The female stared at what he held out to her. “It’s not your family.”

“She became my family the moment I took this case on.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“A hundred times.”

After a moment, she nodded. And then she put her palm against his own, her cold, clammy skin making him incalculably sad.

“What’s that smell?” she said before she stepped through the jambs.

“It’s the disinfectant they use to clean the rooms.”

“Okay.”

As Butch drew her inside, her eyes flashed to the body that was lying face-up on the gurney. A white sheet covered the remains from head to toe, the ends hanging freely on all four sides.

The female blanched and weaved on her feet. When Butch caught her, Havers seemed to recognize that his presence was extraneous and the healer had the good sense to step all the way back against the wall.

“Help me over there,” the female said softly. “I can’t seem to walk.”

“Lean on me.” Butch tightened his hold on her waist. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Thank you.”

Escorting her over to the head, he could feel the pressure on his arm where she was relying on him, and he pictured his Marissa in her place, standing over a slab, on the verge of seeing if their dead daughter was in front of them.

“Take your time,” he choked out as they stopped together.

The female took a deep breath, but then grimaced and rubbed her nose as if she didn’t like the astringent smell in the room.

He’d been mostly truthful about the disinfectant. It was used to clean, yes. But also, no one wanted the family to smell any blood or any decomposition, and in the case of these particular remains, though they had been kept in cold storage for the majority of the time, there had been stretches when they had not been exposed to the required temperature.

“Okay,” she said roughly. “Let me see.”

Butch reached out with his free hand and drew the sheet back from the face, folding it down high on the neck so that none of the wounds showed.

The female clamped a hand on her mouth as all the color drained out of her face.

Butch closed his eyes briefly and cursed. “I’m so sorry. But I have to ask you. Is this your—”

“Yes, this is my daughter,” the female said hoarsely. “She is . . . ours.”

When Butch went to re-cover the face, the female shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

She leaned down, and as her hair swung free, she had to tuck the loose part behind her ear. With a shaking hand, she reached out and touched the short, dyed black hair at the temple. Then she stroked the cold, gray cheek.

Tears fell from her eyes, landing on the sheet at the arm. The first two slid off the dry cotton. The others that followed were absorbed.

“What happened to her?” The female looked up in desperation. “Who did this to my Mai?”

* * *

On the other side of the Hudson River, deep in the field of conflict in downtown, Syn stalked through an alley in search of the enemy, his instincts way out in front of him, then to the side, now to the back . . . and again trained on what was before him. It was another cold, clear night, no wind to ruffle the loose flakes of snow that had fallen during the day, nothing to disturb the dense, dry, deep freeze that had stalled over Caldwell.

“—down at that club. Vishous got the body over to Havers’s and now they’re trying to figure out who she is and who killed—”

Ordinarily, Syn didn’t mind being paired with Balthazar. The Bastard was a vicious killer and rarely said much, two of the highest compliments Syn could pay any living thing.

Unfortunately, that blessed silent streak was being cut short tonight. Apparently, all it took to end Balthazar’s winning-personality batting average was a dead female down at that human club.

Although, to be fair, it wasn’t just the chatter that was doing Syn’s nut in.

Beneath his skin, his talhman was surging, prowling . . . triggered by the conversation about the female who had been found, strung up on the lower level of Pyre, naked.

Unbidden, one of his hands went to the steel daggers that were mounted, handles down, on his chest. Was it possible, he wondered, that those cuts to that female’s throat, the slices to her wrists, the other damage to her body . . . had been made by his knives? His hands? He had a distinct memory of going down those damp, cold stairs with a female’s legs wrapped around his hips. And he could remember vividly the pair of them up against one of those doors down there, hasty, rough sex taking them into a storage area. Had he shut them in together after its lock had sprung open?

Had he done other things to her besides penetrate her core?

He couldn’t recall. And for the first time in a long time, warnings prickled up the back of his neck.

In fact, he could not remember when the sex had ended. He knew he hadn’t orgasmed, of course. And he was sure she had, a number of times. But other than that? The next thing he’d been aware of was departing the club. Alone.

