Climbing the wrought iron proved exceptionally easy, even for someone as out of practice as he was. He pulled himself up onto the roof and followed the rows of nails across to the front of the building. On the balcony roof, he hesitated, listening. Nothing moved in the house below him, yet the distant touch of magic still skittered across his skin.
He peered over the edge. There was no light in any of the windows, no sense of anyone close. Whoever was performing the magic was on the ground floor, in the back half of the house. Maybe that was why there'd been no magical lock on the back door. There'd been no need with the magician so close.
He swung down and headed for the nearest window. They were the old sash and weight style, which were usually easy to open. He reached into another pocket and grabbed a lock pick, then slid it into the gap between the two window panes and carefully knocked open the catch.
He slipped on some gloves, then slid the window open and looked inside. Furniture sat in the middle of the room, half covered by sheets, and several tins of paint gathered in one corner. Rachel Grant was obviously in the process of redecorating. Question was, would she ever get the chance to finish? He had a feeling the answer was no.
He climbed into the room and slid the window shut. The last thing he needed right now was a breeze to spring to life and gust fresh air through the house. It would be warning enough to whoever was below that someone had entered.
He walked to the door and carefully looked out. The stairs were at the end of the long, dark hallway.
Light rose from below, a pale blue glow that seemed to flicker in and out of focus.
Frowning, he headed toward the stairs, keeping close to the walls so there was less chance of hitting a squeaking floor board. The buzz of magic got sharper, prickling his skin with heat. With it came a murmur. Someone was chanting. Someone whose voice was young and rich. Not the old woman who'd greeted them at the door, if she'd even been real in the first place. Somehow, he doubted it.
But whoever was casting the spell, they were walking the dark path, not the light. The stench of evil lay heavy in the darkness, overriding even the sharp smell of fresh paint. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, listening.
The tempo of magic increased, its touch searing. The spell was reaching a peak. The light pulsed rapidly into the darkness, its color now a sickly yellow-green touched by red—blood red. It was coming from a room down the far end of the hall. He stepped forward, then hesitated as a shadow whisked across the brightness. Its shape was a woman's, not a man's.
There was bright flash, then a wave of energy crashed around him, burning through his mind and sending him reeling back against the wall. He grunted in pain, every intake of breath parching his throat.
The chanting stopped abruptly, and the sense of evil left the house. Cursing, he pushed away from the wall and staggered down the hall.
And found Rachel Grant.
She was lying on her back in the middle of the kitchen floor. If the look on her face was anything to go by, death had caught her by surprise. There was a shattered teapot near her left hand, and a still burning candle near her feet. The black river of tea had run across the tiles, mingling with the blood that surrounded the back of her head.
He squatted next to her, lightly touching her neck. No pulse—not that he expected any with the amount of blood on the floor. But her skin still held a touch of warmth. She hadn't been dead long. He'd missed saving her by maybe ten minutes. Ten lousy minutes.
Biting back his anger, he rose and walked across to the table. The tea in the mugs was still warm. Rachel had known her attacker—known and trusted her. Why else would she have let the woman into her house at this hour of the morning and made her a cup of tea?
He turned, studying the kitchen. The candle's small flame flickered at her feet, barely breaking the darkness. He frowned. It was a rather odd place to stick a candle, and certainly wouldn't have provided the two women with much light. Then he saw the color of the wax—black. It was the sort of candle used in spells.
Frowning, he studied the floor. There were smudges of ash scattered around Rachel's body. Though the lines were now broken, the shape of the pentagram was still evident.
The spell he'd sensed had obviously been performed on Rachel. Question was, why? Especially if she was already dead?
He pulled out his phone and dialed Camille.
"Just about to call you, shapechanger," she said.
He moved around Rachel's body, studying a slight scuff in the ash. It almost looked like a footprint.
"Hasn't Russell reported in yet?"
"No, and its worrying the hell out of me."
"I'll head right over and check it out, then." Holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he dug out his miniature camera from his pocket and took several shots of the footprint and Rachel. Camille would want to see both. "I found Rachel Grant."
Camille sighed. "Dead, I take it from your tone."
"Yeah, but only just. Some woman was still performing a spell on her as I came in." He shifted slightly, taking a snapshot of the candle and the remains of the pentagram around it.
"What sort of spell?" Camille said, voice sharp. "Describe what you see."
"Rachel's on her back, the back of her head apparently caved in. Blood over the floor. Remains of a pentagram drawn in black soot. A black candle near Rachel's feet, still burning."
Camille sniffed. "Could be any damn spell."
"The magic had the feel of the dark path. The light was blue when I came in, but turned a yellowish-green, touched by red."
"That end bit sounds like blood magic. A spell of summoning, perhaps."
A prickle of unease ran across his skin. He glanced around sharply. Though he'd heard no sound, he had the uneasy feeling he was no longer alone in the house. He shoved the camera back into his pocket and rose, moving back to the hall doorway. The shadows seemed to loom in on him, yet he couldn't smell, nor see, anyone hiding within them.
Even so, he lowered his voice. "Would blood magic be powerful enough to rip psychic abilities from a body?"
"Yeah, but the victim would have to be alive to do it."
"She might have been. I might have come in on the tail end of the spell."
"Possible." Camille hesitated. "Which address did you find her at?"
"The place in Carlton."
"I'll come over and have a look. It might be my best chance to figure out the exact spell being used."
"The front door has a spell on it. You'll have to counter it before I can open it."
"That shouldn't be a problem. I'll be there in ten. Don't head off to find Russ until I arrive."
He glanced at his watch. It was nearing six. Thank God it was raining. At least the clouds would temper the sunlight and give Russell more of a chance if he was stuck somewhere. "Hurry," he said and hung up.
He shoved his phone away and stepped into the hall. Through the silence came a whisper of sound—a footstep, in one of the rooms upstairs.
Maybe the woman hadn't left. Maybe she'd just relocated herself to a different room. But there was no smell of magic in the air, nothing beyond paint and a faint whiff of decay.
Frowning, he made his way up the stairs. Dawn's light was beginning to filter in through the windows, filling the hall with gray shadows. He stopped on the landing, listening intently. Nothing moved, and yet something was definitely up here. There was an odd sort of feel to the air—a tension, a sense of expectation. The smell of decay was stronger here, too. But it wasn't the scent of age and mold so often found in old houses. It was the smell of death, of meat long gone rotten.