Despite the evidence, the conclusion was not foregone; the pendulum could yet swing either way. Here in this place, there could be no measure of doubt. These who had been judged most severely by God Himself held compassion in their hearts that humans could not fathom. They possessed the bleak understanding that suffering did not end with death, and so they decided his fate slowly, deliberately, almost sadly.
The chieftain called for the aonta.
One by one, each member voted. Blade down, flat against the table was a nay—not enough proof to convict. Point down, knife tip thrust into wood was a yea. Guilty. Death to the forenamed.
She watched as an unearthly calm settled over the shadowed chamber and, one by one, the hooded figures cast their ballots. To her surprise, there was dissension. One member was not convinced of the human’s guilt.
She was last to vote, the youngest and newest of the council, but she did not hesitate. She grasped the hilt of the sacred dagger entrusted to her for this life cycle, and thrust it, point down.
The decision was final. The human would die.
She was the first to throw back the black hood of her cloak, the white gold of her Milesian signet ring sparkling in the candlelight. A rich, guttural cry erupted from deep inside her throat as she bared her canines….
The cell phone on the nightstand beside Fia’s bed rang, startling her. She blinked as she lifted her head from the pillow and glanced at the digital clock, the numerals silky red in the stygian darkness.
Her last hours were hazy in her mind. She must have fallen asleep.
She sat up, throwing her feet over the side of the bed; one stiletto heel caught the sheet.
She hadn’t even taken off her boots?
Out of habit, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before flipping open the phone and bringing it to her ear. “Special Agent Kahill.”
“Christ-a-mighty, Kahill, don’t you ever sleep? Just once I’d like to hear that husky voice, a little disoriented, drowsy, maybe. All playful. Sexy.”
She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, feeling hungover, even though she’d not imbibed alcohol. “What do you want, Sedowski?”
“What does any man want? True love, of course. That’s all I’m looking for.”
“And your teeth? Will you be looking for them when I knock them out and they’re spread all over the conference room?” Her tone was a warning, laced with just enough humor to keep the exchange light between them.
The night-shift supervisor chuckled. “Just sweet nuthins to me, Kahill.” Then his voice changed and he was the old-school FBI agent she had admired since joining the Philadelphia Field Office nine years before. “Listen, I’d love to talk dirty with you, but I got a homicide needs your attention. Over in Lansdowne.”
“Lansdowne?” She walked into the bathroom and turned on the cold water at the sink. She didn’t need a light to know she looked like crap. “What? Some guy catch his wife cheating on him and strangle her with her pantyhose?”
“Got no details, Kahill. Only that the vic had her throat slashed, and an address.”
“Give it to me.”
Sedowski knew better than to bite on that one. Unlike some of the men in her office, he knew where the line was between light banter and sexual harassment. Besides, he was married to a pleasingly plump woman named Ann, who made him potato dumplings on Sunday afternoons and still adored him, despite his protruding abdomen and receding hairline. Fia admired the intimacy Sedowski shared with his wife; maybe she was even jealous of it.
He read the address to her and she committed it to memory. Tossing the phone onto her bed, she splashed water on her face and walked back into the bedroom.
She glanced at the clock again. She hadn’t been home long. Couldn’t have been asleep more than half an hour.
She perched on the edge of a chair in the corner and grasped the heel of one knee-high black boot. She gave it a hard tug. With a groan, it released and the supple leather slid off her foot. She yanked on the other boot and dropped it on the floor. Next came the black thigh highs. Not fishnet; she was classier than that. Sheer black argyle.
She rolled them off and tossed them into the clothes hamper, then wiggled out of the black leather skirt and bustier and walked naked into the bathroom, still in the dark. She made sure there was steam rolling over the glass shower stall door before she stepped in.
A few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, Fia folded the skirt and bustier and crammed them into the back of her closet behind her suits. She rarely invited anyone into her apartment, and never into her bedroom, but these were trappings best concealed from the light of day.
Trying not to think about where she had been tonight, what she had done, Fia chose a dark navy suit from a dry-cleaning bag. She grabbed a blue sleeveless shell, donning the clothes quickly over a black bra and panties.
She was out of her apartment by 4:45 A.M. Too bad she didn’t drink coffee. She probably could have used a cup.
Less than an hour later she was at the scene in the suburb of Philadelphia, red and blue flashing lights marking the location of the crime. She displayed her credentials, X Files style, the way she and her brothers used to, playing cops and robbers under the eaves of their attic.
“Special Agent Kahill,” she told a uniformed cop. He was nice looking. Young. A little scared. She wondered if this was his first messy homicide.
He glanced up at her and even in the bleak light of the flood lamps, running on noisy generators, she could tell he found her attractive. She was used to it. She saw that gleam of lust in most men’s eyes. What she also saw was intimidation. People tended to become uncomfortable
