Lena Padulski’s prized possession, the last thing of any value that she hadn’t sold, was a velvet painting of Travian hanging on the wall above the busted couch, hair long and wearing a beatific expression.
The main room—half kitchen, half tiny living area—was crowded with neighbors. They eyed Kal with a mix of pity and curiosity as she slunk through the back door. The dining table had been draped with a white cloth. As the crowd parted and Kal saw what lay upon it, she knew Bastian was right. She shouldn’t have come.
The body bore little resemblance to her friend. Its face was bloated and waxy, sandy hair combed straight back to expose the birthmark he’d grown it long to hide. He wore a too-tight brown suit she’d never seen before.
Durian would be so pissed if he knew what they’d done to him. Kal’s jaw tightened as she reached down and adjusted the hair to be more the way he liked it.
He looked smaller. The spark of ley in him was gone, sunk down into the earth to join the source. She could almost hear him laughing. Don’t worry, bitch, someday I’ll be reborn inside a fat diamond. Wouldn’t that be cool?
The clay disk of his mining license rested on the edge of the table. Kal had an urge to claim something of Durian’s. A keepsake. Not to remember him by—there was no chance she would forget, not if she lived to a hundred—but just to hold in her hand. She glanced around, then slipped it into the pocket of her coat.
A sharp intake of breath made Kal turn. Durian’s mother stood behind her, stinking of spirits, her eyes red-rimmed and furious.
“You!” she hissed. “What happened to my boy? He followed you to Kota Gelangi and you got him killed! What did you do?”
“I—” Kal began, throat dry. “I’m so sorry, Miz Padulski. I?—”
Through the window above the kitchen sink, she saw the well-dressed man and the cypher from the riverboat coming up the walk. They’d found her.
Kal retreated toward the back door. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled to Durian’s mother. “I’m so sorry. But I have to go!”
Chapter 12
Cathrynne
She felt a jolt of recognition the moment she entered the Padulski house. It was the young woman from the riverboat who’d sent them on a wild goose chase. The girl rabbited out the back door, but not before throwing Cathrynne a glare that could have chipped stone.
A dozen mourners packed into the small room turned to assess the two strangers who had just walked in. Their faces hardened when they caught Cathrynne’s silver eyes. The long trek across town had taught her that witches weren’t popular in Pota Pras.
Cathrynne started pushing through the crowd to catch the girl in the peacoat when a group of men blocked the way. All were big and wide with hands like shovels.
“Murderer,” one growled. “Your kind isn’t welcome here. Take your gentleman friend and get out, or his face won’t be so pretty when we’re done.”
Cathrynne stared into blue eyes, glittery with drink. “Lay a finger on him,” she said, “and I’ll break your knees.”
The man’s lip curled. “There’s six of us and one of you.”
“Do you really want to do this at a wake?” she asked, easing her cudgel free. “Because I have no problem with those odds.”
Before anyone could make a move, the room fell silent. The men stared past her shoulder, mouths slightly agape. She guessed what had happened before turning around; Morningstar had dropped his glamour. They shuffled back to give the midnight sweep of his wings a wide berth as he approached a thin woman in a blue dress. She had the same sandy hair as the boy on the table, and though her skin was gray and puffy, Cathrynne guessed she’d once been beautiful.
“Who are you?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
“My name is Gavriel Morningstar,” he said gently. “I grieve for your loss and vow to do whatever I can to bring your son’s killer to justice.”
Gone was the cold, haughty creature Cathrynne had first met. His face was solemn as he sank to one knee and took her hand. A sense of peace, of reverence, spread outward like ripples across water. Cathrynne returned the cudgel to her belt, a bit awed. Clearly, he had powers she knew nothing about.
The woman clasped his fingers, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “An archangel,” she choked, “in my own house.”
Morningstar turned to the gathered mourners. “Would you grant us privacy?”
The men who had been ready to do battle moments before now looked shame-faced. They nodded and filed into the backyard, where people were cooking food on a brazier. Someone passed around a bottle, and they stood in a knot, stealing glances back at the house.
“Tell me about your son,” Morningstar said.
Her eyes clouded. “I wasn’t a good mother,” she confessed, the words coming in a rush. “I left him alone. We fought all the time. But only because he was so clever. I just wanted the best for him. I told Durian he had to get high marks so he could go to college, but he was a dreamer. Had his own ideas.”
Morningstar nodded encouragingly. “Children often do.”
