Vincent sat down on the bench beside Lenoir. He said nothing at first, his uncanny gaze sweeping over the square. He watched the flower merchants and the street musicians, the young couples and the stray dogs, his expression utterly inscrutable. Lenoir would have given anything to hear his thoughts.
“The boy lives?” Vincent asked finally.
“He does, thanks to you.”
“I have never used my weapon on a child before. I was not certain he would survive, even for a short time.”
There was another stretch of silence. Lenoir said, “You went for Zach instead of Zera. I was . . . surprised.”
Vincent looked at him. “As was I.”
“Oh?” Lenoir cocked his head. “You were surprised that . . .
it
. . . commanded you to save the boy?”
“It did not.”
Lenoir looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“It commanded me to kill the woman. The boy . . . that was my own choice.” If Lenoir had failed to understand the significance of these words, the look in Vincent’s eyes would have driven it home. His gaze burned with emotion—genuine, human emotion—intense and complex and utterly unexpected. There was confusion, excitement, and even a little fear. There was also something more difficult to identify. Pride, perhaps?
“Your
choice
?” Lenoir echoed in disbelief.
“Yes.” Vincent’s voice was low and intent, as though he were relating a powerful secret.
“You defied it?”
“Not exactly. But I chose.”
“I thought you said that your will was not your own?”
“I chose,” Vincent repeated, as though to himself. “I decided to act, and it worked. It has never worked before. I stopped trying centuries ago.”
“Well,” said Lenoir, for lack of anything better.
Vincent looked back out over the square. Lenoir waited. When several minutes had passed in silence, Lenoir said, “Should we go somewhere else to do this? Can you make it quick?” His voice betrayed him at the last moment, choking off the final word. He just wanted to get it over with.
Vincent shook his head, and for a moment, Lenoir thought it was in response to his question. Then Vincent said, “It no longer seeks your death.”
Lenoir stared, certain he had misheard. “What did you say?”
“You are no longer marked.” He did not elaborate. His expression was once again inscrutable, his eyes reflecting the world around them without offering a hint of what lay behind.
Lenoir looked into the face that had haunted his nightmares for a decade, and for the first time, he found nothing to fear. Neither did he find anything to celebrate. He was so stunned, so drained, that he could not even rejoice. All he could do was nod, indicating that he understood. That seemed to be enough; Vincent stood.
“Will I see you again?” Lenoir heard himself ask.
Vincent’s lip quirked into something just short of a smile. “Let us hope not.”
Lenoir started to thank him, but the spirit was already gone. Lenoir sat dazed for a moment. Then he began to shake. He felt weak, as though his bones were melting, leaving only a sack of flesh. He slid onto his side, lying down on the bench, his breathing sounding thickly in his ears, as if he were underwater. He closed his eyes against the harsh glare of the streetlamps. He slept until morning.
K
ody, idiot that he was, was trying to stand.
“Just take it easy, Sergeant,” the physician said worriedly, reaching out to grab Kody by the arm. “You’ve been in that bed for a week. Your muscles aren’t going to be—”
Kody’s knees buckled, forcing Izar to lunge in and catch him. Lenoir did not bother trying to help; there were too many people around the bed as it was. “Don’t be a fool,” he said irritably. “Hardin’s family will understand.”
“I’m going,” Kody repeated firmly, leaning against the wall as he tested his balance. “I just need a minute.”
“You need rest,” the physician said, “and plenty of it.”
Kody scowled at him. “Didn’t you just finish saying that I’ve been in bed for a week?”
“This is a waste of time,” Izar put in with his customary brusqueness. “If Kody says he’s going, he’s going, so let’s get on with it.”
“You don’t miss a fellow hound’s funeral,” Kody said. “It’s just not done. Even my parents are going. They’re with Hardin’s folks right now.”
Lenoir rolled his eyes, but Izar was right—there was no point in arguing. Such sentiments were rife in the force. Brothers in arms, or some such drivel.
“You will return to the clinic, though, won’t you?” the physician asked, fixing Kody with a stern look.
“What for?”
“Observation. There might be brain damage. Or the wound in your stomach could become infected.”
Kody gave an impatient wave. “I know how to look out for gangrene.”
“The brain damage may be harder to detect,” Lenoir said wryly. “But you have my word, sir, that I will keep an eye on him.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating that they should go.
When their carriage pulled up outside the church, Lenoir saw that Kody was right: the entire Metropolitan Police force was there. Even Crears and a couple of the other constables from the outer villages had turned up. Combined with relatives and friends, the little church turned out to be inadequate for the numbers, and many were left to gather in the courtyard, awaiting the burial. Surveying the crowd, Lenoir could not help wondering how many of these same colleagues would have turned up for his own funeral. Even the legendary solidarity among hounds would probably not have been enough to inspire much of a turnout. Hardin might not have been terribly competent, but he had been well liked. Lenoir, on the other hand, had few friends, and no family. He was forced to acknowledge that his death, so narrowly avoided, would have gone largely unlamented.
