Richelle Mead - Gameboard of the Gods

“What about one? Can you get one visa? A student visa. Perfectly harmless.”

“You want to bring a kid back with you?” asked Cornelia.

“Girl,” he corrected. “Tessa—er, Teresa Cruz. She’s sixteen. A real prodigy.”

“A sixteen-year-old?” She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice.

“It’s nothing like that,” Justin snapped, losing a little of his composure. “She’s practically like another sister, except she doesn’t nag me as much as my real one.” Silence met him, and he pushed forward. “Come on, it’s nothing. One little visa. They issue a handful of student ones each year. Do that for me, and I’m yours.”

He regretted his choice of wording in that last bit, but there was nothing to be done for it now. He’d made his play. If it panned out, he could very well have his life back. Of course, there was still the teeny-tiny fact that the reason they wanted him was still unknown, but surely it would be worth what he was getting in return.

“Done,” said Francis firmly. “I’ll make it happen.” He held out his hand to Justin. With only a breath of hesitation, Justin shook the offered hand.

Cornelia updated her file to reflect the new concessions and then had Justin sign the screen. Along with all the perks, there was a fair amount of legalese in the employment agreement that probably detailed imprisonment or a return to exile at their discretion. He signed anyway and had to fight to keep his hand from shaking.

He was going home. How had this happened? How could a night that started with a garish Panamanian woman throwing wine on his shirt end with his returning to his homeland in glory?

Don’t get carried away, said Horatio. You aren’t there yet.

And don’t forget everything else that happened tonight, said Magnus, almost sounding offended.

Justin lifted his eyes to Mae. No, he certainly hadn’t forgotten about that part.

Although Cornelia wasn’t a fan of accommodating Justin or even taking him back, she seemed more at ease once the paperwork was in order. After all, she was now his boss again, which meant she could exert a little more control and feel entitled to her condescension. Francis was elated and appeared to be on the verge of starting the Justin March Fan Club.

Mae remained the enigma here. She was still doing a good job of keeping her expression neutral, which wasn’t surprising from someone who’d gone through a castal upbringing and prætorian training. It was her body language that gave her away, especially when Cornelia jumped to the next order of business: revealing what the burning reason behind Justin’s return was. Mae leaned forward to look at the screen, anticipation crackling through her.

She doesn’t know why she’s here, he thought. She doesn’t know why I’m here. It’s possible what happened earlier was a complete coincidence and not part of any larger machination. Maybe.

“So. Now that all that unpleasantness is out of the way, you’re probably wondering why we’ve taken you back,” said Cornelia.

“I figured you thought I’d learned my lesson,” he said cheerfully. Maybe he should’ve been a bit more humble, but his exuberance over this change of fortune was running strong.

“No,” she said with no humor at all. “I don’t believe that for an instant. Which is part of the reasoning for this unorthodox decision.”

Justin’s cockiness faded. All was not forgotten and forgiven.

“Now,” continued Cornelia, “I’m sure you’re familiar with the patrician murders, which have been all over the news.” She paused and then gave a contrived laugh that was supposed to sound embarrassed. “But of course you wouldn’t be. I don’t imagine much Gemman news makes it to Panama, does it?”

“Depends on if the homing pigeons are up and running,” he replied.

Cornelia didn’t blink, but in his periphery, he saw a smile play at the edge of Mae’s lips. She caught it quickly, apparently remembering she was angry, and her business mask slipped back into place.

“Bring up the patrician murder records,” Cornelia ordered the screen.

The screen came to life, displaying a list of five bolded names. Under each one were four bulleted items: age, caste name, location of death, and date of death. Justin forgot all about Cornelia’s attitude and the strange circumstances of his homecoming. Seeing the list, this set of data, snapped him into a mode he hadn’t been in for a very long time. Immediately, his brain wanted to make sense of the information. There was always a pattern to the world, and even with no other background on this list, he immediately began summarizing it.

Each person belonged to a different caste: Erinian, Lakota, Nordic, Welsh, and Nipponese. All of them were twenty-seven or twenty-eight and had been killed within the borders of their respective castal land grants. The murder dates extended over the last six months, with the most recent being a few days ago.

“These have been highly publicized,” said Cornelia. “Despite the wide ethnic spread, the cases share some similarities, leading us to believe they were all committed by the same person. The age similarity, as well as the identical nature of their deaths.”

“Which was…?”

“Stabbed through the heart with a silver dagger. During a full moon. Quite brutal.” Cornelia almost, almost sounded like she actually had some emotion behind the words. “The prevailing theory is that it’s a plebeian with antipatrician sentiments.”

“Obviously,” said Justin. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and never taking his eyes off the screen. A rush of pleasure ran through him at finally having something substantial to use his brainpower on. “A plebeian with remarkable access, since they all happened on land grants.” The castes kept the borders of their lands closed. Federal officials could enter at any time, of course, and other patricians had limited visiting rights. Average plebeians were only allowed entry if they had special permission, such as a friend’s sponsorship or something business related.

Cornelia gave a nondescript grunt that could have been either impressed or disappointed. “What also makes them remarkable is that they all took place within homes or offices that showed no sign of entry, ones that were even locked from the inside.”

“Then they were invited in. Or are just cleverer than you think.” Justin spun through the possibilities. “You’re probably looking for a delivery person, a plebeian who’d have reason to visit all of those castes. Someone strong enough to wield a dagger like that. Probably male.”

“Yes,” said Cornelia. “Police have also come to the same conclusions.”

Justin finally looked back at her. “Then what exactly does this have to do with me? This is a police matter, and apparently they’ve already figured out what I have—probably not as quickly as me, but still.”

“What this has to do with you,” said Cornelia, ignoring his self-compliment, “is that forensics has shown the weapon used was made of an antiquated silver mix and had a nonmanufactured blade—an unusual choice that could have many ritualistic and spiritual associations. As could the fact that all of the murders happened during full moons.”

“And that’s why we’re involved. You think some religious group is responsible.” It wouldn’t be the first time religions had been tied to crimes, forcing servitors to work with local law enforcement. “This is still the kind of work any servitor could do.”

Wait for it, said Magnus.

Francis, grinning from ear to ear, finally couldn’t take it anymore. “There’s one more piece of evidence! Something uniquely suited to you and your expertise. No one else is capable.”