Page 11 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)

Avery shot him a somewhat irritated glance before looking back at the report. She took a slow breath and remembered the patience he’d shown her. “Olive oil, water, wild sage, turmeric, lemon balm, thyme, and…wheat?”

“So someone made some spicy porridge and shoved it in our victim’s brain. Why?”

Avery had her theories, but none worth speaking aloud. Instead, she made a query of her own. “What do you know about the black market for organs, Inspector?”

“Human or fey?”

“Either, I suppose.”

The inspector shrugged a little. “Not much offhand, but I could dig something up for you.”

Avery shook her head. “No, that would draw attention. I have quieter means I can employ, provided they’re still around.”

“You think someone’s selling organs?”

“I know we are missing a brain, and I’m not precisely sure when or how it went missing. I also know a human brain would be a rare commodity in such a market, and depending on the state of it, it could fetch a rather high price, wouldn’t you say?”

Inspector Lahiri could not argue with this point.

“Gid—Lord Blackthorn mentioned there had been no incisions prior to the intern’s autopsy; did we have anyone check for glamours?”

“We weren’t able to see the body until well after any would have dissipated.

Besides, most glamours can’t survive even a surface-level injury to the subject—they opened her head up.

Student testimony claims no signs of previous incisions, but they’d really have no way of knowing once the saw started. ”

Avery flinched. The mere thought of saw on bone made her teeth hurt, and so she pulled her lips inward to lightly bite on them in an odd self-soothing fidget. “Turn around, Inspector, I’d like to give her as much dignity as possible—even in death.”

“I can wait outside,” Lahiri offered, taking a fluid step past the threshold and allowing the door to close behind him.

Satisfied, Avery pulled back the sheet covering the rest of the body.

She studied both the victim and the report in her hand.

According to the coroner, her bruising was consistent with a low-impact car crash, though he noted she had not been wearing her safety belt, hence the lack of the telltale crossbody bruise.

Avery understood she was still new to these more modern technologies, but a healthcare professional blatantly ignoring a safety measure did strike her as odd.

Unless, of course, she hadn’t been the one driving.

If her death had not in fact been an accident, as was likely given her missing cerebrum, then it was possible her accident could have been staged to prevent suspicion.

The killer, in that case, might not have known she’d made plans to donate her body in a manner that would expose them.

And if this theory did hold any water, then it was possible this was not their first organ harvest—just the first to be noticed.

Avery paused, taking note of what she’d first dismissed as a bruise across the woman’s left breast, just above the heart.

There were letters—words, a tattoo: Rache ist sü?.

A cold chill ran through her veins. Avery leaned back, rubbed her face with her free hand, and flipped through the folder.

There was mention of a tattoo in the file, but no photos.

“Deisdamnatus,”14 she rasped, closing the folder and pacing back and forth.

She felt like a trapped animal. This was not good.

This was very not good. She slammed her palm against the stainless steel wall, again and again, until it dented.

“Damnate! Fortuna pereat! Non illam. Aliquis illa potius est. Perfide!”15

Inspector Lahiri tentatively cracked the door open. “Are you all right?”

“Rache ist sü?,” Avery growled.

“Ra-kha es soos—what?”

“It’s German.” Avery turned and replaced the sheet over the body neatly. “I’m going to need photographs of the bruising, the mixture, and the tattoo above her left breast. I will need a detailed photograph of that. The bruising may obscure the words, so they will need to take special care.”

The inspector’s brow furrowed, not seeing how this was any call for an outburst. “Absolutely… I can bring them by the café tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“The coroner noted a lack of a particular kind of bruising. I’m less familiar with safety belts, as you might imagine—the ones in the council town car went across the lap—it said the victim wasn’t wearing hers?”

“For drivers they tend to go across the whole body.” Lahiri gestured across his chest to mimic the front seat belt. “Like a forty-five-degree angle.”

Avery nodded awkwardly. “Thank you, Inspector Lahiri, it’s been a pleasure, and I look forward to our future collaboration.” She briefly held up the coroner’s report. “May I also receive a copy of this?”

