Page 62 of Death of the Glass Angel
“Oh, I know.” Des narrowed her eyes at him. “But I’m not too impressed with your choices thus far.”
His mouth twitched, but Des couldn’t tell if he was smiling or scowling. “What have I done to earn your ire?”
“You’ve been remarkably suspicious.”
“I don’t think I have.” Talon stretched causally. “Three weeks, I could have snuck into your tent and slit your throat. To say nothing of when we shared a room at the inn. Would have been all too easy to strangle you in your sleep, steal your valuables. . .”
“We shared a room?” Des blurted out.
The twitch grew into a smirk. “Yes. Janus was terrified after the attack, so I kept her company. She practically begged.”
“I remember that.” Des snapped. “But you left after she fell asleep!”
“Did I? I recall lying beside her, afraid she’d wake and notice I’d left.”
Curse the fuzzy memories of Des’ life. Janus would have squandered such a lucrative opportunity.
Taking a breath, Des counted the houses until she found the one she sought. A bit nicer than its neighbors, a house of simple gray stone, with enough space for two rooms. This account said the man had been reported missing by his mother.
Dancing up the steps, Des knocked and waited. The door swung open, revealing a fireborn cefra, judging from the threads of orange in her brown hair and piercing yellow eyes. A tattered green tweed wrap lay over a simple, well-worn dress.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Des said politely, speaking slowly to avoid mispronouncing the Altanese words. “We’re investigating the disappearances in the neighborhood. Your son, Hertwig, was one of them, was he not?”
“Yes.” The woman answered somberly.
“May we come in and ask you a few questions?”
Uncertainty hung in the woman’s eyes as she looked between Des and Talon before desperation replaced it. She nodded and waved them into a barren home, the thin wooden table cluttered with bowls and utensils.
The woman hurriedly cleaned up and gestured for them to sit at the table. After shoving the clutter onto a counter by her cooking pot, the woman sat, nervously knitting her hands together as she watched them expectantly.
Laying out the list of names and her journal, Des pulled out a quill and dipped it in ink. “Tell me about your son. Describe him.”
“Hertwig was only eighteen.” The woman explained. “About this tall.” She held her hand up, displaying a height that was a couple of inches shorter than Talon’s. “He was a stormborn. Green eyes, pale. Long steel hair.”
Jotting down the details, Des nodded. “And when was the last time you saw him?”
“A few months ago, now, I suppose.” The woman’s eyes were distracted before she continued. “He was just going to visit his friend down the street. I never paid much attention to where they ran off. They’d been playing in the mountain pass for years.”
“Did this friend give an account of the night?”
“No. He never came back, either.”
“Interesting. Did you know him well enough to tell me about him?
“As well as my son, just about.” The woman said. “He was a stormborn, too. A little taller than Hertwig, a little broader. White hair kept short. Lavender eyes.” She paused, jerking. “Oh. His name was Ernolf.”
Des scanned the list of names, finding a match. She placed a dash by his name before copying his description and destination the night they went missing. Two young cefra, stolen on the same night. Hiding two bodies would be an arduous task for only one killer. Perhaps there were multiple.
“And,” Des continued, “Was there anything unusual about your son? An occupation or something of the like?”
“Not that I know of.” The woman furrowed her brow. “He worked at a carpenter’s shop but had only just started. He normally kept to himself and stayed home otherwise.”
Nothing to go on there, but maybe he had been hiding things from his mother. He would hardly be the first kid to do so.
“Thank you.” Des sat back. “This should be enough.”
“Are you sure?”
