Eileen Wilks - Mortal Sins

Come, said The Voice. Come, come, come . . .

No! Frantic now, it hunted. It had to find a warmth, the right kind of warmth, or return to The Voice. There were warmths nearby, large warmths in the houses it glided past, but they wouldn’t work. It needed . . .

Ah, there! A door, a door in that warmth! Not a physical door—it had forgotten physicality again, so didn’t note the distinction—but a door nonetheless. A way in.

Walls were barriers only when it noticed the physical. It slid through one now without being aware of the passage, focused on the warmth it tracked. It eased close, found the “door” it needed, and slipped through. And into the warmth.

The shock of heat, of self , was sweet beyond expression. Lost in the bliss of sensation—Arms, legs, skin! It had skin!—for some time it simply rode the physical without noticing the other things it had regained.

Memory, though not its own. And words.

Gun, it thought in surprise, remembering now what a gun was. Then, tenderly sharing the discovery with its warmth, it added more words: Gun, yes. We will get the gun and kill and kill.

AT8:22 A.M. Lily walked back into Sheriff Deacon’s office.

“Agent Yu.” He didn’t get up and his expression didn’t tell her much, but he wasn’t thrilled to see her. He nodded at the other person in the room, who had stood when Lily entered. “This is Meacham’s attorney, Crystal Kessenblaum.”

The PD was a tall, thin woman, thirtyish or more, with an explosion of red hair that had rained freckles all over her skin. She wore white linen slacks with a long, slitted tunic in spring green—a pretty outfit, but an odd choice for the situation. It all but screamed, “Don’t think of me as a lawyer.” She also wore glasses, little round Ben Franklins, and not a speck of makeup. She had a crisp nod for Lily, but didn’t offer to shake hands.

So Lily did, extending one hand confidently. “Ms. Kessenblaum. I’m glad you could make it here so early.”

Kessenblaum’s nearly invisible eyebrows shot up. She stared at Lily’s hand a second, then seemed to decide what the hell and took it. Her tone was belligerent. “Checking me out?”

She had a decent grip, damp palms, and a little lick of magic. Fire magic, mostly—one of the more common Gifts, and one that was relatively kind to its possessor. Most of those with a slight dose of Fire learned to control it fairly easily. A few never even knew it was there.

“Of course. I gather the sheriff told you I’m a sensitive?”

Kessenblaum shot the sheriff an aggravated glance. Maybe there was some history between the two of them; maybe Kessenblaum was always aggravated, annoyed, or otherwise aggrieved. “Yes, and I want to go on record that nothing you learn about my client through touch is admissible.”

Why did everyone feel obliged to point that out? “So noted. Sheriff, have you heard from the DA?”

“Yeah, yeah. Twice. First time to say she was meeting you here. Second time to say she was running late. Her youngest came down with a stomach bug. Mark usually takes the kids to day care, but he’s got the heaves, too, so she had to drop ’em off on her way here.”

“How many children does she have?” Lily was newly interested in such things, in how women balanced careers and kids. Not that finding someone to pitch in when she and Rule had to be away would be a problem, not with his father right there at Clanhome and about a hundred other potential sitters standing by. Lupi were kind of communal about child care.

Not that she knew exactly what her place was in Toby’s life. She wasn’t a stepmom, wasn’t sure she wanted to be one, but . . . but something ached inside her at the thought. Something she didn’t understand.

“Three—two girls and a boy.” Deacon shoved his chair back and stood. “We might as well head on down. Marcia will meet us there.”

Kessenblaum headed out the door without another word. Lily started to follow. The sheriff’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Listen, Agent Yu, I, uh . . .” He grimaced. “I had it coming. That’s all I want to say.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Good enough.”

THEjail occupied the basement and most of the first floor. Deacon took them to the admissions area, where he gave instructions for Meacham to be brought to a small interview room. He’d just finished when Marcia Farquhar arrived, slightly breathless. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem,” Lily said, holding out her hand. “The sheriff explained.”

The DA looked like a mother. Not Lily’s mother, heaven knows—Marcia Farquhar was plump and pink, with a drawl like raw honey—but someone’s. Her hair was prematurely silver, worn long and pulled back in an old-fashioned bun from a soft, round face. She wore a good suit, dusky rose, with a crisp white shirt. Her handshake was brisk and business-like.

No magic in Marcia Farquhar.

“You’re messing with my case, Agent Yu.”

Lily nodded. “You had every reason to believe this one was solid. Turns out it isn’t. The arraignment’s this afternoon, I understand. I’d like to discuss that, if you have a few minutes after the interview with Meacham. You delayed the arraignment the maximum allowed.”

“We lacked bodies—which you have now provided, along with some complications. But that won’t affect the arraignment.”

It damned sure ought to. “We’ll talk,” Lily repeated.

Kessenblaum’s eyes had been darting between the two of them. “You have information that affects my client, Agent Yu?”

“Nothing admissible.” Lily took petty satisfaction in saying that.

“If you’re planning to bring additional charges against Mr. Meacham—”

“I don’t bring charges. I conduct investigations. Your client is a witness in an investigation into the use of magic in a multiple homicide.”

“You won’t learn anything here. Mr. Meacham is not competent to answer questions.”

“He’s competent enough to insist on your presence at all interviews.”

“I’m glad he remembered to do that, but it doesn’t indicate competency. More that he knows who to trust and who not to trust. He ought to be in a medical facility, not jail.” The look she shot Marcia Farquhar sizzled with some prior argument.

“Crystal,” Farquhar said in her honey-soft drawl, “you aren’t going to do your client much good if you take everything so personally. Right now, you ought to be cozying up to Agent Yu, here. She’s your new best friend, seein’ that whatever screws up my case helps you.”

Oh, yeah, plenty of history between these two. Normally a DA didn’t give a wobbly young PD advice—not good advice, anyway. Lily wanted to know what the deal was with these two, but not now. She looked at Deacon. “Where’s that interview room?”

The jail wasn’t much different from a dozen others Lily had seen. Newer than some, which meant it ought to seem cleaner, but it didn’t. The usual tang of disinfectant hovered over other scents, nothing her human nose could decipher precisely. Nothing pleasant, though. She was glad she lacked Rule’s sense of smell, and even gladder she was wholly numb to whatever psychic effluvia clung to the place. How could even a blocked empath stand working directly over it?

Must be a damned good block, she decided.

The interview room was beige all over. It held one table, two chairs, two guards, and a man in an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, and no shoes.

Lily knew from the file that Roy Don Meacham was five-six, one seventy, Caucasian, brown and brown, and had turned thirty-nine last December. The brown hair was thinning, the brown irises were surrounded by pink whites, and the 170 pounds was mostly muscle and mostly in the upper half of his body. His shoulders were disproportionately wide, his torso long and husky, his hips skinny, and his legs short.