Shooting Ives a death glare, she tugged up her shirt to just under her bra. “I’m wearing leggings, so unless you’re planning on getting really friendly, there’s not much else to search.”
Lir’s cool eyes scanned her body. “Nothing on her.” He turned to Marlowe. “Get Valac. I want the two of you to search both Ives’ and Fiona’s rooms. There will be one less celebrant for the party he has planned for tonight,” he said bitterly.
Ives rubbed his back where she’d hit him. “Of course she killed Ostap and tried to murder me. Does it really surprise you after what we all saw her do to poor Rohan?”
Fiona had to restrain herself from attacking again. She wasn’t going to make herself look any less like the murderer by smashing his head into the railing.
Ives cocked his head. “Remind me again. Who found Berold’s body?”
Lir took a deep breath, eyeing Fiona suspiciously. “I did.”
Great. Even Lir doubts me.
“And Fiona wasn’t anywhere nearby?” Ives prodded.
Lir glared at him. “The two of you best stop bickering with each other, because you face a far greater adversary tonight. You might want to save your energy.”
44
Jack
He sipped from the bottle, rolling the sweet liquor around his tongue. The glass rim tasted faintly of Munroe’s strawberry lip gloss.
She draped herself across a chair, staring at him. “I don’t understand what the knife is for. Or how you convinced me it was a good idea to hand you a weapon.”
“Shhh!” he cautioned. “George can probably hear you. He’ll put us both in the ground if he thinks we’re working against him.”
If George knew Jack was planning on taking his wife from him, it could mean a fate worse than Druloch’s hell. There were rumors that George had once spelled a servant to bash his own head against the wall until his brains had run on the floor; another was forced to murder his own wife. This was why his feelings for Fiona had been a mistake. Love was vulnerability.
He pressed his ear to the door and listened to the gentle vibrations that trembled through the wood. He could hear George’s shallow breathing upstairs. Asleep. Thank the gods.
On the other hand, succubi didn’t sleep. From near George’s room, a low growl rumbled through the wood. She was hungry, and by the pheromones coming off her at dinner, something told him she was after a bit of witch judge. It seemed Jack’s particular blend of self-loathing and rage was an aphrodisiac, though gods only knew why George’s misery wasn’t enough.
Munroe rose and tiptoed to him, whispering, “Planning on going somewhere?”
“Amauberge knows more than she let on.”
“I kind of hate her.”
“Shocking as it may be, I’m not interested in your feelings right now.” His eyes lingered on Munroe’s pale throat, nearly pulling him from his task.
She plopped on the bed, practically pouting.
I’m surrounded by idiots. He took a long swig of the bourbon before stuffing the herbs into his pocket, along with his golden pocket watch.
Grabbing the athame off the bed, he pulled it from its leather sheath. He ran his finger over Druloch’s symbol: an elm growing inside a circle. As he gripped the knife, he traced the symbol on the floorboards. Pain from his injuries seared his gut as he whispered a spell in Angelic. “Druloch, give me strength.” The scent of decaying elm leaves filled the room, and electricity charged the air. “Druloch, heal me.” The air thickened with humidity, and roots fought their way through the floorboards, caressing his legs and slipping up his chest. “Druloch, I have been your loyal servant. I have brought you hundreds of souls. Heal me, Druloch.”
The god’s power coursed through his veins, flooding him with strength, his body vibrating with euphoria. He could smell the magnolias outside, hear the crickets in the grasses and the lapping of the James.
Strength blazed through him, and an image flashed in his mind: Fiona’s hair dancing wildly in Boston Harbor’s wind. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to run his fingertips over the soft skin of her neck, but the image sunk below the surface again, and he was left alone with Munroe.
He could fix things. He would raise the dead again—that little girl of Tobias’s. He could bring them back, all the crumpled bodies he’d left behind; he’d raise them all again. And Fiona would forgive him.
He blinked, breathing deeply and running a hand under his shirt. The skin of his abdomen was smooth and muscled, the scars gone. A smile spread over his face.
Munroe’s gray eyes were wide. “Feeling better?”
“You did a very good thing, finding this athame for me.” He sheathed the knife and tucked it into his pocket.
“What are you doing now?” she whispered.
“I have a succubus to charm.” He glanced at her again, his eyes lingering on her long limbs. Her hair was the same fiery hue as Elizabeth’s. If Munroe weren’t so irritating, he might take an interest in her—especially now, as his body pulsed with life again.