He hovered awkwardly at the back of the church. There was a place reserved for him up front, along with the chief and the other inspectors, but he did not want to sit among Hardin’s family and close friends. He did not belong there; he had barely known the man. Instead he posted himself near the doors, watching the proceedings at a distance.
The priest droned on, as priests do. Lenoir’s thoughts were elsewhere, and he did not realize until halfway through the ceremony that Kody was standing right beside him. The sergeant stood rigidly tall, his features set in grim lines. He barely seemed to register what the priest was saying. Perhaps his thoughts were elsewhere too.
“Why were you not seated with the others?” Lenoir asked after the ceremony had ended and they were heading for the courtyard.
Kody glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “No reason.”
Lenoir snorted. “It would have been difficult for you to stand for so long, in your condition. You would not have put yourself through that without a reason.”
“What do you want me to say?” Kody growled. “That I feel guilty? Well, I do. Satisfied?”
Lenoir stopped. “Not remotely, Sergeant, for that is a foolish sentiment. You are not responsible for what happened to Hardin.”
“Of course I am,” Kody said in a heated whisper. “I’m the one who dragged him out there without proper backup.”
“He was supposed to
be
your backup.”
But Kody was not really listening. “I led him straight into the wolf’s den. He didn’t even know what he was getting involved in.”
“Sergeant, if anyone is responsible for Hardin’s death, it is I.” Unlike Kody, Lenoir did not trouble to lower his voice. What did he care if someone overheard? It was the truth, spelled out in indelible ink on a sheaf of parchment in Reck’s office. “The apothecary told us everything we needed to know. I should have put it together. I
would
have put it together, had I really bothered trying. So if you want to be angry with someone, be angry with me.”
Kody’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Lenoir could read his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken. He
was
angry. Bitterly so. But as always, his discipline won out, and he said nothing.
Lenoir nodded. “Good. And while we are clearing the air, Kody, let me say this: the next time you charge off without informing your inspector where you are going, it will be your last day on the force.” He paused, adding more gently, “I should not like to have to listen to that priest drone on about
you
.”
Kody blinked, taken aback. He opened his mouth as if he would say something, but then closed it again. Rather than stand there while the sergeant cast about for some soppy reply, Lenoir moved off in search of the chief.
People were scattered throughout the courtyard in groups of twos and threes, swapping stories about the deceased, or, if they had not known him well, making generic conversation about the state of criminality in the city. The hounds seemed particularly disposed to this line of thinking, the general consensus being that Kennian was going to the dogs.
Just as well
, Lenoir thought dryly.
Otherwise, you slobs would have to find real work.
He spied Izar brooding alone near the outer wall, and made his way over. “Why do you not mix with the others?” Lenoir asked.
“You know why, Inspector,” Izar said, and Lenoir supposed that was true.
“They will not hold it against you.”
Izar shrugged. “Some of them will, but I don’t give a damn about that.” He looked down at Lenoir, his gaze smoldering with resentment. “It’s not them I blame.”
Lenoir understood. “Not everyone involved was Adali.”
“Most of them were.”
“Every race has its bad apples.”
“Not every race is judged by them.”
There was a stretch of silence. Then Lenoir said, “For what it is worth, Sergeant, I don’t think this case proved anything, except that desperate people will do anything to survive. Their methods might have been unusual, but we have seen far worse, and there was certainly nothing uniquely Adali about their motivations. The basic human formula is the same.”
Izar made no reply. Lenoir left the sergeant alone.
“Inspector,” someone called. Lenoir turned, and it was a struggle to keep the dismay from his face. Kody’s father was making his way over.
They had never met, but there was no mistaking him. Jess Kody was every bit as physically imposing as his son, with the same purposeful stride and quietly stubborn set to his jaw. His eyes lacked the fire of the sergeant’s gaze, but that might just have been age.
“Sir,” Lenoir said awkwardly, holding out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you.”
Kody shook his hand and nodded. For a moment, he did not say anything else; he just stood there, staring. Lenoir shifted uncomfortably. After what seemed like an eternity, Jess Kody cleared his throat and said, “I just wanted to thank you.”
Lenoir’s eyebrows flew up. “Thank me?”
“For everything you’re doing for my son.”
Instinctively, Lenoir glanced over to where Bran Kody was standing with Hardin’s family. The sergeant was looking over at his father, an expression of mild panic on his face, but he obviously did not dare to extract himself from the bereaved parents.
Lenoir had no idea what to say. He could not think of a single thing he had ever done for Bran Kody. His confusion must have shown, for Jess added, “I know he’s young to have made sergeant, and he has you to thank for that.”
“He has himself to thank. He is young, yes, but he is competent. He earned his place. I merely recommended him for promotion.”
Kody nodded. “Bran says you taught him everything he knows. He says you were the best.” Lenoir noted the past tense, and was surprised to discover that it bothered him. “He was so excited when he got assigned to you,” Kody’s father continued relentlessly. “A few years with you, he said, and he’d make inspector. Anyway, with everything that’s happened with Sergeant Hardin and all . . .” He glanced back over his shoulder at Hardin’s family. “Just makes me realize how proud we are of Bran.”
