The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (53 page)

I M SO SORRY

Her fingertips came away sticky and scarlet. “So, there’s that,” she shrugged. “In addition, he’s either left in a hurry, or intends to come back. These paintings obviously mean a lot to him, as they jolly well should. They’re damn good. But he’s left them all, every one.”

“Then if he
has
run, he’s still in Darrington,” Officer Dawson murmured.

“But if he hasn’t,” Olivia said, wiping her crimson fingers off on her ruined dress, “you’re going to spook him if you turn loose the hounds. He hasn’t gotten by with falsified categorization for years without having a good ear to the ground for trouble.”

Officer Dawson growled.

Chris’s eyes were drawn once again to the painting of Ana. The words painted across the top. The tail of the “y” trailed all the way down the painting until it reached Ana’s shoulder. That ghost of a smile crossed her lips once again as Chris met her eyes, and then faded back into the ethereal, strange sadness she’d always worn.

“Why Ana?” he heard himself murmuring. “She thought it was the Duchess. Why kill her?”

Both women turned to look at him. Olivia’s face fell into thought and she leaned her weight on one of her crutches as she considered. “You know,” she said, “that is a very good question. Ever since I saw her lying there, I’ve just had one of my feelings. That she was killed because she knew too much. But Christopher here says in their last conversation, all she talked about was how she suspected her mother and didn’t respect her word any longer.”

Suddenly, both women were looking at him. Chris blinked and then held up both hands. “I―don’t look at me!” he protested. There were two truthsniffers in this room, and they were eyeing him as if he was the one full of insight.

“‘I don’t understand,’” Olivia quoted, and the vision of Analaea covered in blood and cuts, screaming those very words, flashed before him. “She didn’t know why he was killing her. And in the end”―she indicated the painting―“he regretted it. You were the last one who talked to her, Christopher. Other than, presumably, him.”

Ana
had
talked about Grey during that conversation, hadn’t she? Chris struggled to remember what it was he’d heard her say. Grey had been in a mood. He’d barely spoken to Ana and then had stormed away to pull down his paintings. The night the two of them had fought, it had been about her mother’s insistence that he was…

Chris gasped.

“She said―” His words tumbled out of his mouth. “She said she felt brave. She said she was finally going to talk to Mister Grey about her mother’s accusations, because it wasn’t about her anymore.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Analaea val Daren had sparkled that morning, and now she was underground somewhere.

“Ahhh,” Olivia breathed. When Chris opened his eyes, he saw a beatific look had come over her face. “She came to him. She said, ‘Darling, I know all about your secret.’ And he jumped right to the worst possible thing, panicking so hard he murdered the one person of influence who might have fought for his happiness.”

Chris swallowed around the lump in his throat and he stared into Analaea’s eyes. For a moment, he could swear he heard her voice―
Can I call you Christopher?―
but that was surely beyond even Grey’s talents.

“Sad as that is, it’s not really relevant right now.” Maris’s solemn, quiet voice belied her dismissive words, and she hung her head with a sigh. “This all might have gotten away from him, but he’s a faceshifter, a killer, and we haven’t learned anything by this―”

“Oh, no,” Olivia interrupted. “Do you think I’d entertain my assistant’s soft little heart if it wasn’t for a reason? This is very relevant, and we’ve learned plenty.” She indicated the painting behind her. I M SO SORRY. “We’ve learned Grey panics when he thinks he’s threatened, even if he knows he’ll be all right. He killed three people, threatened Chris’s sister, and if that isn’t enough to make someone lose it―”

“Ah,” Officer Dawson said, light dawning over her face.

“Turn loose your hounds, Maris,” Olivia said with a little smile. “This coney has gone underground, and it can change its stripes at will.”

s Christopher Buckley waited, he wished he was anywhere else.

Every police officer who passed by gave him a curious glance. He met their eyes and smiled politely, inclining his head in greeting at them. One by one they sized him up, dismissed him, and went on their way. Some greeted him in return. Most simply held his eyes curiously until they rounded a corner and were forced to look away. He constantly feared Officer Dawson passing by, seeing him there, demanding to know what he was doing, but wherever she was, today, she didn’t appear.

It had been two days since Olivia had ordered the arrest on Ethan Grey for the murder of Viktor and Analaea val Daren, but no trace of him had been seen despite all of Officer Dawson’s precautions. No papers reported on the faceshifting murderer lost in their midst. The police had insisted it be kept quiet until the man could be apprehended. After all, with two days passed, there was no guarantee he would be. He could be anywhere―any
one
. And to tell the people of Tarland someone had broken every law and every taboo of illusion and gone faceshifter would cause mass panic. Officer Dawson would rather hang the murders on Vanessa Caldwell than allow that, especially in these troubled times.

Instead, the papers had babbled nonstop about the genius wizardling Rosemary Buckley, the Grapevine Incident, and the accusations lobbed between Avery Combs and Rachel Albany, sister to the infamous reformist ringleader Garrett Albany. Chris had disallowed any of them into the estate, and kept Rosemary under lock and key. The last thing she needed as an appetite for fame.

