Saga thought she heard Avery’s voice, but it was a murmur lost to time.
“You wonder what you might have done to prevent what happened that day.”
The office melted away. Suddenly they were standing at the front of the church. Saga was aware of the guests filling every pew and the groom standing just behind Iona. They were shapes, shadows. She did not need to focus on the details to know every one. A wave of heartache crashed around her, but it felt numbed by Iona’s touch, as if a barrier prevented the moment from truly touching her. She was desired. She was important. She was so much more than the moment unfolding around her.
“And yet, you know his crimes. He chasedyou. Hepursuedyou. He wore you down—you weren’t even initially interested, you were focusing on your studies, you had no longing for companionship.” Her lips were so close to Saga’s she could nearly feel them move against her own. “Heweaseledhis way into your life. He promised you the world, and when you were finally convinced he might be worth the risk—when you were trulyvulnerable…”
Out of her periphery, Saga saw the chapel doors bang open.
“He left.”
The words echoed and Saga was aware of the shape of the groom shifting. He turned to see who had entered the chapel through the open doors.
“In front of everyone,” Iona continued her narration, and while Saga was keenly aware of the humiliation and anger that swirled around them, she could notfeelit. “In front ofGod, he left you. He let her interrupt the ceremony, give her pathetic little speech about love and loyalty—vows he had been poised to make to you—and then he ran away withher.”
The figure of the groom departed with the new form. Only now as they retreated, they began to take more specific shape. Hugh and Lana. Saga remembered sending her the invitation. “An old friend,” he’d said. “She probably won’t even come.”
“He…” The words caught in Saga’s throat.
“Hehumiliated you,” Iona finished for her. “I can feel the wound he’s left in you, Saga.” She stroked Saga’s hair. “Let me help you. Let mehealyou. Let your anger burn—”
With a hiss, suddenly Iona staggered back, eye contact breaking and the office blinking back into reality around them. But with that broken contact, the barrier Iona had created to keep Saga separated from her own emotions also shattered.
Saga crumpled to the floor. She was back in the office, but her body shook, overwhelmed with animalistic sobs. She gripped at her heart with one hand and dug her fingers into the rug with the other. She couldn’t see through the tears; the world was only a splatter of color. It was hard to breathe. Her pain felt fresh, like she had traveled back three months and was feeling it all again for the first time. A hand splayed on her back, but it lacked the drug-like numbing quality Iona had wrapped her in. Someone kneeled beside her. Someone who smelled like citrus and candle smoke.Avery.
“All will be well, I swear it.” It was spoken softly, yet somehow she still heard Avery over her own sobs. Then the monotone directive took over once more. “Miss Trygg would very much like you to look over these photographs.”
“You always were bad for business,” the Romanian beauty scoffed.
“Old habits die hard,” said Avery humorlessly. She did not move from her place crouched beside Saga, but there was the sound of a file folder being flapped insistently in Iona’s direction.
The white stilettos took a few steps toward them again, and Saga heard Iona’s manicured nails scrape over paper as she snatched the file from Avery’s hand. When had she stepped away from them? Had Avery physically removed her from Saga?
Saga didn’t move even as her sobs began to quiet. They continued to roll like convulsions through her body. She didn’t fight it. It was better to let this feeling run its course. An emotional purge. Violent and unpleasant, but necessary.
After a few moments, Iona sighed. She sounded bored. “What am I looking at, Hemlock?” The way Iona spoke Avery’s name made it sound like a slur.
“Victims,” Avery said, still all business. “Anyone look familiar?”
“No.” Now Iona flapped the folder back to Avery, impatient and annoyed. “Should they?”
“Not your handiwork?”
“Why do you think I would have anything to do with this?” Disgust dripped off every syllable.
“The tattoo on the younger victim’s left breast,” said Avery. “Rache ist süß.”
Iona scoffed. “Is that all?” Her voice had lost its hypnotic melody; it was staccato, piercing, hiss. “Not everyone who pays homage to revenge is a client, let alone an acolyte. You of all people should know that.”
“Organs were stolen viciously from still-living vessels. Vindictive sympathetic magic was employed.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean an iele carried it out.” A beat. “Have you considered what they might be using the organs for?”
Avery’s hand slid from its place on Saga’s back as she returned to standing. She stepped between Iona and Saga. “Power rituals. Perhaps opening a door to the other side. There’s a myriad of possible purposes.”
“Including divining information.” Saga could see the white stilettos shift their stance from between Avery’s ankles.
“You’re suggesting haruspicy?”43
