A cold chill ran through her veins. Avery leaned back, rubbed her face with her free hand, and flipped through the folder. There was mention of a tattoo in the file, but no photos. “Deisdamnatus,”14 she rasped, closing the folder and pacing back and forth. She felt like a trapped animal. This was not good. This wasverynot good. She slammed her palm against the stainless steel wall, again and again, until it dented. “Damnate! Fortuna pereat! Non illam. Aliquis illa potius est. Perfide!”15
Inspector Lahiri tentatively cracked the door open. “Are you all right?”
“Rache ist süß,” Avery growled.
“Ra-kha es soos—what?”
“It’s German.” Avery turned and replaced the sheet over the body neatly. “I’m going to need photographs of the bruising, the mixture, and the tattooabove her left breast. I will need a detailed photograph of that. The bruising may obscure the words, so they will need to take special care.”
The inspector’s brow furrowed, not seeing how this was any call for an outburst. “Absolutely… I can bring them by the café tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“The coroner noted a lack of a particular kind of bruising. I’m less familiar with safety belts, as you might imagine—the ones in the council town car went across the lap—it said the victim wasn’t wearing hers?”
“For drivers they tend to go across the whole body.” Lahiri gestured across his chest to mimic the front seat belt. “Like a forty-five-degree angle.”
Avery nodded awkwardly. “Thank you, Inspector Lahiri, it’s been a pleasure, and I look forward to our future collaboration.” She briefly held up the coroner’s report. “May I also receive a copy of this?”
Lahiri nodded slowly, making room in the doorway for her to exit. “If I might ask… What was all that shouting?”
Avery adjusted her cuffs, then tugged gently on her vest, smoothing it down. “Displeasure.” She cleared her throat, satisfied that any disheveling that might have occurred was now coiffed once more. “In a centuries-dead language.” She handed him the file and departed. She was swift and soundless, walking through the hallway, traveling down the stairs, and stepping into the still-awaiting town car.
Gideon arched a dark eyebrow. “Did you find anything useful?”
Avery slammed the door behind her, angry.
He sighed. “Is that particularly productive?”
“The victim has a tattoo—a recently acquired tattoo. Hard to say how recent, but it hasn’t had time to fade.Rache ist süß.”
“Revenge is sweet?” Gideon repeated. His brow smoothed in surprise. Avery didn’t care for the way he leaned forward or his conspiratorial tone. “Is this aboutIona?”
Being on the council’s leash was one thing; being onIona’shad been entirely another. Her name was enough to flood Avery’s mind with the memory of a dizzying haze of despair and rage so overwhelming she couldhave drowned in it. She shook herself. “No, nother.Unless there was a genocide you forgot to mention, there are plenty of iele in the world—not to mention a myriad of other types of fey who feed on revenge.” Avery refused to meet his gaze.
“You misunderstand my question. I was referring to your tantrum, not the murder.”
Avery shifted in her seat several times, unable to find a comfortable position. “I am not particularly thrilled with the prospect of making enemies with arevengecult,” Avery answered. “Hypothetical or not.”
“That is a rather large assumption to make from one tattoo.”
It was. Avery knew it was. It was purely circumstantial at best. The more she tried to scrutinize and question the suspicion, the less logic it upheld. The only force even suggesting that any of this might have been related to the iele of Avery’s past was her own fear.
Avery petulantly shoved her hands in her pockets, one hand hitting something unexpected—something she’d forgotten. She curiously pulled out the napkin-wrapped donut.
“It would not be untoward to ask Iona to come in and consult on the matter. The council could easily make the request.”
Avery heard him but chose not to acknowledge him. It would spoil this moment of rediscovering the confection. She smiled, pulling back the napkin to take in the scent.
Sugar. Fruit. Vanilla…
“What isthat?”
His distaste was audible, and it only encouraged her to take a large bite. The flavor was unexpected. Sweet had been the word Saga had used, but it far exceeded that definition as Avery knew it. The pastry was fluffy, the frosting was buttery in texture, intermixed with raspberries and the occasional crunch of the sprinkles. She sighed, content, and leaned back in her seat. “Joy, Gideon. It’s joy.”
10Behold, the inevitable misunderstanding.