Syn glanced down at his hands and tried to force his brain to recall if they’d had blood on them when he’d taken his leave of Pyre. The fact that he pulled yet another blank made him curse under his breath. Where had he been headed after he’d left? Home, he thought. To the Brotherhood mansion, where he and the Band of Bastards now lived—

No, that wasn’t right. Just as he’d been about to dematerialize, he’d scented a lesser. Following the sweet stench, he’d tracked his prey a couple of blocks away from the club.

So, yes, when he had finally gotten back to the Brotherhood mansion, he’d been covered with the black, oily mess that had flowed through that slayer’s veins: His hands and forearms. His clothes. His shitkickers. And he could remember checking in at the vestibule’s security camera, one of the doggen letting him in. He hadn’t paid much attention to which it had been. Had anyone else seen him come in?

Even with the stench of the enemy all over him, surely someone would have commented on the fact that he’d had a female’s blood on him, too. Right?

“—surprised you weren’t at the meeting.”

Syn glanced over. “What?”

“The meeting Wrath called tonight. About the dead female at that club.”

“I was busy.”

Balthazar stopped in the middle of the alley. “Doing what?”

Syn narrowed his eyes. “The same thing I do every night. Stare at my reflection and rue the day I was born.”

“Seriously.”

“Fine, let’s go with something cheerful. How about yoga. Pilates. No, wait, I was ordering shit I do not need off of Amazon—”

“What were you doing when you should have been at the meeting, Syn?”

The question was put out there calmly and evenly. Which was also characteristic of Balthazar. The guy was a straight shooter—and to be fair, he had reason to be suspicious. He knew about . . . things . . . that had happened back in the Old Country. Things that had involved females and blood and bodies being found.

“It wasn’t me,” Syn said dryly. “I didn’t kill whoever it was.”

The lie sounded convincing, at least to his own ears. Unfortunately, that was a table, party of one.

“Syn, I don’t judge you.” Balthazar shook his head. “You know I never have.”

“Oh, fuck this, I’m not wasting time—”

“I have always left you to your business. No questions asked. I know that things are . . . different . . . for you.” Balthazar shook his head again. “But let me be very clear. You cannot be doing that shit over here. We’re in the New World now. It’s going to get noticed, and then we’ve got problems because we’re not just on our own anymore. We’re aligned with the King, and Wrath is not going to stand for anybody in his household doing what you do. People miss their dead over here.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it under control.”

As Syn started walking again, Balthazar didn’t budge. “I don’t think you do.”

Syn stopped and refused to turn back around. Addressing the empty alley in front of him, he said, “In the Old World, I did what I did for a good goddamn purpose. I channeled it properly.”

“True enough, but there are rules on this side of the ocean.”

Staring straight ahead, Syn saw trash cans that were knocked over and a stray cat pawing through a torn-open Hefty bag. As he watched the animal search for dinner, he thought about the female from the other night. There had been no justification that he was aware of for him killing her. Even if she had been a criminal, a murderer, a thief—which were his targeted prey—he hadn’t known it when he’d taken her down into that lower level. Where she had been found not just dead, but defiled as well.

So maybe she was an innocent. And he had done a very, very bad thing.

He didn’t want to hear what Balthazar was saying.

He didn’t want the holes in his memory.

He didn’t want . . . to be dealing with this bullshit any longer.

“Do me a favor,” he said softly.

“No,” Balthazar shot back. “I’m not going there. Don’t you fucking ask me to.”

Syn twisted around. As his eyes changed color, the alley was flooded with a red glow, his cousin spotlit by the color of blood. Behind him, the cat screeched and tore off, sending a glass bottle rolling.

His voice was warped as he spoke. “Then you need to stop talking to me about dead females.”

Balthazar cursed under his breath. “There has to be another way.”

“I told you a century ago. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to put a bullet through my head. Or find someone who will.”

It would be a public service, at this point. And a relief to him.

God knew he would have done it himself years ago, if suicide didn’t mean you were locked out of the Fade. Although given what he had gotten up to over the years?

He was going to end up in Dhunhd anyway.