Page 77 of Mortdale

Her head had tipped up to the grey, stormy skies as she smiled, took a deep breath in, and twirled around. “The stares are still there, but they’re not the same here. They understand I am strange, but not for the reasons they did back in Meridian. And besides,” she said, wiggling her brows at me. “My husband will cut ‘em up to tiny little pieces if someone says the wrong thing to me. I’ve only been reaping the benefits.”

“I’m not this thug you seem to think I am.”

Grasping my tie with both hands, she got on her toes to stand face to face with me. “The dressmaker had only one hand the second time I went to see her. And surprisingly, she was very pleasant to me. Terrified, but pleasant.”

Liam had told me the woman had grabbed and dragged Willow. The most reasonable thing had been…well, taking away the means for her to repeat that same action.

Leaning in, I pressed my lips against her soft ear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes were narrowed on me as she walked backwards with her hands fastened behind her. “No more threatening people with dismemberment.”

There hadn’t been any threats. Why would I announce my intentions? “Whatever my wife wants,” was all I said.

With a huge smile plastered on her face, she nodded and wiggled her fingers in salute at everyone as we stepped into the grey-walled city hall building crowded by office workers in their black suits, pacing like ants up and down the long stretch of a red and white gingham corridor.

The coroner had stopped to stare at her, blocking the door to his laboratory.

I pushed the door open, stepping into his work room. “I don’t have all day, Alfred.”

“You brought a witch.”

“Ta-da!” she said, flashing him her best smile.

“My wife, Willow,” I said. “Alfred, the head coroner and currently in charge of this investigation. He’s human.”

“A human,” she said with mock fascination. “You have a human.” She circled him, poking him in places. “Wow. What's that like?”

She was too busy trying to creep him out to notice me laughing.

Alfred’s embarrassment tinged his ears red. “It’s fine. Come on in.” He glanced down the hall corridors. “You will get me sacked. Or killed, Logan Duncan!” He paced across the length of his small work study adjoined to the mortuary room. “If they find out I have not sent an infected corpse for disposal, they will think I am working for Morngate. Trying to spread this darned thing!”

Willow shed her hat, studying Alfred’s shelf with little to no interest, getting her hands in everything she could spot.

He grabbed the jar from Willow’s hands, hugging it to his chest. “I’m one of the eldest pathologists in Epiron. My work has been studied by many, referenced by many more. My texts are used to teach new students. That is to say, there is nothing I cannot find that you can.”

“If you say so,” she sweetly said, fluttering her innocent lashes at him. “You should open a window here sometimes. You’ll trap in spirits.”

Alfred glanced around. “No such thing.”

She picked up a few of his instruments, studying them. “If you say so.”

“Why did you bring her here?” Alfred threw an accusatory whisper at me. “To pressure me or scare me? I am telling you, I’ve found nothing. They’re healthy vampires. What does a witch even know about vampires?”

“She’s an occult pathologist. Who also happens to be my wife.” I blew a cloud of smoke in his face. “Be nice.”

His brow twitched. “No such thing as an occult pathologist. Spirits, devils, fiends and demons, a bunch of poppycock. This isn't the work of the devil. This is the work of humans.”

“If you say so,” Willow echoed again, having moved to the far corner of his laboratory, her head tilted down a bin. She remained there for a while.

“What is it?”

“Does it smell sickly sweet in here to you, or is it just me?”

Leaning over the bin, I sniffed.

She was right.

“I noticed the scent lingering on the instruments.” She studied the jars of formalin storing the organs, removing the lids to lean over and sniff. “Putrescine and cadaverine can sometimes smell sickly sweet, too, but it comes with the smell of rotting flesh, decay, sewage—not a field of flowers, that much I can tell you. Which, from my own research, doesn't happen in vampires. Your bodies petrify; they do not decay like ours do, they do not go through putrefaction.” She itched the tip of her nose as she pinned him with a playful look. “Your pet human hadn’t made a note of it anywhere in the documents you gave me to read.” Her eyes turned to him. “I suppose sniffing formalin for so many, many, many—”