Page 9 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
Avery took in the sights as best she could from the darkened window, gazing through curtains of rain.
She could see strange panels on the roofs that briefly glowed a soft blue wherever droplets of rain hit.
She spotted occasional windmills, and even waterwheels on some of the buildings they passed, and, despite herself, she smiled curiously.
Were the humans using the elements to provide energy to their homes?
The Dutch, of course, had been famous for their use of wind—and perhaps lesser known to the English at the time, Persia had incorporated wind pumps for food production since the eleventh century, if not prior.
It was resourceful for a community, though not terribly profitable for any kind of capital gain.
It was a pleasant surprise to see how they’d grown.
Something she could not have truly imagined for the London she’d left behind.
It was infinitely cleaner—greener with all of the extra gardens that filled in every little space and stretched up some of the taller buildings.
How it all came to be was a marvel she made a note to inquire about.
She became aware of the hard stare Gideon had set on her.
An inquiry, of course, for some other time. For some other person. Perhaps her new neighbor, should she prove trustworthy with anything beyond a cup of tea.
“You wanted to see the body.”
Avery’s attention shifted fully to him.
“It is contained within a secure room so that you may examine it in peace. It would have caused too much attention and too many questions with the humans if we’d moved it to one of our personal facilities.
Still, we will have one of our own guarding the door to prevent interruptions and prying eyes. ”
Avery just stared at him.
“Detective Inspector Lahiri is well respected within Scotland Yard, so it should not raise any eyebrows. He’ll be assisting you with any hiccups you encounter with human law enforcement, but as a denizen of our world, you needn’t worry about speaking out of turn with him.
He smiles too much, but you may find him amusing.
A talented jinn who has abstained from using nearly any magic for the past twenty years.
” Gideon let another beat of silence fall between them.
When Avery again gave no input, he asked, “Is this acceptable to you?”
Avery turned back to the window, giving a wordless thumbs-up with a cock of her head and pursed lips as if she was making a far less amiable gesture.
“No adorable comment to any of that?”
Avery gaped at him in mock surprise. “Oh, am I allowed to speak?”
Gideon grimaced, and despite both of them knowing the following question was leading the Archfey into a trap, he posed it regardless. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“It would seem to me you are a little confused as to what you expect of me. You ask me to stop talking, and now it is absurd that I am silent.” Avery’s tone was petulant, bitterness bubbling beneath every word.
Gideon had a way of making her feel like a child, and she did very little to fight the impulses that often came with it.
“Fates alive, when did you start actually listening to me?”
“When I knew it would annoy you,” Avery muttered. She turned once more to the comfort of the passing scenery—the world both familiar and concurrently strange.
A minute passed before Gideon broke the silence once more. For a man who had claimed he wanted her to stop talking, he was doing an awful lot of it. “Did you sleep?”
Avery rocked her hand back and forth in a lackadaisical fashion. It had been her first sleep without the curse, but it had not been restful or without nightmares.
“Strong curses, even when broken properly, can have lingering effects. Should it begin to affect your work, you are to alert the council so some remedies can be made.”
“Should it affect my work,” she repeated snidely.
“Don’t make this an argument.”
“No, Gideon, stop trying to turn a hostage situation into small talk.”
“Very well, perhaps it would be better if I said nothing,” Gideon suggested, and the air around the back seat chilled to winter.
This, in turn, lit a fire in Avery. “That would be one of your stronger assets, would it not?” She did not wait for a retort. “They condemned me to five hundred years of mental and emotional torture, a fate far crueler than death, and you said nothing.”
“You committed treason.”
“I did what needed to be done,” Avery spat. “What your precious council was too terrified to do, what you were too much of a coward to attempt!”
The accusation hung in the air like the sword of Damocles, but disaster never struck.
“I know,” the Archfey admitted in a low tone.
It was the agreement that gave Avery pause.
In the centuries they had been forced to interact, never once could she remember a time when Gideon had ever agreed with her, let alone to something that could be even remotely incriminating.
To her distaste, it also didn’t give her the swell of pride she was expecting.
