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At first, there’s a pressure that almost pushes me back across the room. Some protective mechanism within Bren fighting back. I grit my teeth and steady myself and it falls away.
Though I could manage it with most people, it’d be basically impossible to do this to Bren if he were at full strength and actively resisting. But the handcuffs have dampened down his defences, and he’s trying to cooperate. That little flash of defiance seems to have been mostly a reflex action.
And now I’m in his mind.
Reading minds isn’t like scanning through an encyclopaedia or roaming a bookshop, reading whatever you choose. It’s not even like an internet search. It’s more like standing in a formal reference library and asking the efficient but grumpy librarian to find you the information you need. A librarian who’ll refuse to help if you ask for too much or don’t give enough precise detail and who might throw you out if you push your luck too far.
“Did you kill Niall Thornber?”
It’s a question I’ve asked Bren several times since I’ve arrived, both directly and through more implicit questioning. It’s a question I’ve asked the rest of the family on multiple occasions. And it’s something I’ve asked myself endlessly. But now, I imbue my voice with a tone of command, safe in the knowledge that the answer I get will be the truthful one.
“No.”
Bren doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t caveat his answer or try to come up with something clever. He speaks the word out loud, he speaks it inside my head, and I can sort of see it in my mind’s eyes, like I’m reading a binding document.
Oh. That’s a relief, surely. My brother hasn’t been lying to me. He didn’t commit the awful crime he’s been accused of. I can defend him with a clear conscience. Yet, I feel a bit empty, like I’d psyched myself up for a race then been granted the victory by default. I’d been expecting to have to be clever and careful and get the answer from him by cunning.
And deep, deep down, I was expecting the final answer to be a yes.
“Were you involved in his death in any way?”
“No.”
“Who did kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. I’m good at spotting loopholes and half-truths, but that’s all pretty clear and conclusive. I ought to stop. This is a massive betrayal of trust and family bonds. But the damage is essentially done. I might as well make sure I have all the information I need.
“What were you doing the night Niall Thornber was killed?”
“I was with Leah, at Summer Hill, trying to make a baby.”
I can see it all like I’m watching CCTV. The footage cuts out before I see anything too explicit, thank goodness—my self-preservation instincts kicking in, rather than Bren trying to hide things—but it’s enough to show that his alibi is real.
Bren looks slightly weak and ill in my mental images. It seems like some of the pallor and dark circles I’d blamed on his imprisonment actually pre-dated his arrest, but I can’t tell why. Leah looks slightly wrong, too—glancing over her shoulder and almost trembling at times. It’s an odd reaction to heading out into the countryside for some al fresco fun with your fiancée, but she’s a bit highly strung and the idea of trying to conceive a demon baby must be nerve-wracking.
“Why do so many witnesses think they saw you in town or out by Thornber Manor?”
“I don’t know.”
Normally, he’d speculate. Like me, he no doubt has theories around blackmail, bribery, and intimidation—even if none of that really explains Becca’s private evidence. But this sort of magic forces you to stick to the facts.
“One final question then. How were the human police able to arrestyou?I can understand keeping you imprisoned, once they had you in blocking handcuffs and in a cell, but not how they got you in the first place.”
I’ve asked both him and Leah a variation on the same question, but never quite been happy with the answer.
This time, the pause is longer. And there’s something wrong about it, as though he’s doing what I expected him to attempt in the first place—trying to come up with a clever answer that tells the truth but not the whole truth.
“They had some practitioner officers with them, who were allied to the Thornbers. Usually, I’d obviously be a match for anyone. But I was weak.”
I nod. That tallies with what I was seeing on the video.
“Weak, why?”
What little magic remains in his control through the confines of the blockers flares. Consciously or unconsciously, he’s pushing back.
“I’ve told you before. That whole ‘trying to create a demon baby’ thing had taken a lot out of me.”
