Page 89 of Fallen Court

Shaw sulked toward the graveyard’s iron gates, Dante following close behind.

It was the same as last time. Another woman, hands bound behind her back, a crater where the back of her skull should have been, and a memento mori carved into her neck. Her body had fallen like a rag doll in front of a marble mausoleum. I turned away, but Cate took a step toward her, eyes narrowing.

“Have they identified her?” I asked Roark.

“We’re guessing a tourist,” he said.

St. Roch Cemetery was too young to be on many ghost tours, so it wasn’t closed to the public. It was entirely possible that this was a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “We need to find out if any missing persons reports have been filed.”

“I’ll talk to our guy at the precinct,” Roark said.

Cate’s brows rose. “You actually work with the police?”

“The ones willing to accept a supplementary paycheck.”

She shook her head as she crouched to get a better look at the body, and I wasn’t sure if she was more disappointed in them or me.

“What’s she doing?” Roark muttered.

“No clue.” One of the reasons I loved her was that I never knew quite what to expect. But she’d been telling the truth at the Avalon: the dead body didn’t appear to faze her. She was made of stronger stuff than most of the fae I’d known for centuries. I’d suspected as much when she tried to shoot me within the first forty-eight hours she’d known me.

Cate stood, dusting her hands on her jeans. “She wasn’t killed here.”

“How can you tell?” Roark asked.

But I answered for her. “Not enough blood.”

She nodded. “Do you have pictures of the first scene?”

Roark looked truly impressed as I passed her my phone. She scrolled through, pausing to zoom in on one.

“What?” I asked when she squinted at the screen.

“What’s that written in Theban on the ground?” She pointed at the photo.

I took a step closer. “What are you talking about?”

Cate turned the phone around to both Roark and me. She had zoomed in on the gore surrounding the body, and there, woven into the blood spatter, were symbols written in the witch’s blood.

Roark tugged at his lip ring, shooting an uncomfortable look at me.

“We missed it,” I admitted, the confession coated in frustration.

“Can you read it?” she pressed.

“‘Blood spilled. Blood owed,’” he said quietly.

It was both a warning and a promise. If we had caught it the first time, we might have known to expect more violence.

“That’s uplifting,” Cate muttered. She turned the phone back around, and her brow furrowed as she studied some detail.

“What are you onto now?” I asked gently.

“It’s probably nothing,” she murmured. Glancing up, she held out the phone to show us a photo of the memento mori carved on the witch’s neck. “See how the skin around the mark is red and a little swollen?”

“Yeah.” Roark moved closer.

“And the blood is starting to clot, not just pool?” She looked at each of us in turn. “Thalia was alive when the mark was carved.”