Instead, the fire died in her, and she felt akin to a deflated balloon.
“But blood cannot go unanswered.”
“It was answered,” Avery said quietly. “I answered it.”
“The council did not agree.”
“Clearly.”
“Nor was I in a position to persuade them at the time.”
At the time?
Avery shifted, suddenly unable to find a comfortable position in her seat.
Her focus on the passing buildings softened as his phrasing set a flock of theories racing out in all directions of her mind.
At the time implied that times had changed.
At the time implied the actions that had been were not the actions now.
She took a slow controlling breath and pursed her lips.
The inquiry rattled around within her, shouting, nagging.
“Gideon,” she began cautiously. “Did you persuade the council to release me early?”
“Your incomparable skill as an investigator, knowledge of criminal psychology, and ability to move between the human world and ours is why the council released you early,” came the stiff reply.
It was the closest statement to an admission of advocacy she knew she might ever get.
This did not comfort her. The council changing their minds was an enigma, but Gideon being the one to propose it likely meant he had a larger plan in mind.
While not the mad king their father was, Gideon Blackthorn did not do things out of the goodness of his heart.
This was leverage; this was a favor to be cashed in at a later date; this was a greater debt owed than first depicted, and it set her rightly on edge.
In for a penny, in for a pound… “On the note of ability to move between… I hope the council realizes I will need some kind of compensation. I am afraid I had to pay for my breakfast on credit.”
“We have agreed upon a stipend pending each solved case.”
“Pending each solved case? Starvation is a rather medieval motivation, wouldn’t you say?”
“Your meals at Hudson’s are taken care of, as is your lodging, through the council’s generosity.”
There it was: another link on her leash.
Avery ran her tongue over the fanged points of her right canine and bicuspid in annoyance. “And if I require something that exists outside of Hudson’s inventory?”
“I would suggest you solve this problem with great haste.” Gideon gestured with his long pale fingers and the car door opened. “Inspector Lahiri should be waiting for you inside.”
Avery glowered and exited through the curtain of rain once more.
The Westminster Public Mortuary was not “new” by mortal standards, but the brick was far too vibrant to be considered anything but to Avery.
Still, since the time it had been built, an extension had been deemed necessary, and the more recent arch-shaped construction of gray stone and glass stood awkwardly out of place next to its ruddy counterpart.
But where the stone on the exterior had nodded to London’s old-world roots, the interior was cold, modern, and sterile. While unable to place the exact scent, Avery knew the telltale odor of recently employed detergents.
At her entrance, both the receptionist and a gentleman reading a newspaper looked up.
The man was tall and lean—but even through his simple gray suit and tan overcoat, she could tell that leanness came from muscle, not atrophy.
He had a strong jaw, accented by his extremely well-kept beard, and a head of thick but well-coiffed short black hair.
His eyes were jovial but keen, and as she was evaluating him, he was doing the same of her.
“Inspector Lahiri, I presume?”
The Bengali man grinned and stood, tucking the newspaper under an arm so he could flash his warrant card to her.
It appeared this form of identification for officers had changed very little in two hundred years.
“Detective Inspector Reza Lahiri, Charing Cross.” He spoke with the faintest of accents, the low timbre of his inflection gently rolling his r’s.
He extended his hand, and the two shook firmly.
“Hemlock,” she introduced, pointedly avoiding any further familiarity than necessary, mentally cataloging what she gathered about him like evidence.
Lahiri’s grin faltered. “You wish me to call you…” He hesitated, uncomfortable with repeating the word.
“I am well aware of the epithet’s intent, but I took a shine to it,” Avery dismissed. “They think I’m poison? Excellent. They’ll think twice before getting in my way.”
“That, I can appreciate,” Inspector Lahiri said warmly. Standing in his presence was almost like basking near a fire. “Follow me.” He turned, set the newspaper on the receptionist’s desk with care, and said, “Thank you again, dear lady, for the reading material.”
As the two ventured through the door toward the actual offices and examination rooms, Avery couldn’t help taking in everything as they passed. The extremely glossy flooring was particularly new and strange—it felt as if the soles of her shoes stuck to it.