Pity and anger entwined inside Ashwini. “Anything else?” she said, fighting to keep her voice level.

“Not yet. I’ll forward you the blood test results and any other forensic evidence.”

“Her fingerprints could significantly speed up identification,” Janvier said, white grooves at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll get started on them right away.”

Thanking the pathologist, Ashwini stepped out of the morgue and into the cool white corridor empty of all other life. It was odd; every time she came to the morgue, it was to exit into this cool quiet and yet it never failed to unsettle her, despite the fact that, to her ability, this place was almost peaceful. The dead kept their secrets.

Striding through the silence, she didn’t refer to what the pathologist had shown them; there was nothing to say, Janvier’s anger as white-hot as her own. “I’ve sent the image of the tattoo to the Guild computer team, asked them to run a search against all possible databases. They’ll do the same as soon as the fingerprints come through, liaise with the Tower team throughout.”

“What about the face?” Janvier zipped up his jacket as they stepped outside into the light snow that had begun to fall. “The Tower has access to an artist who can rebuild it.”

Zipping up her own jacket and flipping up the collar, she said, “Can he—she—do it without the skull? I don’t want to strip away the skin the victim has left.” She should be allowed that dignity at least.

“I’ll ask,” Janvier said, not questioning her irrational choice. “It may be possible with high-resolution scans and X-rays.”

When he went to hand her a helmet, she shook her head. “I’m going to walk to Guild Academy, see if I can pick up useful scuttlebutt from the other hunters.” Her brethren might have seen or heard something useful without realizing its significance. “I’ll also drop by the other businesses in the area near the restaurant, see if anyone has security footage or was around late last night.”

“I can join you.”

“No, I think it’s better I do this myself. Even a hint of Tower interest and people start getting nervous—not to mention, your presence will raise questions.” Ashwini, on the other hand, could explain hers away by saying she was doing a favor for a cop friend in order to assuage the boredom of being on mandatory sick leave.

Stowing the helmet, Janvier straddled his bike. “When will you tell me about your brother, cher?” he asked in a voice as dark and as mysterious as the slow-moving waters in the land he called home.

Ashwini’s thoughts filled with the terrible secret she’d carried within for so long. He had to know, that much had become clear to her during their ride . . . but she didn’t have the courage to face the pain on this cold morning while the afterimage of death lingered on her retinas.

“Not today,” she whispered.

•   •   •

Watching Ash walk away into the falling veil of snow, long and lithe and alone, Janvier fought the urge to haul her back, demand her trust. That would get him nothing. She was wounded deep inside and, like any wounded creature, would strike out in an effort to protect herself. Not only that, in attempting to force her, he’d lose the faith she already had in him.

And his Ashblade offered that faith with the wariness of one who’d once had the gift of it betrayed.

Revving the engine, he made himself leave. He might have been born in a time when a man protected his woman from the world, but he’d come of age in a changing world, and, unlike some vampires of his generation, he didn’t cling to the nostalgia of what once was, choosing instead to embrace the new world while never forgetting his past.

Ash would die if caged.

Even were the cage built with love and a devoted need to protect her from harm.

The image an ugly one, he rode through the streets with pitiless focus, taking the bike directly into the Tower’s underground garage. He knew he’d passed at least five levels of security by the time he brought it to a halt—security most people never glimpsed. Striding to the elevator afterward, he didn’t jerk in surprise when Naasir dropped from the ceiling to stand beside him, having had his senses open for the vampire.

Feet bare under his jeans and the incongruously soft-looking black V-necked sweater he wore over a pale blue shirt with the ends hanging out, he said, “You didn’t bring our hunter?”

Naasir had a feral charm that drew women to him—be they mortal, vampire, or angel. Janvier had seen more than one experienced immortal make a fool of herself over him. But despite the way the vampire liked to needle Janvier every so often, his interest in Ash wasn’t romantic or sexual, the possessiveness he displayed more comparable to that he exhibited with Raphael and the Seven.

“She’s at Guild Academy.” Attempting to get his mind off the old pain he’d glimpsed in Ash’s eyes before she walked away, he tested the texture of Naasir’s sweater. “Is this cashmere?”

“So?” A growl. “It’s cold here. I don’t like the cold, and the shop lady said this would keep me warm.”

Janvier was momentarily diverted from his thoughts by the idea of Naasir shopping in one of the exclusive department stores that sold this type of clothing; the stores were open all hours to cater to an immortal clientele. He had a hunch the vampire had walked into the first clothes shop he’d seen when the cold began to pinch. “Did the woman in the shop also tell you shoes might help?”