Page 4

Chapter

Three

T hane ripped off a section of his shirt to bandage the wound on my ankle.

There was a lot of blood; I would need more than the contents of my magical medication cupboard to tend to it properly.

Still, the worst of the pain had subsided to a dull throb and I hobbled along the path without Thane’s help.

We were both dripping wet, however, and I was shivering.

‘How did you know?’ he asked as we trudged back. ‘How did you know he had drifted all the way to that spot?’

That was easy. ‘The other witches assumed his powers kicked in the moment he fell in the water and that he’d have used magic to anchor himself in place.

They weren’t thinking about the shock that you feel when you hit cold water even when you’re expecting it.

The currents there are strong. While the witches were concentrating on holding back the monsters, Hightower would already have been dragged away by the river. ’

Thane frowned. ‘But how did you know to go to that spot in particular?’

When I didn’t answer immediately his frown deepened, then his expression cleared. ‘Oh. I see. ’

‘I only ever had two assassination contracts in Danksville,’ I said quietly. ‘I won’t tell you who I killed there, so don’t ask. The first one was a simple stabbing in the street and her corpse was meant to be discovered. The second one was supposed to disappear without a trace.’

‘So you threw him into the Tweed.’

‘I killed him first.’ My tone of voice was matter of fact rather than proud.

‘I made it swift then I threw him in the Tweed. I had to ensure his body wouldn’t reappear because I couldn’t rely on the river monsters – their behaviour was out of my control.

First I ran a series of tests on the currents, then I placed a tracker on his corpse to double-check his location. ’

‘He ended up in the same spot as Quentin Hightower?’

‘He did.’ I wrapped my arms around myself. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel warm again. ‘There wasn’t much of him left after the bloodthirsty denizens of the Tweed had done what they were supposed to do. But I had to be sure.’

I waited for the next questions: Did he deserve to die? Did I feel any guilt about what I’d done? Would I do it again if I had to? But Thane only nodded and lapsed into silence. I sneaked a glance at his face. He didn’t look judgmental; he didn’t look anything other than wet and cold.

Normal service hadn’t yet resumed at the market, and the stalls were still devoid of vendors and shoppers. Everyone was gathered in the centre while Quentin Hightower stood on a wooden crate and addressed the crowd. Huh.

‘I have faced death this day!’ he bellowed with all the verve of an evangelical preacher. ‘I faced death and,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘I kicked its arse!’

We stopped at the edge of the crowd. ‘He’s not lost for words now,’ I muttered to Thane.

His mouth flattened. ‘Apparently not.’

Hightower’s dark eyes roved the crowd as if searching for something – or someone. A vague itch was bothering the back of my mind; there was something odd about him that I couldn’t identify, a tension in his voice that didn’t appear related to his near-death experience.

‘Several of the river monsters came for me with their teeth gnashing and their fins flapping,’ the wet witch shouted. ‘They were hungry for my blood – they wanted to rip the flesh from my bones.’

His gaze landed on me but his expression didn’t alter a jot.

‘I was determined they wouldn’t touch me.

I fought them every inch of the way and I emerged victorious!

’ He pumped the air with his fist. ‘Nobody can match the strength and power of a Hightower witch! Not even a bottom-feeding monster with teeth the size of an ogre’s skull can defeat me! ’

Thane scratched his chin. ‘Interesting,’ he muttered. ‘He seems to be omitting the part where he had to be rescued by a middle-aged woman covered in cat hair.’

‘You took a dip in the River Tweed,’ I said. ‘And you were covered in cat hair, too.’

He smirked, then drew breath as if he were planning to publicly challenge Quentin Hightower’s version of events. ‘Don’t,’ I said in a low voice. ‘It’s easier for me if people don’t know what happened.’ I wanted to keep a low profile.

‘He’s lying, Kit.’

‘We know the truth.’ I gazed at Hightower. ‘And so does he, deep down.’

Thane’s expression darkened. My desire to stay under the radar of the folks in Danksville – and as a result allow Hightower to proclaim himself a conquering hero who could fight the depths of the River Tweed in ways that few other people could – clearly didn’t sit well with him.

‘It’s not a problem,’ I said firmly. ‘Come on. I need to go home and get out of these wet clothes.’

A voice floated towards my ear. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia long before you get to your street. So will the wolf.’

I turned to Trilby; they were holding out two steaming cups. Bless them. I didn’t ask what it was, I simply drained the contents of one of them in three gulps, revelling in the heat as it spread through my body. Thane took the other cup and did the same. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘This is delicious.’

Trilby smiled. ‘It’s my own personal recipe and it’s an excellent remedy for hypothermia.’ They held out two blankets that were draped over their arm. ‘You’ll need these, too.’

‘You’re amazing,’ I said gratefully.

‘You’ve known that for a while, Kit,’ they said.

True. I handed them the cup. ‘It’s worth saying aloud.’

Trilby’s smile widened. ‘Always.’

Quentin Hightower had clambered down from his makeshift pulpit and was making his way through the crowd.

People were slapping him on the back and calling out congratulations; it was rare for someone to fall into the Tweed and recover, so they wanted some of his good luck to rub onto them.

Either that or they wanted to bask in the glorious gaze of such a heroic and noble figure.

Given my past exploits, I was hardly in a position to judge him or them.

As I turned away, I caught sight of four bobbing red hats moving through the stalls. I shivered – and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. ‘Somebody called the Redcaps?’ I asked.

They were marching towards us with their familiar body-collection wagon between them.

They were dressed in uniform: black double-breasted suits and black shirts.

Their shiny buttons were black and the long canes they were carrying were black.

The only splash of colour on Coldstream’s collectors of the dead were their blood-red caps.

