Grigori shook his head. “Nothing helpful.” He rubbed his jaw. “We do know that once our victim was dead, her blood was then collected,” Grigori said.
“Collected, rather than drank?” I clarified.
“Yes.”
I exhaled. The perpetrator could still be a vampire, but now at least I didn’t have to assume that he or she was one.
Grigori looked between Caleb and me. “Do either of you know the properties of angel blood?”
I glanced at Caleb. He looked just as confused as I felt. “No,” I said for the both of us.
“If willingly given and ingested, angel blood is said to cleanse the soul of wrongdoing.”
I stilled at the thought. Many, many people would kill for that. But if it were true, then it would be paradoxical to kill someone with angelic blood unless they agreed to it beforehand.
Grigori rubbed his cheek. “This is all conjecture, since no angels have willingly given their blood to another within the last several centuries and written records before that time were … poor at best.
“In addition, the folklore on angel blood only discusses angels, not their offspring. So we don’t really know what the killer’s motivations were. But, celestially speaking, it’s a significant loophole in the system.”
“Are you saying that you think the killer murdered the victim and drank the blood to cleanse their soul of the murder?” Caleb asked.
Grigori inclined his head. “Precisely.”
We all sat silent and let that sink in.
I cleared my throat. “You said that an angel’s blood had to be willingly given. How do you know that it was?”
Grigori assessed me. “We don’t know whether the folklore is true—that the blood must be given, not taken. However, there were no signs that the victim was under duress, save one.”
He opened a briefcase he’d brought with him and pulled out a photograph and placed it on the coffee table. The image was so zoomed in that at first I wasn’t able to recognize what I was looking at. Then I began to make out toes and two heels. Feet. I was staring at feet.
I pressed my lips together tightly. Across the victim’s feet the skin had been sliced open. Dozens of angry-looking, open wounds—some of which still had rocks or shards of glass imbedded in them—had shredded up the bottom of Ana Gabor’s feet. Bloodied twigs and leaves had then cleaved themselves to the sticky blood.
“What could’ve caused this?” I asked, touching the photo. I was caught between grief for the victim and a kind of horrified curiosity.
“Walking a very long distance barefoot,” Grigori said.
Grigori tapped his fingers to his lips. “There is one more thing you should know. The victim was found in Hoia Baciu forest.”
When he didn’t say anything more, I spoke up. “What about it?”
Grigori watched me, his gaze intense. “Whatever did this to her—whatever brought her to those woods—we’re not sure it was wholly human.”
Chapter 4
After Grigori filled us in on tomorrow’s itinerary, I made my way to my room. I was in the middle of unpacking my clothes when my phone rang. I snatched it up from where it lay on my bed.
“Hello?”
“I can die a happy man, now that I’ve heard your voice tonight.”
Andre.
I smiled and fell back on the bed. “You need to save the panty-dropping comments for in-person visits. They’d be much more effective that way.”
“Don’t tempt me, soulmate. It’s hard enough as is.”
“That’s what … she said?”
He chuckled, throaty and low, and it physically made me ache for him. “I miss you and your dirty mind already,” he said. “How’s life been since I last saw you?”
I ran my fingers over his ring. “Busy,” I said.
“Busy?” Andre asked. “You’re on vacation.”
I stared up at the wooden beams overhead. “Not anymore.”
The lightness that was in Andre’s voice a moment ago vanished. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“The Politia put me on an investigation.”
“What kind of investigation?” Andre’s words were slow and deliberate, which meant that he was trying to control his emotions.
“The kind where people show up dead.” I glanced out my window at the dark night. The thin crescent moon did little to drive out the night’s darkness. Below it the mountains stained the horizon an even deeper shade of black. This was a wild, mysterious place.
“Gabrielle,” Andre said, much too calmly. “Are you still on the Isle of Man?”
“No.”
“Where, exactly, are you?” His voice was sharp, his words clipped. Andre was losing control of his emotions. Oh goody.
“Cluj-Napoca, Romania.”
The line fell silent.
“Andre?”
“You’re in Cluj-Napoca?” The name rolled smoothly off his lips, reminding me that he spoke Romanian.
“Yes.”
Another pause, then, “I’m coming over.”
Coming over? I could hear him moving into action on the other end of the line.
“What hotel are you staying at?” he asked.
“Whoa there, Andre. You’re not thinking about meeting up with me, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
How close could he possibly be to consider visiting me right now?
I rubbed my eyes. “I’m about to go to sleep, and you have a trial to worry about.”
“You don’t understand, Gabrielle,” he said. Something awfully close to fear laced his voice.
“Understand what?” My skin prickled. This was one of those moments where I recognized how little I knew about this supernatural world.
“Cluj-Napoca was the small Romanian village I grew up in.” The phone slipped a little at this new piece of information. Somewhere in this region, 700 years ago, Andre had grown and nearly died. This was where the devil had cursed him. “It’s also the place where my current trial is being held,” he added.
“You’re here?” My eyes fluttered, and I sat up, twisting his ring around and around my finger. “In the same city?”
“Yes.”
I swore. This was just too coincidental.