Grave Visions Read online

  I’d been expecting an argument, been sure I’d get a lecture on fae secrets—or hell, the FIB were technically classified as a government agency, so admonishment that we were dealing with state secrets and classified information not meant for a civilian wouldn’t have been unwarranted. The lack of argument was actually more frightening. It highlighted exactly how little time I might have left.

  Please let us find something. I needed a break in this case. A map with a big red X on it was unlikely, but hopefully the FIB database would have something.

  Falin used a glyph to unlock the back door of the building and led me through a bland gray hallway. A couple of doors lined the hall, most closed, but the few open ones were rather disappointing. I’m not sure what I was expecting from the FIB offices, but they were run by fae, so something more interesting than a shoebox-sized break room complete with a crappy folding table and a mostly empty vending machine. Falin stopped in front of an office with his name on the placard by the door. Again, no key, just a few glyphs by the lock and the door popped open.

  His office was as dull as what I’d seen of the rest of the building. It had depressing gray walls, a pressboard desk with a computer, and a window covered by dusty blinds. Wow, the Tongues for the Dead offices are actually nicer. Of course, that was because of one decorating-savvy brownie who’d had access to a vault of gold I hadn’t known existed until she’d spent all of it, but still. This was the court’s official representation in Nekros, and it was depressingly boring. After the terrible beauty of Faerie, I’d expected more.

  I started to say something, but Falin crossed directly to his computer, his face still grave. Yeah, probably not the time to discuss decor. I watched over his shoulder as he pulled up an official-looking program and logged in.

  He glanced back, and for a moment I thought he was going to comment on my hovering, but after a brief pause he said, “About twelve years ago the winter court began keeping an electronic database of all the fae in our court and all the independents in our territories. Before that, censuses were conducted when the doorways changed and recorded only on paper.”

  “And how many times have the doors changed since the electronic database was created?”

  Falin’s shoulders sagged. “We are still in the same territories.”

  My lips formed a silent O as Falin keyed JENNY GREENTEETH into the program. I knew that the doorways to Faerie moved, and that they may stay put only a single season or might take decades to move again, but I hadn’t realized the Winter Queen had counted Nekros as part of her territory for quite so long. I doubted many mortals knew who ruled the area where they resided—it didn’t affect their lives much. Fae were another story.

  “I’m guessing the fae in other courts’ territories aren’t in your database? Is there some sort of shared database?” The look on his face was a clear no. Humans might believe the FIB was a large unified agency, but each court governed their own territories with totalitarian control. And apparently they didn’t share information.

  Falin hit ENTER and a pixilated SEARCHING popped up on the screen. This wasn’t exactly cutting-edge technology, but considering most fae were hundreds, if not thousands, of years old, it probably seemed pretty new and advanced to them. Falin was fairly young for a fae—how young, I didn’t know, just that he’d been born after the Magical Awakening, so no more than seventy mortal years. He was also more technologically savvy than many of his contemporaries and he thrummed his fingers against the desk in a staccato of impatience as he waited for the sluggish program to search for our query.

  Finally the computer beeped. I scowled at the NO RESULTS message flashing in the center of a pop-up box. Falin tried TOMMY RAWHEAD next, with the same results.

  Falin collapsed backward in his chair, a loud sigh escaping between his lips. I felt equally defeated.

  “Now what?”

  He pushed out of the chair. “Now we know these two aren’t members of the court or independents in the winter territories, which means they must have sworn themselves to a court member.”

  “They couldn’t have refrained from showing up on census day?”

  Falin shook his head. “Each time the doors change or an independent relocates to a new territory, he or she has to present himself to the new court or his tie to Faerie erodes and . . .” He made a vague gesture in my direction.

  Yeah, I knew exactly what happened to a fae without a tie to Faerie. The two bogeymen hadn’t looked like they were fading. “So if they’ve sworn themselves to another fae . . . ?”

  “They’ll be hard to find.” Falin stood, heading for the door. “Fae are supposed to inform the court if they take on sworn fae or changelings. The master provides the tie to Faerie, and while it breaks our laws to hide a sworn fae, being unreported doesn’t affect their tie to Faerie through their master. Fear of the queen’s wrath if discovered is usually enough of a deterrent—”

  “But the alchemist has already proven himself to be a less than law-abiding courtier, so it is not terribly surprising that he didn’t declare his sworn fae.” I sighed and shot a longing glance at Falin’s abandoned chair. I was so tired. “If they aren’t registered, how do we find out more about them?”

  Falin motioned me to follow him, and I trudged behind him into the hall. “We can check the records and see if we can find out if they were in a territory we once held. That might give us more information on how the alchemist met them.” He paused in front of a door. Drawing a few glyphs on the door caused it to pop open, revealing a huge storage room filled with rows of book shelves, most crammed to the point of bursting with old, leather-bound books. The few shelves not filled with books were stuffed with stacks of ancient-looking scrolls.

  “The censuses?” I guessed.

  He nodded.

  I stared at the rows of shelves. “Both used to be members of the shadow court. When they left, wouldn’t it be most likely they would become independents under shadow?”

  “You can’t assume that being bogeymen makes them shadow.”

