however. Beeswax and paraffin, you had." Don Sebastien laid his fork down by his plate. Rain drummed on the windows.
"But what is important in this case is that they were bought by the same person, with the same sense of purpose—that of lighting her home. The will of the individual who uses a thing is very important. A bullet and a gun, for example, are manufactured separately—but a bullet may be traced back to the gun from which it was fired, using the principle of sympathy—which is the converse of that of antipathy. Do you understand?" She peeled buttered bread apart with her fingers and offered a tidbit to the terrier, her expression challenging Don Sebastien to say anything as the little dog nipped her fingers with sharp white teeth.
He smiled, amused, swirling wine in his glass. "Very well, I think. So the splashed wax came from candles inside the home."
"Precisely. Which means. . .."
Sebastien effortlessly picked up her thread. Annoying or not, it was a pleasure to talk to a man with a wit. ". . .our lad must have gone out to the stoop to investigate something—some noise, some cry—and been carrying a candle in his hand."
"Then we are left with another question, Don Sebastien."
"Si, DCI. What became of the candle?"
"At dinner, Don Sebastien, you may call me Abigail Irene if you so desire." She lifted her glass and drank deeply. "From the evidence of the wax, there was nothing special about it. I wonder if it was picked up by a bystander, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Don Sebastien, you've barely touched your dinner."
He shook his head slightly, smiling. "This is not what I am hungry for." And then he sighed and glanced toward the windows. Mike, curled watchful near the door, whined. "I wonder what this night will bring."
"Rain," Garrett said, and—weary to the bone—kissed him on the mouth.
* * *
Later, in the darkness of her bedroom, he paused with his cool face pillowed on her belly. "This is what I hunger for, Abigail Irene."
"A request for consent, Sebastien?"
He nodded against her skin.
"What harm will come to me of it?"
"A day's weakness. Or two. No more, I promise; I would not take from you the sun."
With some slight idea of what she offered, she smiled into the darkness and whispered, "Yes."
And screamed against her muffling fists as he turned his head and sank fangs like spikes of ice and flame into the inside of her thigh.
* * *
Sometime in the night, the rain stopped, and Sebastien slipped from beneath the covers to dress. Garrett stirred sleepily, the stiffness in a blackening bruise tightening her leg. "Stay until morning?"
"I cannot, my lady. The clouds are breaking. . .. and I cannot risk the sunrise." Shirtsleeved, a pale ghost in the darkness, he bent over the bed to kiss her. She tasted the harsh metal of her own blood on his tongue. "I will return, if you will have me." He ducked his head and kissed the tattoo of a sorcerer, nestled just between her breasts.
"Ah," she said, one hand still on his arm. "I. . .cannot promise fidelity, Sebastien. Or any acknowledgment of this."
"Secrets," he answered, "are a stock in trade." He straightened away from her. Outside the door, Mike—silent for hours—scratched and yipped.
Garrett's hand rose to her throat. "I feel it." She fumbled for her wand and kindled a light. The stub of candle flared.
Don Sebastien moved toward the door, listening with an ear pressed to the wood. "Nothing," he said, and cracked the door open so that Mike could scramble in. The dog lunged across the floor, scattering throw rugs, and hurled himself into his mistress' arms to bathe her face with his little clean tongue.
Gathering him close, Garrett rose to her feet, her pistol ready in her other hand. Her dressing gown lay forgotten on the foot of the bed. "This is just like last night," she whispered.
Sebastien came to stand beside her. "Our quarry," he said. "I'd warrant it."
For a long moment, they stood side by side, listening to the nightfall. Nothing disturbed the spring chill of the bedroom. Garrett shivered and set her dog down. He whined, cuddling close.
"Don Sebastien," she said, suddenly formal in her nakedness. "Have you a way to track the source of that unnatural chill? A poltergeist, would
you say?"
He shook his head. "Yes, and I do not."
She frowned. "Learn what you can of Robert Carlson. I will call on you before lunchtime. Unless you will be sleeping."