“Agent, actual y,” Falin said, flashing his FIB badge.
I could almost see wheels turning behind John’s eyes as he looked at the badge and refit Falin into a new box in his mind, reevaluating the events of a month ago and the Coleman case with the new knowledge that Falin was FIB.
Final y he nodded.
“Alex, I don’t particularly need you here, so unless . . . ?”
John tilted his head, the implied question going to Falin.
“I’d like her to walk the scene.”
“Fine.” John jerked his head in a curt nod. I don’t think he
“Fine.” John jerked his head in a curt nod. I don’t think he meant to project it, but when he focused on me I caught the disappointment in his gaze. Then he turned back to the CSI and ABMU officers he’d been talking to before we’d approached.
The dismissal stung almost as much as the look I’d seen in his eyes, and I stood there stunned for a moment. I mean, I’d been the one who cal ed him with the tip about the body, and we were both out here in the middle of the night searching for clues about who’d caused this nightmare. Of course, he was a cop, so looking for murderers was his job, not mine, and the FIB and the police didn’t have the most solid working relationship. My showing up on the scene with Falin probably made it look like I was throwing my support to the enemy. With that in mind, I tried not to take it personal y, but as I walked away my footsteps felt heavier than they had before, the exhaustion pressing on me worse.
I would have liked to head straight for the rift, but as far as anyone knew, my specialty was only the dead. I had appearances to maintain, so Falin led me to the bridge and the dilapidated tent city first. The booted left foot had been found amid a pile of shoes inside a fire barrel. No one had told me how many shoes had been col ected as evidence, but I’d heard two techs mention that al the empty shoes had been rights. The one left in the bunch contained a foot. So what is happening to the right feet? Or the rest of the bodies, for that matter.
I stretched my senses as we walked. Many of the tents and lean-tos sported charms and one or two were even warded, which surprised me, though I guess it shouldn’t have. I didn’t spend a lot of time considering Nekros’s homeless, but it could happen to anyone—norm, witch, or fae alike. I took a moment to examine each of the charms my senses brushed against, but most were charms to prevent leaking or to discourage spiders. None felt malicious or carried the magical signature from the feet or constructs.
constructs.
“Let’s move on,” I said once we’d walked the entire encampment.
As we headed back up the bank, I tripped on an empty bottle half buried in the loose stones and only Falin catching my elbow and steadying me kept me on my feet. I glared at the offending bottle, but the real problem was my own exhaustion. I wasn’t sure when I’d started trembling, but I’d been doing it for a while and I couldn’t stop. I’d been straddling the chasm between the living and the dead—as wel as a couple of other realities—for too long. I’m going to pay for this later.
But for now I needed to hold on to my grave-sight a little longer. At least until I could get a good look at whatever ritual had happened around the rift. It might have been better if I’d walked the whole scene and not drawn attention to my interest in the rift, but if I was going to see that hole, I needed to do it now-ish. I said as much to Falin. His lips thinned to a grim line, but he nodded and led me on a more direct path.
“I think we have enough cadaver dogs on the scene already,” a snide voice said as I drew near the rift.
The skin along my neck prickled. Jenson. Haven’t I dealt with enough for one night? Unlike Nori or even Lusa, Detective Jenson wasn’t someone I could hope I’d never see again once the case was over. He was John’s partner, and I didn’t know if he blamed me for John’s getting shot and that was what was with the attitude for the last few weeks, but it would be better for everyone involved if we could at least be civil toward each other. So I forced a smile I didn’t feel as I turned toward his voice. And then I froze in my tracks.
Jenson stood a couple of yards away, his thumbs in his waistband, his right hand suspiciously close to his gun. But that wasn’t what stopped me; what gave me pause was his face. His jaw was wider than normal, and it jutted forward in an underbite that provided room for the two tusks an underbite that provided room for the two tusks protruding from where his lower cuspids should have been.
The tusks curled over his upper lip, the skin around them dark and cal oused from years of contact.
“What are you staring at, Craft?” he asked, glaring at me.