Page 46 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

He hated that for his brother. He knew how wrenching it was.

It sealed his throat over as he crossed the kitchen, the mystlight orbs shining down on him cracked. Beneath one, a folded piece of parchment flared to life, freezing Roremar in his tracks and stealing every ounce of his scattered attention.

Snatching the Mystique ink message from the air, he hastily read it.

“Well, burning starfire,” Roremar cursed. “Breakfast is going to have to be quick.”

Chapter Fifteen

Emmeline

Another body.

A phantom knife stabbed through Emmeline’s sternum as the open throat stared up at her, flesh turned inside out. Crimson-stained skin, a brutal tattoo inked into her chest, the edges even rougher than the last. One spoke of the twelve-pointed star reached an inch further than the rest, nearing the hollow of the woman’s throat. The fresh ink shone against her once-tan flesh.

That point was all Emmeline could see. Her heart seemed to hang off the edge of it. Another body found—another life gone. And she hadn’t come up with a single plausible lead as to who was doing this.

Her chest crowded as she stood on the beach, each breath tighter. Magic pressed closer to her lungs, but she shoved it down, bottling up the cloying readings in that tightly corked vial. Wax poured over the seal, packing them all away.

Her head swam, her readings more consuming each day. And while her magic built her, she resented the strength more than ever, needing to stay present.

She’d had dreams of jumbled readings last night, a barrage punctuated by starfire. Starfire in her blood, melting her bones. Starfire eating her from the inside out. A mad cackle sparking through her mind.

When the Fate of Prophecy and Demise had shouted through their alignment as the sun rose this morning, it had sent her careening out of bed. Despite the crisp autumn air wafting through her cracked window, her skin had been an inferno. Everything was hazy.

Then, the words that froze her feet to the floor shot down the alignment. Another sacrifice to the crossing.

Blood and ink faded together in the reading, and she knew what it meant.

“Where?” she’d whispered aloud, her voice hoarse.

She’d hastily written a letter to Roremar, slipped a cotton dress over her body, shoved her feet into her boots, and raced from the Academy on wobbling legs.

By the time she reached the beach at the western edge of the Residential District, she couldn’t feel the early morning sting of the salty ocean air. She couldn’t feel anything at all.

Now, the waves washed over her bare toes, the sand sinking beneath her, and for a moment, she wished it would wash her out to sea with it. Wash the stain of guilt from her skin and flood the failure from her lungs, making every breath leaden.

This had to stop.

At least two women had died, and not only was that horror enough to have the blood rushing in her ears and her skin cold, but she also hadn’t made a stride in her own mission since she and Roremar had been assigned this case.

She had to pull herself together.

“We need to take a closer look at Desmond’s list,” Emmeline whispered, her words barely audible as she crushed a piece of parchment in her grip.

Roremar’s steel gaze drooped over her, snagging on where she twisted her ring around her finger. When she stilled, he asked, “You notice the tattoo is off balance, too?”

“Was the other one like that?”

“It was hard to tell.” He inclined his head toward the sloping sand. “Did you also notice her things?”

“The bag.” A blue cotton satchel, the seam ripped, with a small insignia branded on it. Wings set atop a bed of roses.

“She’s likely been to Angel’s Draw,” Roremar agreed. “And given all the same signs, we were right about our culprit hanging around Lyra and the cases being connected. This beach gets a decent amount of foot traffic once the sun is up.”

“Wanted her found again,” Emmeline muttered, her head spinning. “I didn’t think Angel’s Draw would be connected, though. He’s off the isle anyway.”

“You’re right, it’s not in line with a killer wanting their victims found,” Roremar muttered, studying the body with a detached manner. “Maybe both women have been there, but it’s not him. Or maybe he never truly left. We’ll pay his shop another visit.” His stare flicked up. “What’s in your hand?”