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Worry crossed his face. “He didn’t threaten violence, did he?”
“No.” I studied him for a moment. “Has he before?”
Jak cleared his throat and looked a little uncomfortable. “You could say that.”
“Really? When?”
“The first time when I wrote that story on your mom; the second when we broke up. He can be a very scary man, you know.”
“He is a guardian.” I said that a little too cheerfully, if Jak’s darkening expression was anything to go by. “But the threats can’t have been too bad. I mean, not only are you still alive, but you walked away from them intact.”
“Only because I swore on my mother’s grave not to do another report on your mother, and to keep well away from you. The latter of which I am obviously not doing.”
I patted his arm comfortingly. “Because we all know the story means more to you than the threat. And don’t worry—Uncle Rhoan knows I contacted you, not the other way around.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t be pissed,” he muttered, then plopped down on the step. “How long will they be?”
I sat down beside him and glanced at my watch. “About thirteen minutes.”
As it turned out, they arrived in eight. Or at least Uncle Rhoan did—it seemed he’d beaten all land speed records to get here.
He came through the gate, a crime scene kit slung over one shoulder. His gray eyes swept the two of us critically. “You haven’t been inside?”
I shook my head. “Other than the initial entry when we found the body, no.”
“At least you can obey some orders.” He glanced at Jak, his gaze narrowing a little. “You will not report anything you see inside. Not until we give you clearance. Is that clear?”
Surprise flitted across Jak’s face as he nodded. He’d obviously been expecting to be banned from the proceedings.
Rhoan opened the kit and handed us both gloves and plastic booties. “Put those on, and don’t touch anything without asking.”
We both obeyed. Once Rhoan had the floating crime scene recorders up and operating, and was similarly kitted out in gloves and booties, we headed down to the kitchen.
“Jesus, it is similar,” he said, as he entered. Then he glanced over his shoulder at us. “Stay at the doorway, you two.”
He moved deeper into the room, carefully avoiding the bits of blood and gore. James Blake’s torso was only half hidden behind the island, his entrails streaming out from his ruptured body like fat sausages.
“Arms have been ripped off.” Rhoan’s gaze met mine as he added softly, “Head separated.”
I swallowed grimly. I’d been expecting it, but the knowledge still clawed my stomach. “Any idea what time he was killed?”
“The cleanup team will give us a more accurate time, but I’d say within the last half hour. The blood hasn’t really begun to coagulate, and there’s no sign of rigor mortis.”
“Can’t have been,” Jak said. “I was parked outside for half an hour while I was waiting for Risa to arrive. No one came in or out.”
“You couldn’t have seen the back door if you were parked out front,” Rhoan said.
“True, but the front door was unlatched when we got here. That’s why we entered in the first place.”
Rhoan glanced at me—as if for confirmation—then rose and walked to the end of the room. He disappeared through another doorway, but after a few minutes came back. “Okay, the back door is locked and the security chain is still in place. They didn’t enter that way. You two want to check the other rooms for an entry point?”
I glanced briefly at Jak and, in unspoken agreement, he checked the rooms on the right, and I checked the ones on the left. Crime scene recorders floated along after each of us, making a note of everything we did. In the rooms I checked there were no windows open, no windows unlocked, and no sign of any other sort of disturbance.
I said as much to Rhoan, as did Jak when he returned a few minutes later.
“Well,” Rhoan said, his voice grim, “that leaves us with three options—he knew his killer, there’s magic or some form of demon involved, or it was an Aedh.”
“Demons?” Jak said in an incredulous tone. “And what the hell is an Aedh?”
