The night-haunts devour our true dead, and they leave pretty fictions in their place for the mortal world to mourn. I don’t know when we made that bargain with them, but there’s no breaking it now, and disgusting as it is, it has its purpose.

Knowing that what I was dealing with wasn’t really Evening’s body didn’t make it any easier. The night-haunts only mimic what they see.

The replica was sprawled by the couch, open eyes staring at the ceiling. I fought the urge to turn and run, perversely glad that I’d already thrown up breakfast. Part of me was still able to marvel at the detail the night-haunts had worked into their creation. Every inch of her human disguise was flawlessly replicated, even down to the obvious violence of her death.

I knelt beside the body, letting the analytical part of my mind click on as I scanned the area around it. There were bloody footprints on the near-white carpet, but those were unavoidable; there was nowhere to step that wasn’t covered in blood. A few of the officers had plastic bags tied over their shoes and if the killers were smart, they’d done something similar; none of the prints I could see had a distinctive enough tread to let me pick them out of a crowd. If the murder weapon was left behind, the police tagged and bagged it before I got there. Back when I was a P.I., I sometimes lamented not working directly with the cops—my job would have been a lot easier if I had access to hard evidence. Unfortunately, I hate the sight of blood and I can’t work mornings, so a career with the force isn’t really in my future.

I caught myself with a jolt, realizing where my thoughts were going. No. This was a one-time thing; it was about necessity, not about my future. I gave up that life. I wasn’t going back.

There was one way to distract myself from thinking too hard about police procedure, or much of anything beyond why I never wanted to do this again. Steeling my nerves, I turned my attention to what was left of Evening.

Her bathrobe had been white when she put it on; now it was a dark brownish-red, except for a few spots on the sleeves. The body holds an amazing amount of blood. There were two obvious gunshot wounds, one in the shoulder and one in the stomach, but neither should have killed her. They would have hurt like hell, but she would have lived.

Everything considered, she probably died when they slashed her throat.

Her arms were straight at her sides, but her legs and hips were twisted—she was kicking right up until the end. Someone pinned her down while her throat was cut, then held on until she stopped struggling. That meant there were at least two killers, maybe more. I had to give her one thing: she hadn’t been taken by surprise. The look on her face was pure anger, almost hiding the underlying foundation of fear. She died kicking, yes, but she also died pissed off.

The blood wasn’t the worst part. Neither was the second mouth beneath her chin. That title went to her round-eared, blunt-featured face, framed by black hair shot with veins of gray and matted down with blood. The Evening Winterrose I knew had features that looked like the last, perfect work of a dying sculptor, ears that tapered to sharp points and eyes the impossible dark blue of midnight; she had hair that wavered between black and purple, with highlights of pink, orange, and blue, like an aurora. She was wild and terrible and strange, one of the Daoine Sidhe, the fairest of the fae, and she was never, ever human. What the night-haunts left would never be anything else. Death wouldn’t even let her keep her true face.

Something wasn’t right about the body. I leaned in for a better look at her wounds, already knowing that they wouldn’t tell me anything. Maybe there are foren sics experts that can look at a knife slash and tell you everything there is to know about whoever made it, but I’m not one of them. All I know is what I’ve learned through experience, and my experience was telling me that something was wrong.

There are two kinds of problems in my world: human and fae. Back when I was doing private investigation on a professional basis, most human problems could be solved with a camera and a well-placed microphone, and when a human problem looked like it was getting deadly, I gave it back to the humans. They can handle their own trash.

Fae problems are another matter, because my loyalty is to Sylvester, even now, and my actions reflect on him. I’m his knight, and that means that no matter how bad the fae problems get, I have to see them through. This was a fae problem. Whether I liked it or not, it needed a fae solution.

Some of the blood in the carpet was still wet enough that it was soaking through the knees of my jeans. I ran a finger across one of the deeper stains, forcing fresh blood to well up through the fiber.

My mother is Daoine Sidhe. That means I am, too, debased as I may be. There are ways of talking to the dead that are almost exclusively ours—or, if not talking to them, at least coming to a better understanding. Evening’s blood could let me taste her death. The body was gone, but the blood would remember. Blood always remembers.

I raised my finger to my lips.

Blood magic is dangerous, because it skips the brain and goes straight for the gut. When you’re talking about someone as weak as I am, you’re lucky if nobody winds up trying to fly off the top of a ten-story building. Out of all Titania’s descendants, only the Daoine Sidhe can measure another’s death by the taste of their blood; everyone else with that capacity descends from Maeve and the darker paths of Faerie. Evening was my fifth time. It doesn’t get any better with practice.

The world twisted until I was looking at the apartment through a red-tinted fog. The police and the body were gone; this was what the world looked like through Evening’s eyes just before the end. It was disorienting but not painful, like trying to walk after three beers. The knowledge that coming down from this would be worse than a hangover hovered on the edge of my awareness, but I pushed it away, forcing myself deeper into the red.

The room snapped into focus, clean, perfect, and unmarred by any signs of a struggle. A warm wave of satisfaction flowed over me. Everything was where it belonged.

Especially the key.

Pulling myself back from the veil of Evening’s memories, I dragged my fingers across the bloody carpet again. Key? What key? Her blood was bitter and sweet at the same time, and my eyes unfocused, sending me crashing back into the moments before Evening’s death.

The door slams open, but it doesn’t matter; they’re too late. I know that as I turn to face them, phone in my hand. It’s too late. October knows, and she’ll come to chase her answers to ground. They’re too late, too late to take the key, and she’ll find what’s been left for her to find, she’ll end this mockery at last . . .