first, consumed them. . .and then chased the lad out into the street to deal with him more messily."
Garrett shuddered. "What about the splintered door?"
"Misdirection. A smart lad. He'll hang, of course."
"Of course." The door was shut; the curtains were drawn. She laid a hand on his shoulder, leaned her face against his sleeve. "They must have thought I was close."
"You were." He put his arm around her shoulder. "I would have been next, no doubt."
She nodded. This is wrong. And yet. . .what else can we do? "It is a pity that we cannot arrange a search of the Lord Mayor's domicile. I feel certain that we would find a rifle which I could match to the bullet fired at me."
He let the silence hang for a moment before he continued. "What I don't understand is how Forester got admittance to the houses. I know there are rules of consent and so forth, for these dark things to do their will." He looked away. And he's not mentioning Sebastien, although it's costing him something not to.
"Each of the houses invaded had apparently received a surprising bargain on candles recently. And an action can provide consent as easily as a word."
"I am afraid I'm not following you, Abby Irene."
Garrett counted breaths before she answered, pressing her face to his arm. "Consent must be offered," she said. "Express or implied. But think. You awaken, cold and alone. In darkness with a banked fire. You feel a presence looming over you. What is the first thing you do?"
"Reach for my pistol."
"After that."
"Strike a light. Oh!"
"Strike a light, yes. And reach for the candle by your bed."
Wane
(March, 1902)
Garrett lowered her gaze from the beaten-copper diameter of a rising moon to regard the soft-eyed wampyr beside her. The dark fabric of his sleeve lay smooth under her fingertips. A breeze still tasting of winter ruffled the forensic sorcerer's carefully arranged hair and shifted the jewels in her earlobes. "Thank you for coming, Sebastien."
"On the contrary, Abby Irene," the Great Detective murmured through lips that barely moved. "What man could refuse your company of an evening?" A lifted eyebrow made the double entendre express. The moonlight lay like a rush of blood across his cheeks, making Sebastien look almost alive. "Was this the face that launched a thousand ships/ And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?"
"Perhaps in my youth."
"To a connoisseur, value increases with time."
She permitted herself an unladylike snort. Sebastien waited until it was plain she wouldn't answer. "In any case, I'm flattered by the invitation. Although I fear we must be home by dawn. From what I hear of her Grace's parties, we'll miss the best part. Shall we go inside?"
"I suppose we must. The Mayor will be here."
"Simply everyone will be here, my dear. On all sides of the issue—come to fawn on the Prince, or spit on his back." Sebastien handed her up the sweeping front steps of the Duke of New Amsterdam's palatial residence, and she presented her invitation to the butler.
"Detective Crown Investigator Abigail Irene Garrett," the Duke's gentleman said. "And Don Sebastien de Ulloa. Be welcome in my master's house."
"Lady Abigail Irene will do tonight, Seamus," Garrett replied with a formal smile. "Unless you plan to host a murder."
"Oh, no—" But Garrett was already tugging Sebastien over the threshold. She might stumble or bolt if she delayed, so instead she forged ahead to the ballroom. She knew the way.
Sebastien chuckled and hurried to keep up. "What a time for a ball," he said into her ear. She felt the coolness of what passed for his breath.
"The eve of war seems to you a strange time to celebrate?"
The wampyr smiled sideways at the dryness of her tone, leaning close enough that she could smell his skin, like dead leaves in autumn. "Exiles must celebrate where they may."
Shaking her head slightly, closing her eyes in rue, Abigail Irene Garrett entered her rival's den. Jacqueline, the Duchess of New Amsterdam, was renowned for her velvet soirees, for fantasies and folderols, for balls and banquets. Renowned for making the most of whatever society the New World had to offer, and making it her own.
She was the wife of the man Garrett loved.
"You're flushing," Sebastien whispered into her hair. "You need champagne, I think." He led her across to the ballroom and fetched a glass, collecting another that he retained untouched.
"The guest of honor isn't here yet." She let her hand drop from his arm and turned to observe the room, raising the