Lenoir felt sick. At the same time, he could not deny that he was captivated. One short week ago, he had been investigating (or, more accurately, Kody had been investigating) a set of bizarre, but ultimately harmless, crimes. Then, when Zach had been taken, Lenoir had assumed they were dealing with a run-of-the-mill predator—disturbing, certainly, but sadly commonplace. The reality of what was actually going on was unfathomable. Even Kody, who had seen a conspiracy that Lenoir himself had refused to acknowledge, would never have imagined something this dark and complex.
“Whose soul are they trying to resurrect?”
“I no longer recall his name.”
“Was he from Kennian?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago did he die?”
Vincent considered. “I have lost the ability to measure time as mortals do. But I think he would be a man now, perhaps twenty or twenty-five.”
Assuming the boy had died at Zach’s age, that would mean he passed away more than a decade ago. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“He was murdered.”
Somehow Lenoir was not surprised. “Who murdered him?”
Vincent closed his eyes, as though remembering. “His father.”
Something bumped Lenoir’s memory, a thought brushing past too swiftly for him to recognize. He let it go; it would be back when it was ready. For now, he had to focus on the most direct route to Zach. “Let us leave that for the moment. You said you had seen two more corpse thieves. Do you know where they are?”
“Of course. I can feel when they are near.”
Lenoir could not help himself; he had to ask. “Then why couldn’t you find me, all those years ago?”
Vincent turned to look at him, and Lenoir knew immediately he had made a mistake. The terror returned in a surge so powerful that his stomach heaved.
He raised a shaky hand. “I am sorry I asked. It was foolish curiosity. I have no intention of trying to escape.”
Vincent said nothing.
Lenoir stood unsteadily, his fear-soaked muscles barely able to carry him. “Let us go. We can interrogate your next . . . your mark.” Somehow he did not think Vincent would think of the corpse thieves as “victims.”
Vincent swept forward with liquid grace, Lenoir hurrying after. He did not know what Vincent considered “near,” but he hoped they had some distance to travel, for he needed time to recover himself. He would not be an effective interrogator if he was still quivering when they arrived.
A light drizzle had begun to fall as Lenoir and Vincent quit the market district, and by the time they reached the Camp, it had become a full-blown downpour. It tortured the meager shanties that passed for dwellings, the construction of which could scarcely withstand the daily travails of gravity, let alone a storm. Rain clattered noisily against scraps of tin siding, soaked thatch and animal skins, gouged away muddy foundations. It pooled in every sag and hollow, running in rivulets from sunken rooftops. The haze of smoke that typically choked the narrow gaps between the tents and hovels began to dissolve as water leaked through, snuffing the cooking fires. Muddy pathways were swiftly becoming rivers of sludge, carrying refuse and excrement and anything else not tied down. In a few short minutes, the Camp had gone from depressing slum to perfect hell.
The stench of the place was almost more than Lenoir could take, and his stomach caught in his throat as he trailed Vincent between the hovels, doing his best to keep to high ground lest his shoes become steeped in something vile. He bowed his head against the rain, barely glancing at the scenes he passed—bedraggled men scrambling to cover holes in their shelters, bony dogs shivering in corners, thick brown water accumulating in puddles that threatened to flood nearby dwellings. Even so, he could not help registering the fact that nearly every face he saw was Adali. The Camp was one of the largest quarters of Kennian; Lenoir would not have guessed there were so many Adali squatters in the Five Villages. It made him realize how long it had been since he visited the slums. Like most hounds, he avoided the place at all costs. Though the Camp teemed with crime, nobody much cared if the slum dwellers were at one another’s throats.
Even over the rain, Lenoir could hear coughing from inside many of the huts—from the smoke, or disease, or both. But he could also hear laughter. Children chattered and squealed, their small voices incongruously bright, like flowers pushing up through the muck. Even here, he thought, life goes on. What have these people to look forward to? And yet they laugh. They have children. They strive. They do not wallow in despair and wait for death to claim them. Caught in a sudden fit of self-loathing, he quickened his step, willing this errand to be over.
As for Vincent, the spirit was wholly undaunted by the rain, and seemed to take no notice of the mud that soaked his boots and trousers. His raven black hair was plastered against his skull, shining silver in the moonlight, but he made no effort to push it back off his face. He moved with purpose, his steps guided by some unknown sense. He seemed barely even to register his surroundings, relying on neither sight nor sound to orient him. Lenoir supposed that the only reason Vincent was on foot, instead of simply appearing in a shadow somewhere, was so his mortal companion could follow.
The spirit stopped in front of a nondescript hovel, turning to look wordlessly at Lenoir. Nodding, Lenoir ran a hand over this thinning hair and knocked on the door, a slab of rotting wood mounted on crude hinges of nails and wire loop. Vincent stepped back, melting into the shadows so completely that for a moment Lenoir wondered if he had vanished altogether.
A disheveled Adal answered the door. He eyed Lenoir suspiciously, glancing around to see if there were others nearby. “What?” he growled.
“Pardon me for disturbing you, sir, but I wonder if you might be willing to answer a few questions.”
“What kind of questions? Who are you?” He had the high cheekbones and wide-spaced eyes of his people, and his brow was beaded with moisture. Rain or sweat? There was no way to tell.
“I am Inspector Lenoir of the Metropolitan Police.” Lenoir spoke in a low voice, barely audible above the rain. It was doubtful that the neighbors were fond of hounds. “And I am soaked to the bone, so kindly let me in.”
The look of terror that crossed the man’s face was so obvious that Lenoir wondered how he survived in the slums. He was evidently not a hardened criminal. Lenoir doubted he could even hold his own in a card game. “What do you want?” the man repeated, his own voice lowered to a near whisper.
“You know perfectly well what I want.” Lenoir was not typically so direct, but with a man this cowardly, intimidation was the best tactic. “Let us go inside, and we can talk without involving my men.”
“I don’t see anybody else.” The man looked over Lenoir’s shoulder again.
“Of course not,” Lenoir said impatiently. “It would make little sense for them to show themselves unless they are needed.”
The man hesitated, but he stood aside for Lenoir to enter, closing the door behind him. Definitely not a cardplayer, Lenoir thought.
There was no fire in the hut, only a small oil lamp that scarcely cast enough light to see by. For the first time in a great many years, Lenoir was thankful for the dark.
“Vincent,” he said calmly, “please show yourself. You will save us some time.”
The man barely had time to look confused before Vincent appeared in a corner of the hut, his absinthe eyes flashing in the lamplight. The man started to scream, but Lenoir was ready, leaping forward and clamping his hand over the man’s mouth.