Lahiri nodded slowly, making room in the doorway for her to exit. “If I might ask… What was all that shouting?”

Avery adjusted her cuffs, then tugged gently on her vest, smoothing it down.

“Displeasure.” She cleared her throat, satisfied that any disheveling that might have occurred was now coiffed once more.

“In a centuries-dead language.” She handed him the file and departed.

She was swift and soundless, walking through the hallway, traveling down the stairs, and stepping into the still-awaiting town car.

Gideon arched a dark eyebrow. “Did you find anything useful?”

Avery slammed the door behind her, angry.

He sighed. “Is that particularly productive?”

“The victim has a tattoo—a recently acquired tattoo. Hard to say how recent, but it hasn’t had time to fade. Rache ist sü?.”

“Revenge is sweet?” Gideon repeated. His brow smoothed in surprise. Avery didn’t care for the way he leaned forward or his conspiratorial tone. “Is this about Iona?”

Being on the council’s leash was one thing; being on Iona’s had been entirely another.

Her name was enough to flood Avery’s mind with the memory of a dizzying haze of despair and rage so overwhelming she could have drowned in it.

She shook herself. “No, not her. Unless there was a genocide you forgot to mention, there are plenty of iele in the world—not to mention a myriad of other types of fey who feed on revenge.” Avery refused to meet his gaze.

“You misunderstand my question. I was referring to your tantrum, not the murder.”

Avery shifted in her seat several times, unable to find a comfortable position. “I am not particularly thrilled with the prospect of making enemies with a revenge cult,” Avery answered. “Hypothetical or not.”

“That is a rather large assumption to make from one tattoo.”

It was. Avery knew it was. It was purely circumstantial at best. The more she tried to scrutinize and question the suspicion, the less logic it upheld. The only force even suggesting that any of this might have been related to the iele of Avery’s past was her own fear.

Avery petulantly shoved her hands in her pockets, one hand hitting something unexpected—something she’d forgotten. She curiously pulled out the napkin-wrapped donut.

“It would not be untoward to ask Iona to come in and consult on the matter. The council could easily make the request.”

Avery heard him but chose not to acknowledge him. It would spoil this moment of rediscovering the confection. She smiled, pulling back the napkin to take in the scent.

Sugar. Fruit. Vanilla…

“What is that?”

His distaste was audible, and it only encouraged her to take a large bite.

The flavor was unexpected. Sweet had been the word Saga had used, but it far exceeded that definition as Avery knew it.

The pastry was fluffy, the frosting was buttery in texture, intermixed with raspberries and the occasional crunch of the sprinkles.

She sighed, content, and leaned back in her seat. “Joy, Gideon. It’s joy.”

10 Behold, the inevitable misunderstanding.

11 Yes, that Snow Queen.

She lives on the other side of the veil in Faerie and rules the Winter Court on her own now. Were one to inquire of Gideon about his mother, and were they successful in receiving a sincere answer, he might admit that a supernatural barrier between realms was still not enough parting them.

The author does not recommend asking Gideon Blackthorn about his mother.

12 Bengali slang for something wrong or fishy.

Fishy of course being suspicious—if your seafood soup can be described as gondogol, do not consume it.

13 Edmund Burke is often cited as saying this, but there is no evidence in accounts about him, and this phrase does not appear in his writing.

Mark Twain also did not write this, despite the common tendency to attribute anything profound or witty to his pen.

Somewhere, in some realm, an anonymous writer is quite put out.

14 Deisdamnatus (Latin): Literally, damned by the gods, or simply, “Damn it.”

15 A rather nuanced string of curses and expletives in Latin one might make to an ex-lover. Roughly translated: Damn! Let fate itself perish. Not that damn woman. Anyone else is more preferable than her. Deceitful!

It is not the first time such an exclamation had been uttered in Latin, and judging by various questionable decisions made by various religious organizations, it would not be the last.