For some reason, I always found those hats particularly gruesome .

The Redcaps performed a vital service. They removed dead bodies deftly, were professional in their approach and compassionate with shocked family members, but they unnerved me in ways I couldn’t explain.

Maybe it was because they were the ones who’d cleared up the messes I’d made in my previous line of work. Their job felt too close to mine.

‘They were called in before Hightower’s death was confirmed?’ I asked Trilby.

‘Ah.’ They took off their hat and bowed their head to acknowledge the undertakers’ approach. ‘I don’t know who called them, but they won’t be here for Mr Hightower. They must be here for the other body.’

Thane and I stared at them. ‘What other body?’

‘Quentin Hightower didn’t die in the Tweed today,’ Trilby said quietly. ‘But unfortunately somebody else did.’

Thane appeared to have had enough of brushes with death for one day. He left of his own accord, squelching his way out of the market with his wet clothes moulded to his body and an unappealing tangle of gloopy river weeds trailing behind his left shoe.

I should have done the same; I knew that the sensible thing to do was to go straight home, change my clothes and head for a clinic to get my ankle wound seen to properly.

Curiosity got the better of me, however, and instead I limped to the river’s edge to watch the Redcaps in action.

It felt horribly unfair that Hightower had survived his encounter with the Tweed while another nameless victim had not.

There was no crowd this time, and no concerned onlookers: the victim was already dead and there was no exciting rescue operation to watch. A few morbidly curious people hung around but their interest was detached and without the energy I’d witnessed after Quentin Hightower had fallen in.

The white sheet covering the corpse made identification impossible but I suspected that the victim possessed neither wealth, power nor the minor celebrity of a Hightower witch.

Whoever the poor bastard was they were not considered important, but I knew from my own experience that somebody would care about what had happened to them.

Somebody would be missing a friend, a family member or a loved one.

Under other circumstances I might have minded my own business but the effort I’d put into rescuing Quentin Hightower while not realising that somebody else was also in the river made me feel that I was already involved. I wasn’t ready to plod home and forget about what had happened.

Asking for permission to examine the corpse was asking to be denied, so I straightened my spine, pretended I wasn’t wearing river-sodden clothes and an old blanket, and marched towards it.

I bent down and pulled back the white sheet, ignoring the astonished stares from the four Redcaps who were preparing the wagon a few metres away.

‘Oi!’ one of them barked. ‘What are you doing?’

I ignored the shout and gazed at the slack face in front of me.

It was a man, probably in his late twenties.

His wet hair was a dirty-blond colour, although I suspected it would be lighter when it was dry.

His dark-brown eyes were open and already had the fixed glaze of death.

A thin red line across his chin indicated an old scar.

I didn’t recognise him; despite my good memory for faces, I couldn’t recall ever seeing this slack face at the market.

I peered more closely at the bite marks on the right-hand side of his cheek and the ravaged flesh around his neck.

His body was surprisingly intact, suggesting that he’d fallen in not long before Quentin Hightower and had received the same magical protection from the river beasties’ sharp teeth.

The Redcap who’d shouted at me stomped forward. ‘Who are you?’

I straightened up and gave a professional smile. ‘Kit McCafferty.’ I extended a hand, only belatedly realising that there was a streak of dark sticky mud that stretched from my ring finger to my elbow. The Redcap declined to shake it.

I dropped my arm. ‘Who are you ?’ I asked with a false air of authority to stave off any further questions and encourage him to believe that I was supposed to be here.

‘Fitz,’ he said. ‘Fitz Williams.’

‘And you’re transporting the body to the Resthaven Mortuary?’

He shook his head. ‘Mathers Street.’

That gave me pause. The Mathers Street establishment was some distance away and Resthaven was far closer. ‘The victim is from that area?’ I asked.

‘We don’t know where he’s from. That’s where we’ve been ordered to take him.’ Williams’ eyes narrowed suspiciously and he folded his arms. ‘Are you with the Coldstream Courier ?’

‘No. I’m not a journalist,’ I said pleasantly.

My answer didn’t put him at ease. ‘Do you know who he is?’ He nodded at the body.

I jerked my head in what could have been construed as a nod but Williams wasn’t fooled. ‘You need to step aside.’ He sniffed. ‘We’ve got a job to do and we don’t need you getting in our way.’

I stayed where I was. ‘Do you know who he is?’ I countered.

Williams had had enough. His eyes narrowed and he raised a small silver cone that was dangling around his neck to his nose to inhale its contents.

It was a nosegay, probably a useful tool of the trade when you were dealing with the dead.

I wouldn’t know; I’d never stuck around my own crime scenes long enough to worry about malodorous corpses.

‘Step aside.’ He yanked the white sheet across the poor man’s face, then he and his companions lifted the body onto the wagon with practised ease. They turned it in the opposite direction and trundled off.

As I watched them go, I wondered if I should have played it differently and acted less like a professional.

Although the Redcaps weren’t pushovers, they were experienced at dealing with distraught family members and I might have learned more if I’d put on a display of grief.

I wasn’t a particularly skilled liar, though, and pretending to be a grieving relative wasn’t exactly respectful.

I glanced at the few remaining onlookers. A few looked slightly nauseous but none of them were overly upset. ‘Do you know who that was?’ I called. They all shook their heads.

‘Never seen him before in my life,’ a tall druid answered.

‘Was he with Quentin Hightower?’

There were a few uncertain shrugs. Hmmm. I pulled Trilby’s blanket tighter. If the victim had any identification in one of his pockets, somebody from the Magical Enforcement Team, the MET, would inform his family. Probably.

My shoulders sagged. The poor man was already dead. There was nothing I could to do save him. Not now.