his name.”
“There are lots of reasons somebody might do that,” Kenzie said. “Boykin could be a professional name.”
“Why did the obit list him as dead?” Jonah said. “If he’d been a partner in his father’s shop, I’d think people would know better.”
“Or . . . he could have something to hide,” Kenzie speculated. “Do you think this might be the person we want?” He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.
Jonah felt hope flare brighter. “Maybe,” he said.
“Harry. Web search on Tyler Boykin,” Kenzie said. Compared with “Tyler Greenwood,”
“Tyler Boykin” was easy to find. Kenzie found him on music sites, in concert listings, on a listing of session musicians. He even found a photograph of him, onstage in Memphis three years ago, sitting in with a blues band. When he and Jonah compared the photographs of the two men, there could be no doubt. They were the same person.
Tyler Greenwood had transformed into Tyler Boykin, right after Thorn Hill.
“What are you going to do?” Kenzie asked.
“I haven’t quite decided,” Jonah said. “I’ll go have a talk with Boykin, I guess.” He paused. “If you see Gabriel, don’t mention anything about our little project.”
“Going rogue, are you?” Kenzie cocked his head. “Just be careful. If Tyler Boykin is our man, he doesn’t want to be found.”
“I’m always careful,” Jonah said. Light was leaking in through the windows, and the racket now emanating from the hallway told them that the day shift was coming on.
“I have to go,” Jonah said, packing up. “I’ll see if I can work up some lyrics for the new tunes.”
“So we’re not going out?” Kenzie said, unable to hide his disappointment.
“Not today. Soon. Right now I’ve got classes.”
“You know, big brother, you really need to start setting things on fire,” Kenzie said. “Nobody makes you go to class. People tend to leave you alone.” He smiled wistfully, and Jonah felt a twinge of guilt.
Chapter Twenty
Backdoor Man
The Boykin house was the shabbiest one on a leafy street in an older neighborhood. The yard was overgrown in some places, down to bare dirt in others.
Hmm, Jonah Kinlock thought. Usually, sorcerers couldn’t resist using a little magic to enhance the appearance of their gardens. Find the most beautiful garden in any city, it’s a good bet that a sorcerer lived there.
So . . . did that mean that Tyler Boykin wasn’t a sorcerer after all?
Still, instinct told Jonah that his quarry was finally within reach. Well, that and the name on the mailbox: Boykin. He hoped that Greenwood/Boykin would be willing to answer his questions. Hoped that, after all this time, he’d have useful information he’d spill without hard interrogation. Maybe he’d be eager to tell his story. Jonah could hope.
Jonah was good at killing. Killing was clean. Killing was simple. Killing was sometimes necessary, but it didn’t have to be painful. Still, he was growing weary of it. He didn’t much like the thing he was best at.
But if Tyler Greenwood Boykin was the sorcerer who’d helped Black Rose wizards plot the massacre at Thorn Hill . . . if he were the one who created the poison that had ended or ruined so many lives, then maybe he deserved to die. But first, he needed information. If Boykin had information that would help Kenzie and Alison and everyone else at the Anchorage, Jonah needed to obtain it.
Then again, Tyler Boykin might be just another innocent victim of Thorn Hill. The only adult survivor. Or someone lucky enough to have left right before the disaster, who changed his name so death didn’t come calling.
Jonah flexed his shoulders, feeling Fragarach’s reassuring weight. The sword might pry free some answers if all else failed. The Answerer, it was called. It was impossible to lie with Fragarach at your throat.
Jonah was so focused on the mission that he didn’t realize he was in danger until it was almost too late. A whisper of sound behind him was what saved him. Instinctively, he dove sideways, feeling the cold wake of the creature’s charge brush past him, hearing the clatter of claws on the sandstone pavers of the garden path.
Jonah rolled to his feet, Fragarach already in his hand. All around the yard, spotlights kindled, flooding the garden with light. Motion detectors, no doubt. Two shades faced him across some hydrangea bushes, a man and a woman. In the dark, they could have passed for ordinary, except for the five-inch, razor-sharp claws that sprouted from their hands.
“So . . . let me guess,” Jonah said. “You work for Greenwood?”
“We work for Lilith,” the man said. “We followed you here from downtown.”
Jonah felt a prickle of unease. Even focused as he was now, there was very little scent. The host corpses of these shades were remarkably well preserved—no visible decay or stench of decomposing flesh.
Jonah feinted to the left, then charged right, putting the more substantial barrier of a stone bench between him and his pursuers.
“And you’re here because . . . ?”
“Lilith wants to see you.”
“It’s really not a good time,” Jonah said. “Could we set up something for next week?”
“She wants to see you now,” the man said.
“All right,” Jonah said, thinking fast, buying time. “Just let me—”
A long arm snaked forward, and a claw raked across his chest, ripping through his sweatshirt, drawing blood. Only his quick leap backward saved him from being disemboweled. Though Jonah answered quickly, the shade managed to evade his counterthrust.
“What the hell was that” Jonah demanded. “I thought Lilith wanted to see me.”
“Lilith wants you alive,” the woman said. “We aren’t that fussy. She warned you, didn’t she? She warned you to stop murdering us.”
“We’re looking forward to seeing how you’ll fare as a shade,” the man said. “Don’t look for a warm welcome from some of us.”
Thus began a nearly silent, macabre dance around the overgrown garden, Jonah’s breath pluming out in the chilly air, the only sound the crackle of leaves, the rattle of claws, and Fragarach whistling through the air.
Focus, Jonah thought. These are shades. They are quick, and smart, and they don’t feel pain.
That last part, at least, made his job easier.
Finally, he circled behind a small shed, leaped over the top, and landed behind the two shades. He cut one of them in half before either of them could get his body turned around.
Howling, the other shade charged forward, leaving herself open to Jonah’s two-handed swipe. When she went down, the now-disembodied shades fled. Jonah considered pursuing them, but as he’d said, it wasn’t a good time.
“Tell Lilith to leave me alone!” he called softly after them as they dissolved into the night.
Jonah wiped his blade on the grass, hurdled a boxwood hedge, and landed in the deeper dark next to the house. There he waited, watching to see if more shades appeared, listening to find out whether anyone inside had noticed the lights ablaze in the garden.
Though the exterior was well lit, much of the interior was dark, with no sudden activity suggesting that an alarm had been sounded. The shades were drawn, but light leaked from the living room windows and Jonah could hear music, amped up loud, the heavy thud of bass.
