Page 108 of Dance With Death

Rowan sits on the threadbare floral carpet, staring at a spot on the floor with great focus, and Leif rests against the lounge room wall holding his head. Grayson wanders around the space—or as much of a wander as he can manage amongst the crammed-in furniture—and Holly resumes her lying-on-the-floor-semi-conscious position, with an agitated Dashiell checking on her.

I sniff. “The place reeks of fake pine.”

“Air freshener,” says Rowan hoarsely. “It’s making me feel sicker.”

“Is the scent to disguise the smell of shifters. How many lived here?”

“Only two of us.”

I look to Grayson for confirmation that Dashiell is lying, and he nods.

“I detect more than two,” I say.

“Sam had mates around most days, but only me and him lived here.” Dashiell strokes hair from Holly’s face.

“Mates, plural? Unusual. Shifters usually have one.”

“No, Violet. Mates. Friends,” says Rowan.

“Oh.” I approach the poorly assembled shelving beside a TV. “Local vernacular becomes confusing when shifters are in the mix.”

“You’re right, Holly,” says Dashiell. “Violet doesn’t make sense half the time.”

Dorian’s people performed a thorough job when searching the place, and they weren’t interested in tidying up after themselves. The investigators didn’t overturn furniture or smash anything, but papers and all manner of junk are strewn around. Other items were left in half-open drawers, but there’s nothing left on the shelves anymore.

While the others recover, I make a swift exploration of the home, which reveals three bedrooms with barely space for the single beds, an empty basement, a dirty kitchen that’s seen better days, and a bathroom that’s, quite frankly, disgusting.

By the time I return down the narrow stairs, Holly sits on a tatty beige sofa beside Dashiell, Leif on her other side, while Grayson stands in the window watching the outside world. Rowan picks up a silver lighter from the floor, stares at the item for a moment, and places it alongside a decorative bottle of alcohol.

“Anything?” I ask him. “I presume you’re searching for an object to use for psychometry and not tidying the lounge room.”

He nods. “Nothing bad happened around these objects; there’re no imprints.”

“No murders?” I ask.

Dashiell looks up. “Murders of who?”

“Who knows? They’re common of late.” I turn my head. “Holly. How are you?”

“I feel sick,” she whispers from beneath her auburn curls.

“I’m not surprised. Holly has barely recovered from serious injuries, and you do this to her,” says Dashiell.

“We all had to leave Scotland. Holly could not have stayed, otherwise she would’ve alerted Dorian that I’d taken you,” I say sharply. “Which room in this house did you lock Holly in?”

Dashiell winces. “Sam kept her in the basement.”

“Naturally.” I sigh and survey the room again. The already dirty floor covering has extra stains from upturned mugs, and someone walked abandoned fries into the carpet.

I pick up a white mug printed with a blue S. A coffee stain has created a rim inside the mug, and I detect a hint of mold from the dregs. “Rowan. Come with me. Grayson, listen out for people nearby, and Leif watch Dashiell’s behavior around Holly.”

“I want to lie down,” she mumbles.

“If I were Holly, I’d want to run from the place,” says Leif quietly.

“Rowan,” I repeat when he hesitates. “Don’t waste time in case we need to leave.”

I head from the lounge to the kitchen again, where more unwashed mugs and plates are piled in the sink, and a distinct odor of greasy food clings to the thin curtains.

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