“And so you should be,” said a new voice, and Lendon Reck appeared at Lenoir’s side. He gripped Jess Kody’s hand in a firm handshake. “A fine hound, your son. Wish I had a hundred like him.”
Lenoir could have kissed the chief. He wanted nothing more than to end this conversation, to slink away unseen and not have to listen to sugary fantasies about how he was a mentor. He had never been a mentor, to Kody or anyone else.
“Kody is tough as nails,” Reck said. “Look at him, up and about after everything that’s happened. Gotta admire a hound like that. He’ll have my job someday.”
Jess Kody was trying not to look pleased. “Anyways,” he said gruffly, “I just wanted to say how grateful his mother and I are that he’s working with such good people.”
“And we’re grateful to you,” said Reck, “for raising the kind of man who makes such a fine contribution to this city.”
And I would be grateful to you both if you ceased this inane prattle before I vomit.
Lenoir kept his expression carefully blank, lest it betray his thoughts. He could not help wondering how many times the chief had made this speech, to how many proud fathers. But it was new to Jess Kody, and he appreciated it. He gave Lenoir and the chief a final handshake before returning to his family and the Hardins.
Lenoir let out a long breath. “I’m glad you came when you did.”
“I could tell you were about ten seconds away from saying something stupid.” Reck fixed him with a stern expression. “By the sword, you look awful. It’s been almost a week. Have you even slept?”
“Not much,” Lenoir admitted. He would have thought his body would be accustomed to going without sleep by now, but without the distraction of Lady Zera’s salon, the hours felt longer, heavier. It was not that he avoided sleep, not anymore. He was no longer plagued by nightmares. But in their place was a vague anxiety that he could not identify, a constant buzz in his brain that kept him awake through the night. He felt restless. Adrift. For years, he had coasted through life without bothering to make choices, for he knew them to be meaningless. It was like window-shopping, looking through thick panes of glass at things he could never have. Now the glass was gone. Row upon row of possibilities was laid out before him, and it was subtly terrifying.
He had made one choice, however, and it felt like a first step. If he could take a second step, and another after that, he would find his way eventually. And this time, he knew where he wanted to go. It was a path he had abandoned a long time ago, thinking it an illusion. But he had been wrong. It had been there all this time, waiting for him.
“I have the warrant,” he told Reck, holding up the sheet of parchment.
Reck grunted and took it from him. He scanned the page with a frown. “This is damn stupid. You know that.”
“Feine had a man beaten nearly to death.”
“A lovers’ squabble. Hardly a menace to society. Anyway, you already made it clear that we’re onto him. He’ll think twice next time. That should be enough.”
“Are you ordering me to drop it?”
“I should. You’re going to cause yourself a world of shit, and me too. What exactly are you trying to prove, anyway?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. And while we’re on the subject of fool’s errands, I read your report. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, Lenoir. You practically accused the Duke of Warrick outright.”
“Indeed? I seem to recall saying there was no evidence against him. Not yet, at any rate.”
Reck stepped forward until his nose was an inch from Lenoir’s, and he dropped his voice to a low growl. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’ve got enough crusaders in my kennel, Inspector. If I hear you’ve been harassing Warrick, it’ll be your job.”
Lenoir met his gaze unflinchingly. “Are you afraid of him, Chief?”
“Damn right, and so should you be. He could shut down the entire force. I’ve got a whole city to worry about. If that means I have to leave the high and mighty to their business, then that’s how it’s got to be.”
“For the greater good?” Lenoir asked wryly.
“Something like that, smart-ass.”
“And if I were to turn up irrefutable evidence against Warrick?”
Reck shook his head and swore under his breath. “Maybe that blow to your head was worse than you thought. Do I have to spell it out for you? Even if I let you bring him in, no magistrate in this country would prosecute him.”
“Perhaps.” Lenoir paused, shrugging. “But we are arguing over nothing, Chief. I have no evidence against Warrick in this case, and I doubt I ever will.”
Reck was no fool. He narrowed his eyes.
“In this case?”
Lenoir only smiled. “As for this”—he held up the warrant—“I will deal with it first thing tomorrow.”
Reck sighed resignedly. “Take Innes, and maybe Izar too. In case His Lordship resists.”
“He will not. It would be unseemly. He will be haughty and disdainful all the way to his cell, I think.”
“Still, make sure you have enough backup. I’ve had enough of burying hounds for a while.”
Lenoir nodded. He looked back down at the warrant, unable to suppress a smirk.
Lord Alvin Feine
, it read.
Attempted murder.
It would never stick, of course, but Lenoir was confident he had enough for severe battery. The attempted murder charge was a bluff, designed to rattle His Lordship’s cage. And if it sent a message to the rest of the nobility, well—that was a nice bonus.
The crowd began to move out of the courtyard, heading for the cemetery around back. Lenoir followed, but his mind was already elsewhere. He hoped the burial would not take too long, for there was one more thing he needed to do.