  “It’s not an assumption. I had a reputable source. But I don’t know when they left or where they went.”

  He turned to study me, but he didn’t ask about my source. He knew my great-granduncle was the king. I wasn’t about to reveal that I was theoretically betrothed to the prince.

  “The shadow and light courts have no direct doors to the mortal realm—only the seasons do, so only the seasons have independent fae.”

  Well, crap. That made sense. Shadow and light touched all of mortal reality indirectly, gaining belief magic through shadows, secrets, and nightmares for one court, and daydreams and creativity for the other. Light and shadow balanced each other the same way the seasons all balanced one another, but no direct doors meant no distinct territory, so no independents.

  Where would the bogeymen have gone when they left the shadow court? Had they pledged to a season? Had they been granted the right to declare independent? Or had they immediately sworn themselves to the alchemist?

  I glanced over the rows of books. It would take forever to go through even just the most recent ones.

  “There is one more thing,” Falin said, crossing the room to a small nook I hadn’t noticed. A dark wood cabinet stood in the nook, and Falin had to use twice as much magic to open it as it had taken to enter the building. I peered around his shoulder as he opened the cabinet, but all it contained was yet another book—granted, a massive one—on a pedestal.

  “Another census?”

  “No,” Falin said, hefting the book out of its nook. “This is a collection of lore. Actually, all lore. If enough mortals to shape belief magic have ever believed in something fae related, it is in this book.”

  I eyed the book. While it was the thickest book I’d ever seen, it didn’t look big enough to back up that claim. And anyway, how would one collect every bit of folklore that mortals believed? Well, there was
one way.

  “Magical artifact?” I asked, and Falin nodded. “Okay, I’ll take the folklore,” I said as Falin placed the book on a small desk tucked away in the corner. “You take the census.”

  Falin looked less than thrilled at the idea, but he didn’t object. Then we both settled down for some research.

  A spell in the book’s binding brushed my mind the moment I touched the cover. I jerked back at the mental touch. The artifact automatically recorded folklore, I knew that, but what else did it do? I mentally poked at the book with my ability to sense magic, but this was fae magic, not witch, and I was still only beginning to sense that. I let my hand hover over the binding again. While the brush of the spell was a very other sensation, it felt similar to the enchantments worked into my dagger. After hesitating a moment more, I flipped open the book.

  The pages immediately began to turn, flipping rapidly as if caught in a breeze I couldn’t feel. Then they stopped. The book going still. Without touching the book again, I glanced at the page. Two words jumped out at me: Jenny Greenteeth.

  I grinned. The book was apparently enchanted to help the reader find what they were looking for. Finally, something helpful. I scanned over the page and the grin slipped away. The book was written in Old English.

  This was going to take a while.

  • • •

  Several hours passed. My back ached from poring over the book, but I pressed on. I had to read most of the passages aloud. While my eyes couldn’t make much sense of the Old English spellings, when I read aloud and heard myself pronounce the words, I could decipher at least seventy percent of the text. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.

  I’d read a dozen tales about Jenny Greenteeth and had found three aliases she’d been known by over time or that had been associated with her. Tommy Rawhead had only one other alias that I’d found: “Rawhead and Bloodybones.” Yeah, he sounded like a pleasant guy. I’d passed the aliases on to Falin, in case they were listed under those names in the census, but so far he hadn’t come up with anything.

  I wasn’t sure I was doing much better. I was jotting notes in my phone, but most of the stories illustrated what we already knew: they were both bogeymen who ate naughty children.

  I leaned back, trying to stretch the kink out of my back. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall, the loud boom followed by the sound of running feet. A shrill voice called out, “Is anyone here? We need all hands, pronto.”

  Then the owner of the feet and voice passed in front of the records room door and ground to an abrupt halt. “Sir, I—I didn’t know you were here,” the agent said, her voice thin as she gasped for breath.

  She was glamoured to look human, and with my shields up I couldn’t see what she looked like beneath that glamour, but she didn’t quite pull off human. She was too small, too thin, and her features too wide on an angular face.

  “What is it, agent?” Falin asked, looking down at the smaller fae.

  “We just got a call. There’s a fire.”

  “What does that have to do with the FIB?”

  She swallowed, her full lips pressing into a thin line as she gulped. “Well, um, early reports say the fire isn’t natural and, um, something about daemons dancing in the flames.”

  Chapter 21

  Dark had fallen by the time Falin pulled onto Cardinal Avenue. If I’d been afraid my night blindness would be an impediment, I needn’t have worried—the scene was ablaze with light. Literally.

  “They haven’t gotten the fire out?” I said, staring through the front windshield. An effort had been made to clear the narrow suburban street, but official vehicles, from ambulances to cop cars with their lights flashing and, of course, fire trucks, clogged the way forward. We were nearly a block away, which was about as close as we’d get in the car, so I couldn’t make out any details, but from what I could see, the fire had to be huge. And raging out of control.

  Falin made a noncommittal noise as he pulled off the side of the road, his tires brushing the sidewalk, but he said nothing. He popped the trunk, and I followed him to the back of the car, where he grabbed his gun with holster and his badge from a bolted-down lockbox. Shrugging into the shoulder holster, he nodded toward the mess of lights and flame before striding down the sidewalk.

