I turned up the steps to the door.
A policeman was standing by the buzzer, a clipboard in his hands. I paused. He was clearly checking off people as they came and went—an entirely logical thing for him to be doing at the door of a private complex where someone had just been killed, but one that was more than a little bit inconvenient for me. Straightening my shoulders, I dug a crumpled receipt out of my pocket, holding it up as he turned toward me.
“The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer’s day,” I said, thinking
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and smiled, waving me inside. “Third floor.”
“Got it.” Whoever he thought he saw was allowed to enter the crime scene; beyond that, I didn’t care who he thought I was.
The hall was carpeted in a shade of gray that complemented the cream walls and the dark teak of the decorative end tables, tastefully elegant without being ostentatious. Of course it was tasteful—a month’s rent could probably have fed me for a year. I revised my estimate upward by at least six months when the elevator doors opened to reveal five police officers and an honest-to-Oberon elevator operator.
The police filed out into the hall and I slipped past them, nodding to the operator as I said, “Third floor.” He returned the nod, pressing the button, and the doors slid closed. The elevator started to move, so smoothly that I could barely feel it. I tensed. I hate it when I can’t tell which way I’m actually going.
I hadn’t visited Evening’s building since 1987. From what I could see, it hadn’t changed a bit—the place stank of elegance and the sort of timelessness that only money can buy. Stasis is one of the benefits of being very, very rich. Nothing ever changes unless you let it.
The operator glanced at me nervously. I tried to smile at him like I meant it. Your first murder is always the hardest. Not that they ever get easy. We stopped on the third floor, and I stepped out, letting him retreat back to the ground floor.
There were police everywhere, bustling back and forth, murmuring in the barely audible whisper used only by cops and children. There are more similarities between the two than you might think, starting with whether or not you’d want them waiting for you in a dark alley with a gun. I’ve worked with the police, and I’ve even liked some of them, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them as a breed. Power brings out the worst in almost everyone.
Most of the doors in the hall were closed, but Evening’s was ajar, propped open just far enough to let the police slip in and out without revealing anything to anyone who might manage to get past security. I paused in front of the door, taking a deep breath. This was it: last chance to turn around and walk away.
Pushing the door the rest of the way open was almost impossible. After that, stepping inside was somehow anticlimactic. That didn’t make it easier.
There was an officer just inside. I whipped out my receipt before he could finish turning, chanting, “The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, and took them clean away.” The officer froze, expression taking on the same faintly baffled air as his colleague. A bolt of pain lanced through my forehead; I’d pushed too hard, and the headache was coming on. I did my best to ignore it, lowering the receipt and saying, “May I proceed?”
“Yes, proceed,” he said, still looking stunned as I brushed past him.
The apartment was decorated in pinks, ranging from a deep shade bordering on red to a pale, near-white cream. Her blood probably fit right in until it started drying to an ugly shade of brown. I couldn’t see the body, but I could see the blood, just a few drops of it staining the carpet near the door. It seemed like half the room was already tucked into neatly labeled plastic bags, and what hadn’t been bagged looked small and gaudy in the artificial light. Murder strips everyone’s illusions away, no matter how carefully they were created.
There were officers everywhere, milling like ants while they gathered evidence and studied blood splatters. I glanced at the bags as I moved across the room, checking to be sure they’d found no sign of Evening’s true nature. I didn’t need to worry. Evening was old, and she was careful, and they’d find nothing to show that she was anything more than a rich businesswoman named Evelyn Winters who somehow managed to get herself killed.
Almost against my will, I was moving toward the body, the weight of Evening’s binding seeming tight and heavy in my chest. I flashed my increasingly crumpled receipt at every officer I passed. None of them tried to stop me from approaching the body—or what was passing for it, anyway. If the police were already this ensconced, the night-haunts would have long since been and gone. I’d have to be content with what they’d left behind.
Fae flesh doesn’t decay. It makes sense; the fae don’t age past the point of physical maturity, so why should they rot? But it means something has to be done about the bodies, and that’s where the night-haunts come in. They come when we die, take our dead for their tables, and leave replicas behind. Their toys do everything the natural dead do. They bleed, stink, and decay with a perfection that says a lot about their makers. Really, there’s just one thing that differentiates the night-haunts’ mannequins from our real dead: they’re human. Their ears are round, their eyes are normal, their skins are white or brown or tan, but never blue or green. There’s nothing about them that can give us away.
The night-haunts devour our true dead, and they leave pretty fictions in their place for the mortal world to mourn. I don’t know when we made that bargain with them, but there’s no breaking it now, and disgusting as it is, it has its purpose.
Knowing that what I was dealing with wasn’t really Evening’s body didn’t make it any easier. The night- haunts only mimic what they see.
The replica was sprawled by the couch, open eyes staring at the ceiling. I fought the urge to turn and run, perversely glad that I’d already thrown up breakfast. Part of me was still able to marvel at the detail the night- haunts had worked into their creation. Every inch of her human disguise was flawlessly replicated, even down to the obvious violence of her death.
I knelt beside the body, letting the analytical part of my mind click on as I scanned the area around it. There were bloody footprints on the near-white carpet, but those were unavoidable; there was nowhere to step that wasn’t covered in blood. A few of the officers had plastic bags tied over their shoes and if the killers were smart, they’d done something similar; none of the prints I could see had a distinctive enough tread to let me pick them out of a crowd. If the murder weapon was left behind, the police tagged and bagged it before I got there. Back when I was a P.I., I sometimes lamented not working directly with the cops—my job would have been a lot easier if I had access to hard evidence. Unfortunately, I hate the sight of blood and I can’t work mornings, so a career with the force isn’t really in my future.
I caught myself with a jolt, realizing where my thoughts were going. No. This was a one-time thing; it was about necessity, not about my future. I gave up that life. I wasn’t going back.
There was one way to distract myself from thinking too hard about police procedure, or much of anything beyond why I never wanted to do this again. Steeling my nerves, I turned my attention to what was left of Evening.
Her bathrobe had been white when she put it on; now it was a dark brownish-red, except for a few spots on the sleeves. The body holds an amazing amount of blood. There were two obvious gunshot wounds, one in the shoulder and one in the stomach, but neither should have killed her. They would have hurt like hell, but she would have lived.
Everything considered, she probably died when they slashed her throat.
Her arms were straight at her sides, but her legs and hips were twisted—she was kicking right up until the end. Someone pinned her down while her throat was cut, then held on until she stopped struggling. That meant there were at least two killers, maybe more. I had to give her one thing: she hadn’t been taken by surprise. The look on her face was pure anger, almost hiding the underlying foundation of fear. She died kicking, yes, but she also died pissed off.
The blood wasn’t the worst part. Neither was the second mouth beneath her chin. That title went to her round-eared, blunt-featured face, framed by black hair shot with veins of gray and matted down with blood. The Evening Winterrose I knew had features that looked like the last, perfect work of a dying sculptor, ears that tapered to sharp points and eyes the impossible dark blue of midnight; she had hair that wavered between black and purple, with highlights of pink, orange, and blue, like an aurora. She was wild and terrible and strange, one of the Daoine Sidhe, the fairest of the fae, and she was never, ever human. What the night-haunts left would never be anything else. Death wouldn’t even let her keep her true face.
Something wasn’t right about the body. I leaned in for a better look at her wounds, already knowing that they wouldn’t tell me anything. Maybe there are foren sics experts that can look at a knife slash and tell you everything
