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Two weeks. Two weeks ago the Culhua had killed a dog as a part of their ritual sacrifice schtick. Probably. I wrote it down.
“And do you remember the last time you definitely saw it?” I needed a window when it could have been taken.
“Last year onDía de Muertos.” She grimaced. “I know that’s a sizeable window.”
Almost a year, in fact. Which didn’t bode well for me to be able to find the damn thing, even if I managed to figure out who took it.
“It is,” I confirmed. “Who knows you own this piece?” It didn’t look to me like something that you’d just wear around, both because it sounded really fucking expensive and because she hadn’t gone looking for it for the better part of a year.
Now her expression looked troubled, which I found interesting. Not interesting in a good way, of course, but interesting.
“My brother,” she replied. “Our family. I inherited it from my grandmother.”
“Anyone else?”
“My husband’s family, although I have not seen them regularly since—” She broke off, her expression that special kind of annoyed that people get when thinking about the fact that their dickweed families decided they’re less loveable because their bodies changed thanks to an Arcanavirus infection.
“Your illness?” I finished for her.
A small sigh. “Yes.”
I nodded once. “It’s common enough.”
“Was your family the same way?”
Somehow, I could tell, the answer was important to her. I shook my head. “No. Plenty of people were. My job at the time. But my parents never showed me if they were upset about it. They always said they were just glad I was alive.”
The smile she gave me was sad and twisted. “You’re lucky.”
“I know. I’m sorry you weren’t.”
Her smile relaxed a little, unknotting itself a fraction. “You think your family will love you, even though everything they say and do tells you otherwise.” She sighed. “You hope that they’ll change their minds because it’syou, not a stranger.”
I wasn’t sure quite how to respond, but she kept going before I could think of anything.
“It isn’t anordinarypendant.”
I arched an eyebrow in question.
“It’s ancient, imbued with magic.” When I didn’t express skepticism at that, she continued. “Supposedly, with… Souls.”
Hoo, boy. “Souls,” I repeated. I did not like the sound of that. Because it fucking reminded me of what we’d found in the Miller-Duskevicz house
She nodded, her lower lip caught between slightly too-large teeth.
“I—believe we should invite one of my colleagues into this discussion,” I said, finally.
“Oh?”
“He’s a witch, and knows a lot more about magical objects than I do.”
She looked a little nervous at that, then nodded.
I got up and went to the doorway—I didn’t actually leave my office because I’m not stupid enough to just leave a client where they could access other records or sensitive shit—to call Doc.
“Hey, Doc! Got a minute?”
The big orc emerged from his office and came over.