  Oh, please let this be a normal fire. But I knew it wasn’t. Even before I saw it, I knew it wasn’t just a fire. After all, the other agent had said there were figures dancing in the flames.

  Falin had to badge his way through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered at the edge of the police barricades. People muttered as they shuffled aside, barely opening a path. I stuck close to Falin’s heels. I had no official reason to be here, so if we got separated there was little chance I’d make it past the police line.

  “This is your kind’s fault,” a man said behind me.

  I didn’t realize the comment was directed at us until I heard someone spit. Falin stopped, looked at the wet spot on the leg of his pants, and then turned. His face was carefully blank, but I knew him well enough to see the icy anger in his eyes.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” There was nothing menacing about the words, and Falin’s tone, while low, was polite enough, and yet the man stumbled back as if threatened. Hell, I felt like taking a step back myself.

  “No, I—” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m just saying they were a nice family. Never did nothing to the fae.”

  Family? I glanced toward the scene ahead of us. I still couldn’t make out more than the general shape of the fire, but judging by what I could see of the houses on either side of us, it looked like a nice neighborhood. A family neighborhood.

  “Little Sam was only three,” a woman’s voice said, but I wasn’t sure where in the crowd she’d spoken from. “And Molly was a sweet girl, for a teenager.”

  Dread clawed at my stomach. We hadn’t seen the scene yet. It could be anything. Hell, it could still be a natural house fire. But if the fire had been caused by Glitter . . .

  I touched Falin’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  He didn’t need a second prompting. He grabbed my elbow and marched us through the crowd. He still held up his badge, but he was less polite to those who didn’t move fast enough, bodily moving them aside with his arm and shoulders as he cleared a path. A grumble of mutters followed in our wake, most antifae sentiments.

  The cop manning the barricade looked frazzled when we reached him, which wasn’t terribly surprising as it was his job to control access to the scene, but with as many different agencies as appeared to have responded, figuring out who was authorized to enter wasn’t an easy task. From what I could make out in the flame-lit darkness, the full alphabet soup of law enforcement and emergency services had made an appearance. The perimeter cop stepped aside when Falin flashed his badge, and then, after writing down Falin’s information for the log, glanced at me.

  “Craft is with me,” Falin said, giving my arm a tug so I had no choice but follow him past the barrier.

  The cop didn’t try to argue. He’d clearly given up on controlling access and was simply acting as a record keeper. I handed him my card for his log and kept moving.

  Falin paused to scan the scene ahead of us. We were across the street from the blaze, numerous official vehicles between us and the burning house. Groups of officials congregated in small clusters on the opposite sidewalk, but I couldn’t make out any features to differentiate the groups. Between the fire and the strobes from police, fire, and ambulances, the light was too chaotic for my poor night vision to process details, at least at this distance. Falin clearly didn’t share my difficulty, but tugged me toward one group hovering around the back of several open ambulances. With each step, the air pushed heat against us, like a tide rushing out from a fire I could still only see raging somewhere beyond the vehicles.

  I was expecti
ng paramedics, but as we got closer, I realized most of the figures were too bulky with protective suits, helmets, and air tanks. Firemen. And not all of them were outside the ambulances—several sat in the backs of the vehicles or on the gurneys, oxygen strapped over soot-darkened faces, paramedics tending to blistering burns and . . . other wounds.

  “Bring me up to speed,” Falin said, flashing his badge to one group of men.

  They glanced at his badge, then at Falin and me. More than one man shuffled, as if uncomfortable, but after a moment a large man in his early forties stepped forward.

  He pursed thick lips, studying Falin’s badge. “FIB, huh? You think this is fae related?”

  “I don’t know yet. Tell me what you know.” Falin paused, and then added, “Chief.”

  The man nodded, indicating Falin had been correct that he was, indeed, the fire chief. He gave a brief summation of the callout and the time the first trucks arrived. “The house was already engulfed, so my men got hoses on it immediately. As more trucks arrived, we got hoses on the surrounding houses to keep the fire from spreading, but focused on getting as much water as we could on the Wilson residence. The fire didn’t respond to mundane or magical intervention, and the neighbors were convinced the family was still inside. A couple of my men decided to play hero and rush in, but they didn’t make it far.” He jerked his head to the men being treated by the medics. “They found the two adult residents, both unconscious. After bringing them out, we realized many of their wounds had nothing to do with the fire. Both were rushed to the hospital and they’re stable. About then was when my early teams rushed back out of the house. That’s when we started seeing forms in the flame. At first we thought it was the kids trying to escape, but the shapes were twisted, evil.” He shivered, the movement making his jowls quiver. “And the men who went in and made it back out? Well, they might as well have gone in wearing only their skivvies for all the protection their suits provided. They also suffered wounds that weren’t caused by fire. I don’t know what’s in there or what caused the fire, but we can’t put it out and we can’t enter. The best we can do is try to contain it until it burns itself out.” He stopped, his hard gaze locking on Falin. “That is, of course, unless the FIB know how to stop it.”