Like mine.
"I am not a hunter or a killer, nor do I wish to be." But Azriel was. And if things had come back through the gates, why hadn't he mentioned it?
Then again, why would he?
I was not part of his world. I was just a chore—someone he had to follow against his own wishes and desires.
Although if things had come through, then it explained why the Mijai were apparently so busy—and why he was so pissed off about having to tag around after me.
"We would not expect you to kill. We have Cazadors more than capable of doing that."
I frowned. "Then what do you want me to do?"
"Hunt."
"No." It came out automatically. Walking the gray fields to talk to a soul lost or confused was one thing. Hunting an escapee from the bowels of hell was another matter altogether.
"But what if one of those creatures was responsible for your mother's death?"
"It wasn't." Again, the response was automatic. And yet, it was a possibility—it was just one I didn't want to consider. Mom had spent half her life conversing with spirits. I didn't want to believe one of them had killed her.
Hunter merely smiled. It was a cold, inhuman thing. "The crime scene was clean. Completely and utterly. There was no DNA, no prints, no evidence of any kind that anyone other than your mother, the housekeeper, and the occasional guest—all of whom have been vetted and cleared—has ever been in that kitchen. The place was not wiped down in any way. There is simply nothing there to indicate who or what might have done this."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. Not when she was giving me facts that could only ever lead to a conclusion I didn't want to believe.
"The Directorate will never find this killer if it is a spirit, but we can," Hunter said. "Trust me on that."
I stared at her, digesting not so much the words as the unspoken threat behind them. "You would ensure that?"