Page 67 of Deadly Lineage
“Nope. It’s not a crime to hide one’s species.” Human law had attempted to make it one. Fairy law had promptly shut that shit down. As a human, I sort of understood. We couldn’t hide what we were from other species. However, that didn’t even begin to go both ways. Humanity definitely came with more handicaps.
“No, it’s not. Just wondering why, and if it has anything to do with the case.”
I scrubbed my face with both hands. Unlike Franz, my stubble was loud and scratchy. “What I wouldn’t give for oneof our victims’s cell phones.” Our killer was certainly thorough. Cell carriers couldn’t ping the phones. They were either off or destroyed. My bet was on destroyed. A witch and warlock were our first two known victims. They would have charmed their phones, allowing them to be located if lost. Magical means hadn’t been able to find them either. That fact indicated the phones were likely totally obliterated.
“Has Becks made any headway with Mr. Remington’s computer?” Harrison asked.
“Not yet, but she hasn’t had it long.”
Harrison patted my shoulder. “She’ll come through.”
I didn’t doubt Becks’s abilities. I questioned if there was anything to find. With a low, acknowledging grunt, I followed Harrison out of the interview room and back to my desk. I only wish there’d been something more waiting for me.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Erasmus
Connor Mortuary was your typical small-town setup. The place looked like some antebellum wannabe that barely made it out of the Civil War with its roof intact. It was segregated into tiny rooms that could be combined by opening janky bifold doors. The carpet was a plush rose shade with sweeper marks etched across its surface. The lighting was soft and the music even more sleep inducing. What wasn’t conducive to rest was the raised voices coming from an interior room.
Reception was set up nicely with potted plants and floral arrangements. The sign-in registry was already laid out, complete with feather pen. When I walked through the front doors, I was met by one of the morticians. The middle-aged man was well-dressed—overdressed for the hot summer. Despite the chilly air-conditioning, he constantly patted a hanky to his sweating forehead. I wasn’t sure if he was sweating from the outside heat or the fire brewing inside.
“Mr. Boone.” His voice was shaky and I had a third thought. Maybe he was sweating so badly because a necromancer had just walked through the doors.
He didn’t offer his hand, and I kept mine tucked within my pockets. “That’s me,” I said cheerily, valiantly ignoring both his discomfort and a screamed string of profanity that filtered through the multi-roomed mortuary. “And you are?”
“Excuse my manners.” He appeared more flustered. “Zacharia Billingsworth.”
“Whoa, that’s a bit of a mouthful. How about I just call you Zach, and you can call me either Erasmus or Boone, whichever you prefer.” I always tried starting out nice. It was easier to get bitchy than it was to recover from it.
Zach gave a curt nod. “That will do. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?” I spoke before I could pull the word back inside.
Zach’s cheeks flushed crimson. “Yes. However, I do have another appointment soon and I don’t want them to know a necromancer is in the building. No offense meant.”
“Of course not.” My smile was brittle and far from naturally pleasant. “I’d ask you to point me in the correct direction, but I believe I can find my clients on my own. I’ll just follow the profanity.”
“Yes, yes. Please do.” Zach waved his sweaty hanky in the correct direction. “They’ve been most disruptive.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I took my necromancer cooties and wandered into the adjacent room. My flip-flops left impressions on the perfectly manicured carpet, and I wondered if good ol’ Zach would find it necessary to vacuum again, if only to erase all traces that I’d been present.
Moving through the open passage connecting the two rooms, I was met with a somewhat familiar vision. A casket lay at one end of the room. If the numerous arrangements and houseplants were any indication, the woman lying in that casket was well-loved, or at the very least, someone of importance.
Her peaceful repose was ruined by half a dozen relatives of varying ages arced around the head of her casket. Themiddle-aged duo causing all the ruckus were my clients—Elaine Tompkins and Joel Weathers. The woman lying in the casket was their mother—Rosemary Weathers.
“The ring is mine,” Elaine hissed while stabbing a finger in the center of her brother’s chest. “Mother wouldn’t want to be buried with it.”
“That’s not what she told me. Stop being a bitch about this, Elaine. You’ve got plenty. You don’t need her wedding ring too.”
“It’s a fucking waste! Mother can’t use it where she’s going. The woman is dead. What good does it do burying the jewels with her?”
“Christ, Elaine. Are you even listening to yourself right now? I will not let you tear that ring off her finger. Mom’s going to be buried with it whether you like it or not.” Joel got right up in Elaine’s face. They were about equal in height and, from what I could tell, stubbornness. The other four occupants stood around the room, dour faces and exhausted gazes haunting the funeral home.
Elaine sucked in a deep breath that would no doubt be used to fuel nasty words. That was my cue.
“Hello, everyone.” I stepped forward and waved a hand. If the scathing twin looks I got were any indication, I should have dressed up a bit more for the occasion. As it was, I saw no need not to remain comfy and went for my typical cargo shorts, well-worn t-shirt, leather bracelets, and flip-flops. As usual, my pockets were stuffed with Pops’s charms. “Someone call for a necromancer?”
