Page 42 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Roremar responded, “It might not be related. Unfortunately, we’ll only know for certain if more bodies show up. But regardless, there’s a killer out there. Some sick bastard who had fun mutilating the victim before he slayed her.” His eyes roved over Emmeline’s notes. “Whoever it was left her body in such a public place afterward. Why wouldn’t he hide it?”

Emmeline hadn’t considered that, focusing more on historical facts and cases while Roremar seemed to be evaluating the scene and purpose repeatedly in his mind.

“Do you think he wanted her found?”

“Possibly,” Roremar said. “Maybe he knew her personally, and it was a punishment. She was a traveler, though, so that doesn’t feel likely, especially with the two original missing women being from Lyra.”

“Speaking of the victim,” Desmond said, and he fished a piece of parchment from his pocket, presenting it to them ceremoniously.

“What’s that?” Emmeline asked, leaning closer as Roremar opened it.

“Rore asked me for a list of names of artists on the isle who I thought might have done the tattoo.”

Emmeline’s gaze traced the ink across his arms. “And you’re an expert because…”

“I own my own shop. Fated Ink.” Desmond blew out a breath. “Truthfully, I don’t think it was any of them. They all have a better hand than what I saw at the scene.” He shrugged. “But maybe it will help.”

Emmeline blinked at him, surprised by the sincerity softening his words. “Thank you, Desmond.”

“Least I could do, darling,” he responded.

Roremar cleared his throat, pulling her attention back to the list. He handed it over, his fingers barely brushing her wrist as he set it before her. She ignored the fire that shot through her veins and focused on his pointed question. “Notice anything?”

Emmeline scanned the parlor names twice, studying their respective insignias that Desmond had recreated with an expert hand. The work was immaculate. She only had a moment to wonder if he’d done Roremar’s tattoos before her eyes widened on a pair of feathered wings nestled in a bed of roses. “The medallion?”

Roremar nodded tapping the name beside it. “Angel’s Draw. The victim had a medallion with that symbol wrapped around her wrist.” Pursing his lips, he gave her a nod of approval. “Good catch, Huntress.”

And this time at the name, he tossed her a wink that caught her breath in her throat.

Fates, this was trouble. He was trouble. Emmeline didn’t typically do trouble.

But for now, it appeared she was stuck with it.

They agreed to pay Angel’s Draw a visit that night, but when Emmeline arrived with Roremar and Desmond—Nico having some other engagement—the building was closed up. Desmond went to ask a few neighbors he knew down the street, leaving Emmeline and Roremar before the parlor so no one would feel ambushed.

She expected the silence to be uncomfortable, but something about the way he stood there, so still she would have thought he was reading if it wasn’t for the low tune he hummed, brought her solace.

They were at the western edge of the Peddler’s District, far enough from the Promenade of Revels that it wasn’t rowdy. Mystlight lanterns lined the alley every ten feet, but she kept her attention swiveling across her surroundings. She never knew what waited in the shadows.

“Anything from the families of the missing women?” Emmeline asked Roremar to fill the time.

He shook his head. “I wrote to them again this afternoon, but it’s likely they just need time. Hopefully I’ll be able to schedule those meetings soon, though. And the friends of the victim from two nights ago have been silent, but my contact who spoke to them said they were hysterical.”

“If they were also travelers, they were likely already out of sorts being here,” Emmeline finished.

Roremar nodded, a thoughtful divot forming between his brows. “There must be some connection between the three.”

“There is,” Emmeline agreed. “It’s just one no one’s deemed important yet.”

She paced before the storefront painted with the familiar insignia, fingers drifting over the florals cascading down the trellis until Desmond returned.

“He’s visiting a sick relative on Byron,” he explained of the parlor owner, referencing the isle west of Lyra. “Won’t be back for a few days.”

“Completely innocent,” Emmeline muttered dryly.

“Almost too innocent. I don’t think someone this barbaric would kill and run—especially not if they were kidnapping other women, too. He’d want to stick around and watch it play out.” Roremar peered through the darkened window, mystlight illuminating the wing and rose symbol. “We’ll come back in a few days. Maybe poke around with neighbors tomorrow.”

Nausea swept through her as Roremar walked her back to the Academy, but Emmeline had to admit he was right. If the disappearances and the murder were connected, with how many loose ends there were, it was likely they were searching for someone who wasn’t done yet.