on the cheek. "A woman both brave and fair," he said. "I never sleep." He raised an eyebrow at her, bowed, and was gone through the door and down the stairs.
* * *
Morning did indeed dawn bright and clear: Sebastien's instincts proved correct. Garrett, exhausted by a second sleepless night, did not trouble herself with the Mayor's office hours. Instead she presented herself at his home on Manhattan, fronting the park, before breakfast. Her groom offered her a conspiratorial wink as she disembarked. He knew very well how long Don Sebastien's carriage had waited.
And what would you say if you knew the Spaniard was an immortal drinker of human blood? It explained many things.
There were always a contingent of Colonial Police by the Mayor's door, and Garrett nodded to one of them as she passed, recognizing the redhaired youth. He blanched when she met his eye, and she fought a grin. Wait until the rumors of your wampyr lover get around. Ah, to be a stranger to scandal. . .but what fun would there be in that?
The mayor greeted her in the echoing marble-pillared entryway, flanked by servants and the dark-haired young Master of Thaumaturgical Sciences. Now she saw him clad in a dressing gown, and clearly made out the sigil inked black under the notch of his collarbone. Private sorcerer, not personal secretary. And the Mayor keeps him at his side at all times. Interesting. Can he truly be so frightened of Richard?
"Sir, you did not tell me," Garrett said, ignoring the pleasantries, "that one of the missing was your political ally."
"It did not seem significant," Peter Eliot answered. "And I would never use my office to the advantage of my friends, of course. Detective, will you join us for coffee?"
Garrett bit her tongue, contenting herself with a shake of the head.
A moment later, when she'd brought herself back under control, she
continued: "Are you taking precautions, sir, to prevent an attack upon
your person?"
"I am," he answered, and she noticed the significant glance that passed between sorcerer and Mayor. "I will send messengers to the Duke, as well. Perhaps it is some plot of the French or Iroquois. I would not put raising demons past them."
"Raising demons?" Garrett snorted, smoothing her hair back. "Would that were all, your Lordship. Would that were all."
* * *
Halfway along the long route from the Mayor's house to the Duke's, the clamor of hooves racing too fast for a city street drew alongside her carriage. "DCI!" A city Guard, one of the Duke's men, resplendent in red on a lathered dark bay. "There's been another murder, Ma'am. The Duke is there."
"Tell my coachman to bring the horse around then," she said, leaning through the curtains. "Lead on, good man. Lead on!"
Thirty minutes later, the carriage clattered into an exclusive neigh-
borhood not far from the Mayor's house. Her heart sank as she recognized the address—the townhome of William, Earl of New Haven, another
Member of the Colonial Parliament. House of Lords, and one of Richard's closest allies.
Richard handed her down from the carriage, to all appearances formal and distant—but she felt the squeeze of his hand and caught the comforting smile in his eyes, even if his lips showed nothing. She felt obscurely guilty, and forced herself to return the smile. You owe him nothing: remembering the hard, slick texture of Sebastien's hair.
"The same as last time?"
Richard shook his head. Garrett wanted to smooth the tight creases from the corners of his eyes. Frustration curled her fingers. She forced herself to listen. "They're just—gone. The entire family. Seven staff. The groom and stableboy are present and unharmed, but everyone who slept in the house has vanished."
"More wax?"
"Spattered on the floor. Otherwise clean as a whip."
Garrett, dizzy with exhaustion, followed the Duke inside, thoughtful as he led her from room to room. "The groom called the Guard, which is why we are here and not the Colonial Police."
"Politics," Garrett said, too much a lady to spit. "But whoever is behind this doesn't seem to be choosing sides."
"What do you mean?"
"One of yours, one of the Mayor's. Were the windows open when you arrived?"
"Two in the bedrooms only. And what you just said—not precisely true." Alone in the servant's stair, he laid a hand upon her shoulder. She turned to him, and they kissed furtively, a moment's embrace.
"Oh?" she asked, breathless. Her heart pressed, enormous, in her throat.
The Duke's eyes crinkled at the corners, but it wasn't exactly a smile. "Robert Carlson, the house of Commons fellow—he passed