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Peeking between the open doorway and the drawers, I begin picking them up one at a time. It’s mostly empty space, but a couple of them contain girly clothes—colorful bras and underwear, plus some dress pants and frilly tops.
This morning I worried that Christopher might think I’m sleeping with someone else, but I never once considered he might be doing the same. He could have a girlfriend. A wife. He could be like Daemon and go to bars every night, picking up a seemingly endless stream of women.
My chest tightens at the thought, and my God, if that doesn’t make me a giant hypocrite, I don’t know what does.
This man had an entire life before me. One hundred years of it. I have no idea what havoc my presence is wreaking on him outside of the coven nonsense. Guilt tugs on me as I pick up the drawer full of women’s stuff. Before I can return it to the dresser, Christopher pops his head into the doorway.
“I pulled some strings and—” He must see the expression on my face because he cuts himself off. I try to force a convincing smile, but I’m pretty sure I fail.
“We haven’t even been on a first date yet,” I say, parroting him. “It’s really not a big deal.”
“God, no.” Christopher chuckles, and his eyes crinkle with his smile. “That’s not what you think it is. My older sister visits me sometimes. Her coven is in Europe, and it’s just easier to keep some stuff here.”
Relief floods me. And I feel a little stupid because this is his guest bedroom. If he were to have a girl over, surely the clothes would be in his room, not the spare.
“Were you that angry seeing it?” Christopher asks, arching a brow. He stares at the flung-open dresser, just now noticing the destruction I’ve caused. “I didn’t get the impression you were a throw-things kind of girl. Should I be shatterproofing my apartment?”
It’s a joke, at least I think it is, but there’s an underlying worry. My face heats with embarrassment that he thinks this was some kind of hyper-possessive temper tantrum.
I’m quick to clarify, the words coming out of my mouth like vomit. “Something’s wrong with my magic. I tried to open the drawers and—” I gesture to the mess. “I don’t know what Salios did to me.”
I notice then that my wrist is glowing where the pink markings are.
“A lot of witches gain their full magical abilities around your age. I’m not sure it has anything to do with Salios.” But Christopher’s gaze follows my line of sight, and he stares at the glowing lines too. “Still, we should sever that bond as quickly as possible, just in case. I pulled a few strings and got us access to Martha’s body. They’ll bury her tomorrow, so if we want to examine her, it has to be now.”
“Do you think we’ll find any new evidence?”
Christopher shrugs. “Sometimes magic leaves a unique signature. At the very least, it won’t hurt. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to, but—”
“I want to.” I’d like to be helpful for a change.
“Great. We’ll get dinner afterwards.” Christopher gestures me forward and guides me out of the condo, stepping around the fallen drawers. When the elevator doors ding open, my gaze returns to my wrist.
I think it’s getting brighter.
11
THE INVESTIGATION
The mortuary they’re keeping Martha in reeks of mothballs and sickly sweet formaldehyde. The smell makes me crinkle my nose, and I fight the urge to cover it with my cotton shirt as the mortician locks the door behind us, then guides Christopher and me deeper inside. As the mortician chats it up with my mate, he flashes me a dirty look. I don’t recognize the man, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s a member of our coven, and this is a favor more for Christopher than for me.
“I can’t give you long,” the mortician says. “Maybe half an hour before my glamour wears off and someone spots your car outside.”
Christopher arches a brow. “You had to glamour the car?”
“Sarah has given strict orders that her daughter—and by proxy, you—aren’t to come anywhere near the body. Sorry.”
Great. My mom is trying to sabotage me.
As if this wasn’t going to be hard enough.
“I really appreciate you helping,” Christopher says as we pass by sleek wooden caskets—some open, others not—then enter the visitation room. At the front is a pulpit, followed by mahogany pews with little Bibles set on their benches. Darkness pours in from an open-curtained window, competing with yellow sconces that provide just enough light for us to see by. “I owe you one,” he adds.
The mortician chuckles. “Don’t think I won’t cash in on it now that you’re an elder.”
It’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not. And I can’t help but wonder what other costs Christopher will incur for helping me. Again, guilt gnaws at my insides. Already, my mother is banishing him from coven spaces.
What next?
