Archangel's Light (Guild Hunter #14)(54)

He looked back down the hallway again. All those photographs, only this one missing. Could be a coincidence, the image removed for some reason before the inhabitants were butchered.

Aodhan’s instincts said otherwise.

Which was why he wasn’t the least surprised when he reached the doorway to the left, and looked inside to find a small but tidy living space. In the center of it was a small table of carved wood. On top of that table sat a framed image of the right size to fit into that missing space in the wall.

Around the image were arranged candles, fresh flowers that had long wilted and turned black, and what looked to be keepsakes from the family—a makeup compact, a journal or notebook, a bracelet of delicate metal flowers of a size unlikely to fit a man’s wrist, a lightweight top of pale citrine that had been neatly folded, and a bottle of half-finished nail polish of a shade the woman in the photograph might wear.

No, not items that had belonged to the family. Items that had belonged to her.

Aodhan recognized her as the same woman who’d been in the family photograph—but she was a touch older here. And in her arms, she held a baby, her face beaming as she looked down at the infant’s scrunched-up little face.

The child wore a hospital bracelet on his little ankle, the mother one around her wrist. Her hospital gown was pale blue, the baby wrapped up in what looked to be a hand-knitted or woven blanket of what might’ve been yellow, though the color of the photograph had faded over the years so it now looked cream.

Aodhan, what’s happening in there?

I don’t know. He described what he was seeing. It’s almost like a shrine. The candles appear to have been lit at some stage. Droplets of wax pooled against the wood of the tabletop.

If, Illium said, the rest of the hamlet wasn’t empty, too, I’d say that someone became obsessed with the mother of the child and decided that if he couldn’t have her, no one could.

Yes. Aodhan looked around the room. But this . . . it’s different. There’s an absence of the kind of sexual perversity that accompanies such obsession. A pretty top chosen rather than intimate garments, a total lack of violence. The way the photograph has been cleaned of dust, the arrangement of the candles and the flowers, it almost looks like love.

Is the boy of an age where he could’ve done this to his family? Illium asked.

The last photo I saw of him was of a child—nine or ten—and that photo was bright, not faded by the years. That leaves the husband . . . but none of that explains the silence of the village.

Are you coming out soon?

Aodhan’s neck muscles tensed. No. There are more rooms to check. He tried to keep his voice even. There was no use snapping at Illium, no use stirring up a fight they’d been having for over a year. Not right now.

Because sooner or later, they had to finish that fight.

Just be careful.

Aodhan bit back the words that wanted to escape. Failed. I was planning to take every dangerous risk possible, but you’ve made me think better of it. He wanted to kick a wall the instant the words were out. Why had he just said that? He wasn’t like this with anyone else.

A pause, before Illium said, You know what? Why don’t you come stand out here, while I go into the house with THE SKINNED PELTS OF MORTALS and then we’ll talk about why you’re snapping at me for behaving normally.

Aodhan closed his eyes, took a second, opened them again. You’re right. You be careful, too. I think this house is empty—which means the danger is outside. And now that he’d put it into words, his skin prickled with the urge to get out there, shield Illium from harm.

I have a fierce kitten protector, was the outwardly insouciant response. She’ll keep me safe with the power of her ferocious meow.

Blue.

I’ve got my sword out. Happy now?

Yes.

Exactly. Don’t get all sarcastic with me for worrying about you.

Having reached the next room down the hall—on the opposite side and just offset from the living area—Aodhan didn’t reply in favor of keeping all his attention on what he was seeing.

It wasn’t much. The room held a single bed, the mattress covered by a handmade quilt soft with age. The scents of talcum powder and a faint sweet perfume permeated the space. His mind flickered with the memory of Demarco’s grandmother. The trim older woman had dropped by Guild HQ while Aodhan was there one day, having brought her grandson a “birthday treat.”

Demarco had grinned, lifted her up off her feet, and swung her around. “Thanks, Gams,” he’d said after she slapped at his shoulder and told him to put her down. Then she’d smiled and kissed his cheeks.

A look at the brush on the small table placed in front of an old mirror confirmed his guess that this was the grandmother’s bedroom—caught in the bristles were a number of gray hairs. The black-and-white photograph of the man he’d assumed to be her deceased husband sealed the deal—it sat on the bedside table, where she’d have seen it each night as she went to sleep.

Next to it was a lopsided clay mug as might be made by a child. A gift from grandson to grandmother. A cherished one, for in that mug were handcrafted cloth flowers with green wire stems.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself murmuring, though none of these people would ever again hear him.

This family was forever broken.





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