about her problem had been right, however much she hated it. The pain bolt she’d been hit with in the car earlier had underscored that.
But this was right, too. Against the rules, and maybe there’d be a price to pay. But she knew how to investigate, dammit, and Drummond was ignoring the bigger picture. Who had the death magic crowd used for practice before moving up to the big leagues?
Lily looked at the buildings around them. More Laundromats in this part of town. Skin joints. Pawn shops. More people other people could overlook, ignore. Nameless people who didn’t smell right, look right, act right. “His name is Birdie,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“The homeless guy. Well, his real name is James Johnson, but he went by—or goes by—Birdie. He likes to draw pictures of birds.” He had a name. A life. Even if it wasn’t much of a life by most people’s standards, it was his . . . or had been. No one had the right to take it away from him.
CULLEN didn’t know much about real estate, but he knew northwest D.C. was pricey. This particular street was all leafy residential—lots of beautifully restored or maintained Craftsman homes with big front porches, well-groomed lawns, and a mix of Mercedes and minivans parked out front. Rule’s car blended right in.
Fagin’s house did not. It was pink. Pink with lilac trim. It had probably started life as turn-of-the-century Craftsman like its neighbors, but somewhere along the line someone had craved a touch of Tudor, adding bulky crosshatched beams in the oddest places. Beams some later owner had painted lilac.
What an odd little wart of a place. Fagin’s neighbors were probably praying he planned to paint really soon. Cullen was grinning as he entered the small front yard . . . and paused, raising one eyebrow. Interesting. Then he mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell.
Nothing happened. He rang again. This time he heard floorboards creak, then—slowly—footsteps coming toward the door. It opened. Dr. Xavier Fagin blinked at him sleepily, his bright orange robe drooping around what looked like a woman’s scarf knotted around his middle in lieu of a belt. His hair was more awake than the rest of him, bursting out frenziedly in all directions. “I know you.”
“Of course you do. Cullen Seabourne. We met when you headed that task force. We’ve e-mailed a few times since. You said I could use your library.”
Fagin’s eyes opened wider in mild astonishment. “I believe I did. My library, like myself, was in Cambridge at the time.”
“You moved. I didn’t think that revoked the invitation.”
“I can see why you would think that.” But he didn’t move.
Cullen rolled his eyes, dug in his pocket, and took out a smooth black pebble. For a second it lay in his palm—then began to glow like a firefly. The glow faded quickly and he stuffed it back in his pocket.
“Ah, well, then, come in.” At last Fagin stood aside.
“Who did you think made those things?” Cullen asked crossly as he followed.
“Either you or your wife or both, but that’s an assumption, not something I’ve been told as fact. I dislike acting on assumptions.”
“Huh. Good guess. I make the blanks; Cynna personalizes them. Have I interrupted something?”
“Alas, no. Poor Merry had to leave for work at some horribly early hour. I went back to sleep, naturally. A man my age needs rest after prolonged exertion.” He frowned faintly. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Ten-ish, I think.” Not that he’d paid attention, but the sun had been up awhile. Cullen looked around curiously.
The entry hall was small, giving access to a narrow staircase and the front parlor. The fireplace in the parlor was clearly original, with a beautifully carved mantel no one had desecrated with paint. The faded rose-colored wallpaper might be original, too. The carpet was newer—avocado green seventies shag. Fortunately you didn’t see much of it. The room was buried in packing boxes, some opened, most not. “Prolonged exertion?”
Fagin sighed happily. “Merry is a delightful woman. Do you know how to make coffee?”
“Everyone knows how to make coffee.”
“Without a coffeepot, I should add. I can’t locate mine. I’ve tried simply boiling the grounds, but the results are less than satisfactory.” This sigh was windier and filled with regret. “I do miss Martha.”
Cullen knew Fagin was a widower, but he was pretty sure the man’s wife had died a decade or two ago. It seemed ample time to learn how to make coffee. “I can probably figure something out. Martha