“I’ve called in every favor and used every bit of influence my family has to encourage the police to investigate James’s death, but despite everything—even my threat to not donate to the annual police ball this year—they are still releasing his body to Sweet Rest Funeral Home tomorrow. His body can’t be allowed to leave the morgue. If it does, they’ll never prove he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” I was assuming there had been an accident. I’d certainly seen no sign the man had been murdered. Granted, I hadn’t arrived until after he hit the car, but the police had looked into the matter. If there were indications someone had pushed him over the edge of that building, they’d have continued looking into the case. “You’re convinced it was murder?”

“There is no other explanation.”

I disagreed but kept my mouth closed.

“James shouldn’t have been on that roof, and he shouldn’t have been anywhere near the Magic Quarter. We’re Humans First Party. We don’t support magic or its practitioners.” She lifted her chin, as if daring me to say anything about that last bit of information.

I almost groaned, but I should have guessed she supported the Humans First Party, an anti-fae/anti-witch political group. The ring, the attitude—it all made sense. Except that she was here. And one other thing.

“Do you know what a sensitive is, Mrs. Kingly?”

She gave a sharp shake of her head, but the fact she didn’t meet my eyes betrayed the lie. Not that it mattered.

“A sensitive is someone who can feel magic,” I said, and not only did she continue to avoid my eyes but a flush of color filled her cheeks. I continued: “As well as being a grave witch, I’m a sensitive, which means I can feel the charm you’re wearing. It’s a good one. A medicinal grade charm to help with your pregnancy, if I’m not mistaken.”

She didn’t try to deny it, nor did she lift her gaze.

“You look very young, Ms. Craft.” She wrapped her arms under her belly as if cradling the child within. “James and I were so focused on our careers when we were younger, we didn’t even think about starting a family until I was in my late thirties. We were established then. It seemed like the perfect time. But we had trouble conceiving, and once we did…” She paused as the words caught in her throat. “I miscarried. Twice. When we got pregnant a third time, we decided to give this baby the best chance we could. That’s the only reason we turned to magic.”

I sighed. I couldn’t help it. The Humans First Party members tended to be extremists, but from what I’d seen, her attitude was typical: magic and its users were dangerous and needed more regulations and restrictions, unless, of course, a party member wanted to secretly utilize that magic. Unfortunately, they were extremists who were gaining seats in Congress. Even Nekros had a Human First party governor, but then, he was actually a fae in deep hiding—and my father—so that was a different and entirely screwed up situation.

I didn’t know what to say to Mrs. Kingly. I wasn’t going to turn her down as a client simply because she was a hypocrite—I’d worked for worse. The real problem was that I doubted I could get the results she wanted. I might be able to prove her husband’s death was an accident, maybe, depending on what the shade said. But murder?

I glanced at the ghost of James Kingly. He cooed sympathetic reassurances to his wife—which she couldn’t hear and were no help to me in figuring out what had happened to him. I wished I could get him alone for a moment and ask him some questions, but I didn’t see how without alerting Mrs. Kingly to his presence, which would have probably made his day but was likely to push her over the edge of what she could accept.

“He wouldn’t have killed himself, Ms. Craft,” she said in a small voice. One that lacked the edge she’d brandished since walking through my door. “And he wouldn’t have run off. He wanted this baby.”

“Coming to the Quarter isn’t an indication he was running off. Maybe he was looking for another charm for the baby?”

She shook her head. The tears had finally won, cutting paths through her makeup and making her mascara run. Oh yeah, I definitely need to get some tissues for my desk. The ghost pushing to his feet drew my attention from my living client.

“I didn’t. I swear to you I didn’t,” he said, his shimmery hands curling into fists and then flexing again. He paced behind her. “Why would you say I ran off? I never left.”

Okay. Now that was odd.

I looked at my client, whose bravado had completely crumpled under her grief. “When you say he ran off, what exactly do you mean?”

