He was alive two days ago.
"For this level of decomp, it should smell worse," Andrew says, still fixated on the scent.
"He was way too alive two days ago to be this far along," I point out.
Lyre doesn't look up from her examination, unimpressed by my observation. "The smell will come back. It's only clean because of the sanitization."
"What sanitization?"
Her fingers hover over Marsh's chest, not quite touching. I wonder if she's doing something magic.
"The Reapers have already been here," she explains absently, pulling her fingers away. There's some hair on his chest. Short, gray hair. Maybe fur.
But my brain's far more concerned about her little verbal bomb. "Reapers? What reapers?"
Then, after I think it over for another millisecond, "You don't mean… Grim Reapers?"
She turns her head slowly, giving me a blank, withering look, like I'm the biggest idiot in the room. "What other kind would make sense here?"
"Right." Clearly there's more to this supernatural shit than we learn in our packs, and I'm not a fan of feeling outclassed. I'll have to talk to Caine about upgrading our education.
Lyre remains crouched by Marsh, silent and brooding. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Owen returns to stand by her, and the mere ten inches between them has me rattled with a strange level of possessive irritation.
I've never felt possessive over a woman in my life.
"What now?" I grunt. "You brooding your way to an answer?"
She doesn't look at me, her eyes fixed on the body. I can't see from here, but I bet they're cat slits again. They always seem to do it when she's thinking hard, or doing something magical. "They sacrificed a viable young wolf. Not one of the breeding stock. That means they're close. Real close."
"Then can't you track 'em from here?"
"Not close in distance, fool." She leans back on her heels, no longer hunched forward in observation. Something flickers across her face—an idea forming, probably. Her scent's a little sharper with purpose.
"Hey. Wizard," she calls out.
Thom reappears in the doorway, reluctantly edging inside. He sidesteps awkwardly, as if determined not to look at the corpse.
"Get in here," Lyre commands.
"I can't look at it—" he starts, his face still ashen.
"You don't need to. You can track, right?"
He shifts his weight nervously, glancing at me as he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He does it every few minutes, but even more when he's nervous. Which is almost always. "It's the only thing I'm good at."
"That's not true," Lyre says mildly. "But we'll worry about that later."
She steps closer to him, and I find myself tensing, watching her every move. She drops her voice, but my hearing catches it clearly.
"If it's you, it shouldn't trip Plausibility."
Thom's eyes widen. "Wait—what does that mean?"
Owen steps forward, his face tight. He's looking straight at her, for once. "Are you sure about this?"
He sounds calm, but his fists are tight at his side, and his entire body's tense.
"Shut up," she says, not even bothering to look at him.
