“Max.” Her hair had swung in front of her eyes, and she tucked it behind her ears. “Can you uncover their wrists and ankles without destroying any evidence?”
From somewhere in his hoodie, he produced the spiky metallic tool he used to open his blood packs and gingerly raised the edge of the nearest guard’s cuff with it. Ducking so low her head brushed the ground, she inspected the man’s wrist.
The faintest tinge of blue. Bruises. A ring of them.
She tipped her chin, a mute invitation to Max, and he studied the marks too. Sniffed them, his brows snapping together. Then they repeated the process with the bottom of the guard’s pants leg. Another ring of bruises. More sniffing.
All four wrists. All four ankles.
“I assume the smell of brimstone can be created without demon involvement.” Her hesitance and misgivings now had somerational justification, which was a relief…until she considered the further implications. “And burns can be inflicted in a variety of ways.”
“You assume correctly.”
Sitting back on his heels, Max shifted his attention from the guards and studied their surroundings. The grassy edge of the moat and the sparkling dark water below and the splintered wood of the bridge. The dirt and pine needles underfoot, the ground’s surface uneven and furrowed in several spots by a mole or some other burrowing creature. The graceful, arching branches of the trees above. Loblolly pines, red maples, and other species she couldn’t identify.
A few branches hung lower than the others. As if a significant weight had dragged them down, and they hadn’t yet sprung back to their original positions. A well-fed squirrel, possibly, or a heavy vulture sighting nearby carrion.
Or…something else entirely.
“As I said earlier, demons smell like smoke or brimstone. Vampires smell sharp and either piney or metallic. Trolls smell like the earth. And the fae…” Max spoke quietly, using his metal spike to lift the guard’s wrist cuff again and indicate the near-imperceptible bracelet of bruises underneath. “Roses. Usually fresh ones, but when they feed or turn violent…the dead-roses scent is unmistakable. Sweet rot.”
For all his surface calm, strong emotion had scored austere lines into Max’s aristocratic face once more. If she’d first met him at that moment, she wouldn’t have guessed he was in his twenties. She’d have wondered whether those haunted, ancient eyes had witnessed the birth of continents or foreseen the death of all civilization.
“You smelled dead roses on the guards’ wrists and ankles.” It wasn’t a question.
His jaw twitched. “The faintest trace. Another hour, and even the strongest surviving vampire wouldn’t be able to detect it.”
She could picture what had happened in far-too-vivid detail. Roots erupting from the ground and twining around the guards’ ankles. Branches descending from above, circling the men’s wrists.
Theelderlymen’s wrists. Shit.
Those guards probably hadn’t been anywhere near retirement. They justlookedold.
Newfound certainty settled in her bones, as heavy as lead. “The fae fed on and killed the guards. Then they built the bridge, freed the zombies, let the creatures attack the guards’ bodies, and planted signs of demonic involvement to avoid blame.”
“Yes.” He sounded grim but sure. “I believe so.”
“Which means zombies didn’t cut our power. The fae did.” Suddenly, that odd hotline conversation in Max’s house, their lack of cell and internet coverage, and the missing sirens made a lot more sense. “They somehow took over the emergency hotline, waited for the first report of a zombie sighting to confirm their plan was in motion, then disabled our means of communication so we couldn’t get word to either authorities or other Zone inhabitants.”
He inclined his head, a silent affirmation. “I would guess they’ve been tampering with whatever information the government and media are receiving about the Zone as well. If officials had received footage of the zombies’ escape, no matter the cause, troops would be here already. And if the fae spread word that the Zone’s entry door, internet, and phone lines were simplymalfunctioning again, and the problem was getting addressed but might take a while to resolve—”
“Then family members and friends wouldn’t have any reason to question that story. They’d believe it.” Dammit, she needed more ibuprofen. Her head was throbbing. From tension and exhaustion, but also suppressed tears. “They’d continue believing it until Wall Four fell too. At which point, the real slaughter would begin.”
Those revelations were important pieces of this horrible puzzle, but she was still missing the overall picture. Still unable to understand the scope of the danger they faced.
“Why would the fae do this?” Her hands fisted on her thighs, hard enough that her ragged fingernails bit into her palms. “Why set a pack of zombies loose on their only source of immortality?”
“I don’t know.” Blowing out a breath, he stood and glanced around them. “And I don’t want you out in the open like this. There could be stragglers. Come on.”
She let him take her hand, help her to her feet, and urge her toward the SUV.
Her heart might ache for those two lost guards. Her eyes might prickle. Her fingers might itch to right their bodies, close their eyes, and allow them some dignity after their violent, terrifying deaths. But there was nothing she could do for them right now. Not without disturbing crucial evidence.
As soon as Max had both of them safely settled in the locked vehicle, he clasped her hand again and played idly with her fingers.
“Within SERC, rumors of fae revolutionaries have circulated for years.” His words emerged slowly, as if he was thinking through their implications even as he spoke. “There’s asignificant fae faction that resents working with humans or even cooperating with other Supernaturals. Members of that faction consider all of us their inferiors, and they want out from under the thumb of SERC. They’re tired of not using what they see as their full potential or having free rein to do whatever they want.”
She frowned, confused. “And how would releasing the zombies and killing humans help them get that power?”
