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I reviewed the list of names, which I’d jotted down on a Domino’s pizza napkin, and tried to make sense of them. Ma’at was the goddess of justice. Her initiate had been found dead in Washington, D.C. How was that not bigger news? Macha was one of the Morrigan, a harbinger of death and war, making her clerics rare and their work exceedingly risky. Killing one of her clerics should have been a huge deal. Others, like Apophis, were more befuddling. Apophis was simply the god of snakes. His clerics were uncommon, but nothing they did was particularly sensational. So why kill them?
The idea of killing children was in and of itself appalling, but clearly someone was targeting these kids because of their destined status. Was the killer’s plan to hurt the gods? If so, this person didn’t know much about the way deities worked. A god wouldn’t care one bit about a dead initiate. They didn’t care how rare some of their clerics were, as long as they had one. A god was an immortal being, and the life of one child was relatively meaningless in the grand scope of things.
No, if this hurt anyone, it was the temples and not the gods they served.
Looking back at my computer, I wondered if Deedee might have had a reason to believe this was Prescott’s doing. Did he have a personal vendetta or score to settle that would make him do something this heinous?
As far as I knew his only beef was with me, and even that wasn’t enough hatred to make him kill a bunch of innocent kids. Still, he’d had someone following me, and I couldn’t just overlook that, especially not now.
I closed my laptop and set it next to the bowl of Doritos on the table. The hunger pangs that had plagued me so recently were forgotten. My stomach was a roiling sea of nausea.
I had to talk to Prescott.
If this was some misguided campaign to get his revenge on me, someone had to put a stop to it. Killing the human hand of death wouldn’t be an easy task, but in my experience, not many people walk away when you hit them with a lightning bolt.
I didn’t want to believe it was him, but the evidence wasn’t looking great. There was really only one way to know what he was up to, and that would be going right to the man himself.
Grumbling, I got up off the couch and made my way to the front door, my focus entirely on getting out and unraveling this mystery as quickly as possible, before anyone else wound up dead.
I jerked open the penthouse’s front door and almost walked directly into the firm, broad chest of a familiar, handsome man.
Leo Marquette gave me a once-over and said, “You know you’re not wearing any pants, right?”
Chapter Five
I put my pants on right away, obviously.
I might be pretty comfortable with Leo—we had escaped the underworld together after all—but that didn’t mean I wanted him seeing me in my panties, thanks.
Once I had on a pair of dry jeans and a sweater, I returned to the living room to find Leo had made himself comfortable and was brewing a fresh pot of coffee.
This wasn’t his first time visiting my home since he’d moved to Seattle from Louisiana two months earlier, but we also weren’t exactly besties. It felt a bit strange to see him moving around in my kitchen like he belonged there.
Maybe it was just seeing a man in my home that set me on edge, even if Leo wasn’t my idea of boyfriend material.
“You know, I’ve known con-artist bachelors who have more stuff in their fridge than you do.” He was pushing aside the half-empty jars on my fridge door like he hoped a pound of bacon or a loaf of bread might appear.
“I haven’t had a chance to go shopping.” Honestly, I’d probably live off takeout, chips, and more takeout until I had to hit the road again. The idea of going to Trader Joe’s and filling my cupboards with delicious, healthy food sounded great in theory, but it would only go to waste. Every time I got back after a week on the road and had to throw out an untouched head of lettuce or moldy cheese, I felt like I’d failed the groceries somehow.
Pizza never lasted long enough to go bad.
Chinese food never made me feel guilty.
I pushed the sleeves of my light-green sweater up to my elbows and took a seat at the high barstool on the opposite side of my kitchen counter so I could face him while he worked.
He closed the fridge, shaking his head sadly, then rinsed out my coffee mug from earlier and set it next to the one I presumed he planned to use for himself. Without cream for the coffee it was either black or with sugar.
When you traveled as much as I did, it was a lot easier to learn to like things as simple as you could get them. Black coffee might not be good in every backwater town, but it was a lot easier to come by than a triple espresso half-sweet caramel latte. I’d take it with cream and sugar where I could, but I didn’t mind it plain.
It also made you less memorable, and I strove to be as forgettable as possible when meeting new people.
Leo poured us each a mug and set mine in front of me. The smell was amazing. Much better than the almost-cold cup I’d fixed for myself earlier.
“Thanks.”
“You know, Sido told me you were a bit of a hot mess, but this is pretty impressive.”
He was attempting to get a rise out of me, but I didn’t take the bait. “Sido has never used the phrase hot mess in her life, but nice try.”
