“It looks like our friend Dennis was compiling a database of local nocturnis,” she said, her voice taking on more of the animation to which Dag had grown accustomed. “He has a list of people, mostly men, but evil is apparently not Y-chromosome-linked. Each entry is listed starting with what he calls the person’s handle. I can only guess he felt some kind of nostalgia for the days of CB radio when they used them. But I’m guessing a lot of the members of the Order chose to go by an alias rather than a legal name. A nom de guerre, I guess you could say.”
“This has often been the case. In the past, it proved an effective disguise, as information exchange was much slower and a real identity much easier to disguise.”
Kylie nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Anyway, for some entries he does manage to list a real name. Unfortunately, a lot of them are only partial, either first or last. Usually first. I’m guessing he was trying to ID them all, but it was slow going, so he hedged his bets by also including a short physical description of each person. I’m not sure if that was to jog his own memory, or if he actually started it with the intent of handing it over to someone at some point, but it could prove useful.”
“Provided the information is accurate. I would not put it past any member of the Order to create such a document and populate it with false information for the purpose of throwing outsiders off the track.”
“I don’t know. That sounds like a pretty elaborate red herring, especially when you’re going to save the thing on a drive designed to ensure said outsider gets eaten the minute they try to access it.”
Dag grunted. “Perhaps. But I find myself unable to trust any information provided by this source of yours. Why would a member of the Order agree to give its secrets away? To do so is not only a risk to the other nocturnis, but also a direct betrayal of their Demonic masters. To do so practically invites a hideous death. Why take such a chance?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, but I thought Ott’s death did look pretty terrible. I mean, we both assumed the nocturnis were the ones who killed him. Maybe this was the reason why.”
“You could be right. The only way we will know for sure is to verify the information he has provided. Was he able to list full names for any of the nocturnis he mentions?” Dag felt a surge of excitement. Perhaps he could use a good hunt to distract himself from his attraction to the female.
“Three. I’ve already started basic searches on them to see what comes up. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something.”
He could almost feel his wings rustle with impatience, but he supposed he would have to content himself with her assurance.
“I was just getting ready to open the word processing documents when you came back,” she told him. Her gaze darted to the side toward him, but she made no mention of why he had departed in the first place. Good. His control was already stretched thin at times, like whenever he inhaled too deeply and caught a whiff of her intriguing, intoxicating scent. Or whenever his memory strayed back to—
No. He cut that thought off without mercy. He felt no need to test his own resolve so soon. Better to give it time to harden.
Damn it. He had to avoid words like “harden.” They proved deeply unhelpful.
Clearing his throat, he leaned slightly back in his chair. Any increase in the distance between them had to help, right? “Proceed,” he instructed.
She shot him a look he felt hard-pressed to interpret. Either she simply wanted to ensure she had heard him correctly, or she visually took his measurements for a funeral shroud. Fortunately, she chose not to enlighten him but went back to work instead.
While she sorted through more files, and he waited in his ergonomically correct yet still-not-as-comfortable-as-the-cat’s chair, the feline in question woke from his nap and stretched. A yawn followed, as did the quick pass of a tongue over white whiskers, before King David climbed to the arm of his chair and peered closely at Dag.
The Guardian returned the steady, yellow stare and allowed the cat to assess him. In fact, he returned the favor. He recalled that Kylie had said the cat came and went as he pleased, actually a stray who paid her visits rather than a pet of hers, and its appearance backed that up.
Though the King looked strong and healthy, he also had the look of a cat who had faced a life less pampered than the average housecat. A small piece of cartilage had gone missing near the tip of one pointy ear, and an old scar cut across the cat’s face, nearly carving one cheek in half. Whiskers had long since grown in on either side of the silvery line, but directly in its path, no hair grew at all. Large for a domestic cat, the feline likely weighed more than fifteen pounds, Dag estimated, all of it lean muscle.
Well, almost all of it. He imagined it gained at least a pound or two from sheer attitude, just like its mistress.