“You talk funny.”
“No doubt.” He had a Scottish accent. He hadn’t heard too many in this area.
The child had an accent too. Definitely not Scottish.
“Where are you from, ma’am?”
“Ma’am.” She giggled. “I’m not a ma’am.”
“You are a princess.” He indicated her shirt. “Yes?”
Her giggle faded. She glanced at the door again. “My daddy says I am.”
“Then you are royal and must be addressed as ‘ma’am.’” After he’d first addressed her as “your royal highness.” Henry might be a Scottish witch, but he knew what was right.
“Okay,” she said, still more interested in the door than him. “Why can’t I get in?”
“The door has been warded against ghosts.”
“What’s warded?”
“A way to keep us out.”
She turned wide blue eyes in Henry’s direction. “How?”
“Herbs. Perhaps a spell.”
“Like A-B-C?”
“Not that kind of spell, child.” He cleared his throat. “Ma’am.”
She nodded, as regal as any Stuart, and flicked her hand. “Make it stop.”
“If I could, I would.”
“But you can’t, so you won’t,” she recited.
She really was adorable. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d been able to see all his daughters grow up.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Genevieve.” She lifted her chin. “Princess Genevieve.”
“Why do you want to get inside?”
“My daddy’s in there.” She stomped her foot. “Daddy, come out!”
Henry blinked. He’d been startled, then distracted, then charmed by the girl, which was his only excuse for being so slow. The child and the detective from out of town shared not only an accent but similar blue eyes. Best, still, to be sure.
“And who is your daddy?” he asked.
“Bobby Doucet.”
Henry suddenly understood the reason for the ward. He didn’t much like it. Certainly, his daughter was old enough to do what he strongly suspected she was doing with the detective—though they weren’t married and he should probably take umbrage with that. However, he had learned that in this time many did not marry before having knowledge of one another. He didn’t like that either, but no one had asked him, and he doubted they would.
Presently he had more pressing concerns than his daughter’s honor. Whatever Raye had used would keep him out, but it would allow those with a pulse in. And those with a pulse, and a weapon, were the ones that needed to be kept out. He just wasn’t sure how.
A car drove past slowly on the street below. For an instant Henry thought the driver was looking at him. No matter how many centuries passed, he couldn’t get used to being invisible to the majority of the world.
Considering that he was invisible, the woman wasn’t staring at him but at Raye’s apartment. The place appeared deserted. The car sped up and disappeared around the corner.
The woman might have been an acquaintance of Raye’s, but Henry doubted it. He’d been at his daughter’s side since birth, and he’d never seen that face before in his life.
*
Bobby’s phone rang. He reached for his nightstand, where he usually kept the thing, and instead encountered a woman.
He opened his eyes; his fingers were tangled in Raye’s hair. He wanted to tangle other parts of himself with other parts of her all over again.
Except the damn phone was still ringing. Where was it?
He sat up. The bedside clock read midnight. They hadn’t been asleep that long, though it felt like it. Sexual satisfaction and exhaustion will do that to a man.
Apparently it did the same to a woman. Raye muttered, “Shhh,” and turned over.
Bobby followed the distant sound of his phone, which lay on the kitchen table next to his keys and wallet. He picked it up. “Yeah?”
“We got a problem.”
“Johnson?” Bobby asked. He hadn’t bothered to glance at his caller ID. His eyes were still fuzzy.
The chief grunted. “Someone broke into Larsen’s Bed-and-Breakfast.”
A jolt of adrenaline rushed through Bobby, and his eyes focused just fine. “Who?”
“All John saw was a woman running out the door. Very tall, brown hair that reached past her butt. She jumped in her car and drove away. She had a weird knife.”
“Weird how?”
“Long, two sided. He said the blade was ripply.”
“No idea what that means.”
“Squiggly?”
“Not helping.”
“How about this … the description of the knife matches the description Christiansen gave of the weapon probably used on Mrs. Noita.”
“Fantastic.” It appeared that the killer, this time, was a woman.
“It gets better.”
“How can it get better than that?”
“Sarcasm. Thank you.” The chief’s voice was dry.
Bobby couldn’t blame him. He needed to zip his lip. The guy was doing his best, and in truth the man’s best wasn’t half bad. Bobby wouldn’t mind working with him again. But he’d prefer it if he didn’t have to.