“Callie, how are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“No headaches?”
“None.”
“Good.” The gray eyes shifted toward Duncan. “I heard that you had a telephone call from your chief?”
Refusing to answer wasn’t an option. Not beneath that unnerving gaze.
“Leah’s body is missing.”
Something darkened the gray eyes. Not the shock he’d been expecting, but ... unease?
“Missing?”
“Yes.”
“Negligence or theft?”
He shrugged, wise enough not to take offense at the blunt question. “No one knows for sure.”
“But your chief suspects that a high-blood was involved?”
He swallowed a groan. Why had he insisted on traveling to Valhalla? It should be Molinari sitting in this chair being grilled by the Mave.
Talk about a clash of the Titans.
Now he was forced to choose his words with care. “She’s just covering all the bases.”
A wry smile twisted her lips. “Very diplomatic, Sergeant.”
“I’m not often accused of diplomacy.”
“No kidding,” Callie muttered beside him.
He flashed her an unrepentant grin before returning his attention to the powerful woman behind the desk.
“The chief has another officer checking out the usual suspects.”
“But?” she prompted.
“There was nothing on the cameras and no eye witnesses,” Duncan confessed. “So either it was an inside job or magic.”
The Mave leaned back in her seat, her expression troubled. “A pity.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was hoping it was a common body snatching.”
A ball of dread settled in the pit of his stomach.
If this woman was bothered by something then it had to be bad.
Bad on an epic scale.
“You know something,” he breathed.
Taking a file from the top drawer, she handed it across the desk. “Here.”
His dread deepened as he opened the file to discover newspaper clippings, police reports, and faded photos.
“Paris. Vienna. Johannesburg.” He glanced up in surprise. “How did you get these?”
“I called in a few favors after I spoke with Callie. I thought it important to know if the strange death of Leah was an isolated incident or something”—she considered a beat—“larger.”
Duncan read through the police reports, some that dated back fifty years, before moving to the newspaper clippings that were even older.
He suddenly understood the Mave’s concern.
“Shit.”
Callie reached to lightly touch his arm. “What is it?”
“Leah wasn’t the first murder victim to be missing their heart,” he rasped.
The young diviner frowned, glancing at the file in his hands. “How could you not hear of them? I thought police shared that sort of information?”
“They’ve all happened several years apart and on different continents. The first was nearly a hundred years ago.” He returned his attention to the grainy photos. There was nothing to connect the victims. An aging priest. A rugged explorer. An artist. “Can I share these with the chief?”
“Of course,” the Mave readily agreed.
He lifted his head to meet her steady gaze. “Do these murders have any meaning?”
“Not to me.”
His cop’s instincts picked up on what she wasn’t saying. “But it might to someone else?”
“Most old tales have some kernel of truth at the heart of them,” she murmured.
“Are you speaking of a specific old tale?”
“The ones that claim a necromancer can truly control the dead.”
He shot a startled glance toward Callie, who held up her hands in denial.
“Don’t look at me.”
He turned back to the Mave. “Is it possible?”
“Yesterday I would have said no. Today...” She shrugged.
Great. Just f**king fantastic.
He could already feel the panic that would spread through the human population if word got out there was a necromancer out there killing young females and stealing their bodies. They would load their guns, ready to shoot every freak they could find, regardless of their innocence.
“Tell me more about what these necromancers could do,” he abruptly demanded. He needed a way to halt the killer.
Fast.
“My knowledge is no more than bedside stories.” The gray eyes held a grim understanding of the looming tragedy. “The same ones I’m sure you’ve heard.”
He hissed in frustration. “So I’m looking for a creature from a fairy tale?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Do you have any suggestions where I might start?”
She lifted a dark brow, regarding him as if he were disappointingly dense. “Where else would you start but the Keeper of Tales?”
There was a choked sound before Callie was surging to her feet. “You can’t be serious.”
Duncan slowly rose, astonished by Callie’s fierce reaction. “Who is the Keeper of Tales?” he demanded, almost afraid to ask.
“Boggs. He’s—” The Mave struggled for the right word.
Callie had it. “Crazy,” she said. “Stark raving mad.”
“Eccentric, as are many scholars,” the older woman smoothly corrected. “But he’s managed to collect and preserve our folk tales.”
Duncan frowned. “So he’s a ... librarian?”
“Of sorts,” the Mave hedged.
“Fine, I’ll talk to him.” Duncan shrugged. At this point he’d make a lunch date with Beelzebub if necessary. “If he has information I don’t care if he’s crazy or not.”
The two women exchanged a look that spoke of secrets.
“He isn’t here,” the Mave at last admitted.
“How long will he be gone?”
“Actually, you’ll have to go to him,” the witch informed him.
“If he’ll let you,” Callie added in disgusted tones.
Okay. There were enough undercurrents in the room to drown an elephant. Or a very suspicious cop.
“What am I missing?”
The Mave rose to cross toward the window, moving with a regal grace. “Boggs is unusual even among high-bloods.”
A freakish freak?
Not comforting.
“How unusual?”
“He was born blind, but he insists that people and even objects whisper to him.” Sympathy softened her grim expression. “That’s why he lives in absolute isolation.”