was having fun.
I took a rag out of my pocket and began cleaning Slayer, drawing the cloth along the pale blade.
Nick followed Hugh to the door. He was wearing clothes and seemed no worse for wear. A woman walked with him, at least fifty, but strong and fit, built like she could punch a tank out. Bright red paint crossed her left cheek, an upside-down T, smudged, probably drawn with a finger. It stood for Uath, the sixth letter of the Ogham alphabet used by the ancient Celts. It meant horror or fear, and according to Voron, Uath had earned her name. My adopted father had found her years ago. She was one of his elite soldiers who later formed the backbone of the Order of Iron Dogs. Hugh must’ve inherited her. I had no idea she was still alive. Voron knew how to pick them.