He had to get her out of Darrington.

Over and over again, he’d tried to think of how to do it. He’d counted his coppers, he’d looked at train tickets, he’d opened an atlas and made a list of every town he could afford to take her. But in the end, there had been only one way available, and only one path that led there.

Another set of footsteps was headed his way. Chris fought down a surge of nervousness and raised his head to deliver yet another polite smile to the police officer who would walk past wearing a furrowed frown. Instead, the officer sat down beside him and crossed his arms across his slender chest.

Officer William Cartwright looked over at him. His long dark hair fell around his shoulders in gentle waves, and his pouty lips were pursed. “They’re getting him ready, now,” he said. “You won’t have very long.”

Chris smiled. “I won’t need very long,” he replied gratefully. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to contact the timeseer, but the thought had just come to him and refused to leave him alone. He was sure he hadn’t imagined that strange, unspoken exchange that had passed between them the day of the seeing, and when he’d asked the operator to put his mirror-gnome through to William Cartwright the truthsniffer, the pretty young man had agreed rather readily to do what Chris asked.

“Should I ask what it is you need him for?” Officer Cartwright―
William
, Chris reminded himself, the boy had insisted upon William―asked, looking out over his peers at their work. The station was quiet today, a marked difference from the first time Chris had come here. William had to keep his voice hushed to avoid being overheard. “Are you going to cause trouble for me, Christopher?”

Chris had never given the boy permission to use his own first name, but it seemed magnificently rude to take offense when he’d been granted the same courtesy after only minutes of acquaintance, so he chose to simply accept it and move on. “I don’t know,” he responded honestly, feeling his cheeks flush. “I don’t…I’m not entirely sure what
would
get you into trouble.”

William sighed irritably. “I
suppose
I’ll just have to risk it,” he muttered sourly, and he shot Chris a dark look. “You’ll owe me a favour.”

“Of course,” Chris replied easy, turning to quickly shoot the boy a friendly smile once again.

He caught something flicker deep in the boy’s long-lashed eyes as he turned back away, and a bolt of unease went through his heart. Was it entirely wise to be trading favours with this young man when he didn’t yet understand the strange connection he felt between them?

William sighed. His slender hands brushed imagined dirt from the smart lines of his police uniform, but he lost interest in it immediately. Chris saw him fold his hands into his lap, and watched him fidget a bit in his seat. Finally, his voice low, the young man spoke the words that had clearly been hovering at the edge of his tongue since he’d sat. “You really don’t remember me,” he said. “Do you?”

Chris blinked, then twisted in his seat to look at Officer Cartwright in surprise. Something dark lurked behind the glossiness of the beautiful young man’s eyes, and his long lashes fluttered before his gaze dropped to his folded hands. “No,” William said sadly. “I didn’t think so, though I
had
hoped…”

“I don’t understand,” Chris said quietly. “Remember―remember you from where?”

William merely shook his head. “You’ve forgotten about it,” he said dismissively. “And so should I.” He stood, brushed his uniform out, and stiffly bowed his head to Chris. “I’m going to check on him. It shouldn’t be long at all, now.”

Chris had barely a moment alone with his confusion. Moments after William vanished back into the private depths of the station, he reappeared, indicated with a single crooked finger that Christopher should join him. Climbing to his feet, he did as he was bid, grabbing the door just before it shut and following the strange young man who apparently knew him―
somehow
―back into the private areas of the station.

He was led through a narrow hallway where William’s sharp, polished boots echoed off the walls and ceiling with every step. The alp-lights flickered, and one appeared to have gone out entirely. Chris wondered how long it had been like that. He wondered if the alp had caused anyone blindness before it vanished. And he also wondered if Tarland might actually run out of ‘binders to do everyday tasks like put alps in lights. What would they possibly do if they
did
? Alternate methods would have to be found, or else his countrymen would be wandering about in the dark.

It was a good state of mind to meet Doctor Francis Livingstone in.

William opened the door to a small room, and gestured for Chris to go inside. “Don’t be long,” he said. “If the wrong person asks where he is, this could end very quickly. I’m not a real police officer, you know.” He gave Chris a gentle shove inwards, his girlish hands warm on the back of Chris’s coat, and closed the door firmly behind them.

“Well,” a voice said from behind him. “If it isn’t Mister Buckley. I’ve…not been doing so well, since we last spoke, I’m afraid.”

Chris turned.

The doctor didn’t lie. His previously clean-shaven face was now covered in a rough, week-old beard. His hair looked shaggy and unkempt, his eyes the dull glaze of someone who hadn’t slept well in many nights. His fine suit had been replaced by a tattered prisoner’s issue, and the circles under his eyes and caverns in his cheeks made his face look hollow. The grey in his hair seemed greyer, the lines in his face deeper. Worst of all was the sick pull of what was definitely not a smile at his lips. Chris couldn’t help the burst of pity that went through him. The warm, buttoned-down, honest man who’d come to his home and spoke glowingly of his granddaughter was gone, possibly for good.