There it was: another link on her leash.
Avery ran her tongue over the fanged points of her right canine and bicuspid in annoyance. “And if I require something that exists outside of Hudson’s inventory?”
“I would suggest you solve this problem with great haste.” Gideon gestured with his long pale fingers and the car door opened. “Inspector Lahiri should be waiting for you inside.”
Avery glowered and exited through the curtain of rain once more.
The Westminster Public Mortuary was not “new” by mortal standards, but the brick was far too vibrant to be considered anything but to Avery. Still, since the time it had been built, an extension had been deemed necessary, and the more recent arch-shaped construction of gray stone and glass stood awkwardly out of place next to its ruddy counterpart.
But where the stone on the exterior had nodded to London’s old-world roots, the interior was cold, modern, and sterile. While unable to place the exact scent, Avery knew the telltale odor of recently employed detergents.
At her entrance, both the receptionist and a gentleman reading a newspaper looked up.
The man was tall and lean—but even through his simple gray suit and tan overcoat, she could tell that leanness came from muscle, not atrophy. He had a strong jaw, accented by his extremely well-kept beard, and a head of thick but well-coiffed short black hair. His eyes were jovial but keen, and as she was evaluating him, he was doing the same of her.
“Inspector Lahiri, I presume?”
The Bengali man grinned and stood, tucking the newspaper under an arm so he could flash his warrant card to her. It appeared this form of identification for officers had changed very little in two hundred years. “Detective Inspector Reza Lahiri, Charing Cross.” He spoke with the faintest of accents, the low timbre of his inflection gently rolling his r’s. Heextended his hand, and the two shook firmly.
“Hemlock,” she introduced, pointedly avoiding any further familiarity than necessary, mentally cataloging what she gathered about him like evidence.
Lahiri’s grin faltered. “You wish me to call you…” He hesitated, uncomfortable with repeating the word.
“I am well aware of the epithet’s intent, but I took a shine to it,” Avery dismissed. “They think I’m poison? Excellent. They’ll think twice before getting in my way.”
“That, I can appreciate,” Inspector Lahiri said warmly. Standing in his presence was almost like basking near a fire. “Follow me.” He turned, set the newspaper on the receptionist’s desk with care, and said, “Thank you again, dear lady, for the reading material.”
As the two ventured through the door toward the actual offices and examination rooms, Avery couldn’t help taking in everything as they passed. The extremely glossy flooring was particularly new and strange—it felt as if the soles of her shoes stuck to it.
“So, you’re the one who is gonna take care of all the gondogol12 going about, then?”
“Something like that,” Avery answered, half distracted by the new surfaces, textures, and materials. “Apparently, it’s my one redeeming attribute.”
“But so redeeming your sentence was cut three hundred years short in order to utilize it, eh? That is something to celebrate!”
Gideon was right. This man did smile too much. “How did you get mixed up in this?”
“We volunteered,” the man chirped with an almost disturbing cheerfulness. “My wife offered the apartments, I offered to shadow you—keep you out of trouble as it were.” Lahiri winked good-naturedly.
This was unexpected information. “Your wife is a Hudson.”
“Mm.” It was such a small noise, yet it resonated with pride. “One of the oldest families of witches, the line unbroken and involved in our ways since who knows when, but still a mortal, and thus still treated with relative trepidation in most circles.”
“Yet it was mentioned to me thatyouabstain from magic?”
Lahiri laughed—it was the sort of laugh that overtook his whole being. “You make it sound so dramatic with that word—abstain. I just don’t find much of a use for it.”
Avery stared at him. “You are a policeman.”
“I work a Mundane job, with Mundane coworkers, protecting and serving Mundane people,” said Lahiri. “I am an ifrit, what good would my magic do? Shall I engulf a suspect in fire?” He chuckled at the ridiculousness of the notion. “No, my friend, you have been misled about me.”
Reza Lahiri | Jinn (Ifrit), Age: Mid-40s?
6’0”? Lean muscle, dark complexion
• Prefers to not use magic.
• Family: Married to a Hudson witch and owner of the café.