She scrubbed the tears from her eyes with the base of her palm, further smearing her makeup. “He…” She broke off to sniffle. “He called me after work, about four days before…before it happened. He said he had to take some clients to dinner, which wasn’t unusual except that he hadn’t told me about it beforehand. That was the last time I heard from him. I reported him missing the next day. When the police showed up at the door”—she sniffled again—“I knew it was bad news. I couldn’t think of any reason he wouldn’t have come home if he were okay. I just didn’t expect…I didn’t expect them to tell me it had just happened. Or that they suspected he’d jumped.” Another sniffle. “You said you have a bathroom?”

I showed her to it, but grabbed the ghost’s arm before he could follow her inside.

“Hey,” he yelled, staring at my hand on his arm. “You, you can see me?”

No, I randomly grabbed at air and happened to catch the arm of a ghost. Of course, I really didn’t expect any other response. The question was practically obligatory. Grave witches were the only people who could see ghosts, and we weren’t exactly plentiful. As far as I knew, I was the only grave witch who could also touch ghosts. Still, I wanted to avoid a scene directly outside the bathroom door. The wood wasn’t thick and me having a one-sided conversation wasn’t likely to instill much confidence in my client. So I pressed my finger over my lips and dragged the ghost back to my office.

“What really happened on that roof?”

The ghost stared at me wide-eyed for a moment before saying, “You really can see me? And hear me? You have to tell my wife I love her and that I didn’t jump.”

“Right, I got that already. Now, the roof. What happened?”

The ghost frowned. “I’m not sure.”

Seriously? “How can you not be sure?”

“I…I don’t remember going up to that roof. One minute I was in Delaney’s, a little Irish pub between work and my house, and then I hit a car and some guy was pulling me out of my body.”

That “guy” would have been the collector, though since both Death and the gray man had been there, I wasn’t sure which one, but that wasn’t the important part of the story.

“Let’s go back to the beginning. You were with some clients at the pub and then what?”

“And then nothing. Just pain and the feeling of my head caving in and my bones snapping.” The ghost shivered with the memory of his quick but gruesome death.

That would mean he was missing a little more than three days—which could happen, I’d lost hours and days in Faerie before—but he hadn’t said he’d gone to the Eternal Bloom, Nekros’s only fae bar. “Okay, so you were at the Irish pub. Who are the clients you were with?”

The ghost swallowed. “Uh…” I could almost see the thoughts circling around in his head, trying to decide how to answer, how much to admit to. He’d never taken clients to the little Irish pub. I could see it all over his face. But he was still trying to decide if he should tell me as much.

And that was the problem with ghosts. They could lie.

Chapter 5

By the time Mrs. Kingly emerged from the bathroom, her makeup was once again perfect—as was the cold chip on her shoulder. Aside from the fact he’d lied to his widow during their last conversation, I hadn’t learned anything useful from James, and of course, I went back to ignoring him as soon as the door opened and Mrs. Kingly reappeared. James didn’t want to talk about whatever had happened during those unaccounted for days. I’d have to wait until I questioned the shade to get any real answers.

“You can do the ritual tonight, right?” Mrs. Kingly asked, and I hesitated, my hand halfway across the desk with the blank contract for hire that Rianna and I had drawn up as well as several OMIH regulated forms.

Tonight? “I don’t do nighttime rituals.”

“You don’t need darkness and moonlight and all that?”

I didn’t groan at the stereotypical—and completely incorrect—assumption but my “no” was perhaps overly terse. I ended up blind enough in broad daylight, doing rituals at night would be downright stupid.

“But you can do it today? His body will be picked up tomorrow and you need to prove it was murder before he leaves the morgue.”

Her insistence was on the side of frantic and I had the feeling that she was one breath away from either yelling or a repeat of the earlier waterworks. Neither appealed to me, so I aimed for a placating smile and tried to keep my voice calm as I said, “I can raise the shade this afternoon, but I can’t give you any guarantees that his death will be decreed a murder. It all depends on what the shade says.”

“It’s murder.” The words were matter of fact without any room for question as she signed and dated a consent form to grant me access to her husband’s body while in the morgue.

I wished I could be half as sure.

“And find out where he was those three days he was missing. I’m assuming kidnapped by whomever killed him, but I need to know.” The smallest tinge of doubt crawled into her voice with the last, as if some small part of her believed what everyone kept telling her—that her husband’s death was a suicide.

Well, I’ll know soon enough.