Page 42

We stop before a large arched double door and Sebastian reaches for it very cautiously. "Stay behind me," he says softly, as he opens the door.

I do as I'm told because I am not stupid and my survival instincts are alive and well.

The door swings open, and I feel the flames before I see them. Warm and dancing on the edges of the marble, casting golden light everywhere.

Sebastian clears his throat and the fire dies down, though the room is still uncommonly warm as we enter, and sweat beads on my skin, sliding down my spine uncomfortably.

My eyes widen. In some ways it looks like a standard morgue, with bodies lying on tables, but that's where the resemblance ends. The rest of the place looks like something out of a mad scientist's laboratory, with seemingly miles of glass tubing connecting beakers of bubbling liquid and a strange apparatus whose purpose I can't immediately discern. Specimen jars line the shelves of multiple cabinets and here and there I think I can see something moving inside them.

But they're not the most remarkable nor eye-catching part of the room, not by a long shot.

No, that honor is reserved for the two men on fire standing in front of us.

They are both leaning over a table, the body of something that looks like a cross between a stag and man before them, its chest cut open as the two flaming men probe and poke and pull things out of the cavity they've created.

I squint and realize they aren't on fire; they are literally made from fire. It's a part of them. Itisthem. One of the men glances over at us, his eyes like small fireballs burning brightly in his face of flames. "Oh, how rude of us!" he says with a chuckle and a wave of his hand.

Immediately, the flames encasing both of them die out, and, as I blink, they turn into normal-ish looking men.

Normal-ish because their exposed skin is still a burnt orange-red in color and their eyes still glow like fire. They both have red hair, but one man is bigger, more muscular than the other, who is shorter and leaner. They're dressed in identical white lab coats.

The shorter one walks over to us and holds out a hand to shake mine. When I hesitate, he glances at his hand and only then realizes that it's covered in blood and guts. "Sorry about that, truly. It's beena week."

He saunters over to the sink and washes his hands. "Elal, tell them about the week it hasbeen!" His words are over-enunciated and exaggerated and he shakes his hips for emphasis.

The big one, Elal, covers the body on his table with a sheet and removes his coat, revealing the white shirt and pants he's wearing beneath. Miraculously, and unlike his lab coat, his clothing is free of bloodstains. "It has been a week, as Ifi said. The werewolves have a problem on their hands. One of their own has been leaving unauthorized half-eaten corpses both in the mundane world and Otherworld. The dragons are in a fit for us to wrap this up. The vampires, are, of course, loving this. No offense," he says, glancing at Sebastian.

Sebastian nods. "None taken. Everyone knows there's no love lost between our kinds."

"Indeed," Elal says, with a nod.

Ifi joins the three of us, sans lab coat, and there's not a speck of blood on him either. He wraps one arm around Elal's waist, while holding out a hand to shake mine. "Let's try this again, shall we? I am Ifi, Ifrit of the High Kingdom of Furor, Lord of the Flaming Backlands, son of the Great Flame herself."

I raise an eyebrow and accept his hand, which is hot to the touch. "I'm Eve Oliver, Managing Director at The Night Firm."

Elal and I then shake hands. "I'm Elal," he says, simply.

"No other titles?" I tease.

Elal laughs. "Ifi made those up. He likes how it sounds to strangers."

Ifi pouts and bumps Elal with his hips. "It's not as fun when you tell them. And besides, I am the son of the Great Flame herself."

Elal rolls his eyes. "As is every Ifirit born of the Flame. That's hardly noteworthy." But then Elal glances down at who I assume is his romantic partner, and his face softens. "But you are the flame of my heart, and always will be. You are the only one who can claim that title in all the worlds."

Ifi's frown turns into a beatific smile and the two share a moment, and a kiss, until Sebastian, the party pooper, clears his throat.

"Sorry to break up the foreplay, boys, but you've done the autopsy on Mary Dracule, Vlad Dracule's wife, yes?"

The two Ifrits glance at each other, frowning. Ifi answers first. "Yes. We did. Her and her child."

I flinch at the memory of the crime scene projection. So gruesome and senseless.

"We need to know everything you found," Sebastian says.

They nod, and Elal points at the door of a refrigeration unit on the other side of the room, which pops open at his command and disgorges an exam table, complete with a cloth-covered form, that rolls swiftly to his side without a sound. Together the two morticians reach down and pull back the sheet, revealing the body of Mary and her newborn baby. I'm stunned to see that the pair have been put back together in the wake of the autopsy with precise care. It's impossible to even see where they were cut into.

"The child was killed first, while she watched, most likely," Elal says, soberly.