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Avery matched her volume. “Do you recall the last time we were here? Iona made a smug little comment about learning years ago that humans were far too emotionally unstable for her employ.”

“No?”

“Well, I do, and she did.” Avery had forgotten only one interaction involving Iona, and after the damage it had done, she would make damn sure she never did again.

“Detective, it does look like I have one of those names in our system,” the receptionist piped up. “Abigail Rhyder, executive assistant, eighteen years ago.” The beautiful face marred with concern. “Unfortunately, it does look like she was fired without references. Do you need her full employment record?”

“Just the date of termination, if you would.”

“April 23rd.”

Normally when a theory was proven correct, Avery felt a thrill, but this was tinged with something bitter. “Are you certain?”

“Quite.” The receptionist swiveled the screen around for both of them to inspect.

“Avery Hemlock.” Every movement in the concerto of Iona’s vocal range was memorized note by note, and still Avery was unprepared for the frisson its melody invoked. “I certainly hope you are not questioning my staff without a warrant.”

“Do I need a warrant to ask a question?” Avery put her hands in her pockets in order to grip the lining within. Something sensory, something grounding.

“Wouldn’t you rather pose such an inquiry to me?” Iona gestured to herself, drawing a pointed red nail down the plunging neckline of her blazer.

The part of Avery that had once surrendered to its desire for vengeance now ached for the numb intoxication of the iele’s magic.

Her suit was white. The fabric was silk. Her nails painted the exact shade of her lips. Her lips…the invitation of sweet oblivion. Where the world and every excruciating detail, be it garish or dissonant, faded into nothing. There was no agony, no nightmares, and no lost time.

Avery needed to stay present.

If Iona was already laying her enchantments on so thickly, it was a guarantee she was hiding something.

Avery took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation at her fingertips. Silk. Old. Worn and threadbare. There was a hole large enough for the tip of her index finger. Forcing her senses to accept the abundance of stimuli was a shield to nihility’s beckoning temptation. “If you have the time.”

“For you?” The manner in which her mouth formed around the word reminded Avery of the kisses Iona once trailed along her shoulder before sinking her teeth into Avery’s neck. The iele smiled, bright white teeth against pomegranate lipstick. “Always.” Her attention flickered away and Avery was grateful for the relief. “Will Saga be joining us, or is she here of her own accord?”

“I’m here for the case.” Saga’s voice cut through the haze. If Iona was the siren’s lullaby leading Avery into the fog, Saga’s was the lighthouse guiding back to shore.

“Pity,” Iona said with a pout, turning to lead them back into her office. She removed her blazer as they pushed past the ornate double doors, tossing it onto her chair. At first, her bare back gave the illusion of nakedness, but as she glanced back at them, she revealed what had looked like a necklace was a silver chain connecting to two white swaths of silk that followed the original low cut of her blazer. Centuries ago, this was not a tool she was often able to employ, but with the evolution of mortal fashion, and the fabric that was more a suggestion than a garment, her body had become as much a weapon as her tongue.

Avery had never found flesh innately sexual or desirable, it was not her nature, but she did know contact with an iele’s skin could be as dangerous as rolling in poison oak. She looked to Saga to ensure her companion was not drawn in the same way she had been before, and the woman gave her an encouraging smile. So, Iona’s talents were focused intently on Avery and Avery alone. Good. That meant she was nervous. “Why did you terminate Miss Rhyder’s employment?”

“This is a curious question,” purred Iona, sitting on the edge of her desk. She massaged a hand along the slope of her neck and musculature of her shoulder.

Avery’s senses were haunted by the taste of her skin and the scent of sandalwood and amber.

No. Two women were dead, and one would follow if Avery could not keep her bearings. There were paintings on the walls. Originals, not prints. Framed very particularly and carefully lit. It was the same attention to detail Iona employed in her style: elegant, simple, and expensive. The fabric of her blouse perfectly matched the shade of her trousers, and the texture of the trousers and blazer was a woven jacquard whose subtle sheen perfectly balanced the silver-and-white diamond snowflake earrings that adorned her ears. They were small, but if Iona turned her head just right, Avery could catch glimpses of the jewels between the coiffed strands of the other woman’s dark hair. Hair she vividly remembered feeling between her fingers.

“Did they not close that case some decades ago?” Iona’s question was muffled, like Avery had stuck her own head underwater.

Still, even disoriented, Avery recognized this attempt at deflection as an admission. Iona knew about the case, but not on record. “It is relevant to an ongoing investigation.”

“Really?”

The pleasure of nails scraping down her back, pressing her entirety into the warmth of the woman undulating beneath her. These were not her thoughts. This was magical suggestion and the echoes of bad decisions made long ago.

Avery gripped the present moment, her head swimming. She dug her fingers into her palms, resisting the urge to reach for the remission the iele’s touch offered. No pain. No fear. Nothing. Like succumbing to a poison in the veins, she’d finally be able to truly rest. Fatal kisses, the taste of release, every fiber of her being longed for it.

“Lord Blackthorn agreed to unseal the case file.”

One second Avery was drowning, the next awash on dry land. Saga’s words had shattered Iona’s focus, freeing Avery, and yet it left her gasping for air.