But he wasn’t joking; he was dead, and something was very wrong. The night-haunts never leave a body long enough for the blood to chill. So why hadn’t they come for Colin? Why was he still here?

“Toby?”

“It’s okay.” I patted him on the shoulder with a suddenly clumsy hand, aware of how cold the comfort must seem. “I think this may be why Sylvester sent us here.”

“I don’t think he knew . . .”

“I know.” I pulled my hand away. “Go see when Jan’s getting here.” I didn’t want him to see what I was going to do next. I may not like lying to the young, but even I have my limits.

Quentin nodded and stood, trying to hide his relief as he turned toward Elliot. “Sir? Where is your lady?”

“April went to get her,” Elliot said, voice low and numb.

“How long?” I asked, without looking around as I dragged my forefinger across the wound on Colin’s left wrist. Sometimes being Daoine Sidhe is the most disgusting thing I can imagine. Those of us with skill at blood magic can taste a person’s entire past in the weight of their blood. It makes us excellent counselors and better detectives; it also means we spend a lot of money on mouthwash. After a while, the taste of blood never really goes away.

The blood clung to my finger. I stared at it. The last time I rode the blood, I wound up so bound to a murdered pureblood that I almost followed her into death. A little paranoia was natural. Careful not to glance behind me—I didn’t want to know if Quentin was watching—I slid the finger into my mouth and waited.

Nothing happened. The blood was sour and curdled, and there was nothing in it that spoke of life or death or anything else. I leaned forward, Quentin and the others forgotten. The existence of a fae corpse was jarring and unnatural, but not being able to ride the blood was just plain wrong. Nothing I’d ever heard of could empty blood of its vitality like that. This time I used the first three fingers of my right hand, dipping them into the blood at his throat and sucking them clean. Nothing. Colin’s memories, his self, the things that should have been waiting for me, those were gone.

There was no possible way for this to be good.

I looked up to find Quentin staring at me, expression somewhere between horror and fascination. I met his gaze without blinking, deliberately licking a wayward drop of blood from my lower lip. He was going to have to deal with some of the less attractive aspects of being Daoine Sidhe one of these days. After all, he was one, too.

Peter blanched when I licked the blood away, but Alex just watched, seeming fascinated by the gesture. I flushed, fighting the urge to duck my head, and looked to Quentin. “Have you had any training in blood magic?” I asked.

“A . . . little,” he admitted. “I’ve never . . . not with someone that had . . .”

“There’s a first time for everything. Come down here.” He shook his head before he could stop himself. I nodded firmly. “Yes. I need you to confirm what I’m getting from him. You’re supposed to be helping me. So help.”

He knelt reluctantly, asking, “What do I . . . do?”

“Touch his right wrist. Get some blood on your fingers.” That was the only wound I hadn’t tried yet. Amandine may have been the most powerful blood- worker in the country, but I’m still just a half- blood. It was possible that Quentin, even young and half-trained as he was, would be able to pick up on something I’d missed.

He did as I told him, shivering the whole time. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “It’s all right. You’re doing fine. Now put your fingers in your mouth.” He shot me a terrified look. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to put your fingers in your mouth.” He flinched, and I continued, “Then you’re supposed to swallow. The blood can’t hurt you; it’s just a conduit for the magic.”

“All right,” he said. Screwing his eyes closed, he shoved his fingers into his mouth, and swallowed. There was a pause before he opened his eyes, licking his lips automatically, and said, “When does the magic start working?”

That was what I’d been afraid of. “You didn’t see anything?”

“No. I just . . . it was just blood.” He frowned anxiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You did just fine, Quentin. It’s not your fault.” I looked toward Elliot. “Did you people move anythingin here? Touch anything?”

Elliot flinched, replying, “No, we . . .”

“Good. Who found the body?” Peter raised his hand. I nodded. “When?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.” His voice was steady, but I could still hear the low humming of his unseen wings. He was close to panic.

“Were you alone?”

“For about five minutes. Then Alex came in.”

“Did you see anything unusual when you entered?” When he shook his head, I turned to Alex. “How about you?”

“Nothing. I got here, we called for April, and she went for Elliot.”

“Now she’s getting January. I want this area closed off. Who else is in the building?”

“April and Jan, and Gordan.” Elliot’s eyes lingered on my bloody fingers. The Daoine Sidhe have always had a lot of control over the leadership of Faerie; I think it’s largely because the other races want to keep us where they can see us. People who can talk to the dead are sometimes hard to trust.

“And no one else?” My conviction that they knew more than they were telling me was rising. The men in front of me looked upset and nauseated . . . but not surprised. They weren’t surprised by what had happened to Colin.

Something was lying in the shadows by the water cooler. I frowned and started in that direction, even as Elliot began to answer.

“We’ve been a little light on staffing recently.”

At least he had the good grace to sound embarrassed by the lie. I shot him a sharp look, saying, “Well, looks like it’s getting lighter, doesn’t it?” as I crouched by the water cooler and reached into the shadows, pulling out a well-oiled sealskin. I ran it between my fingers, checking it for damage, and stood, brandishing it as I turned back toward the group.

“This is Colin’s skin,” I said. “Have you ever heard of someone killing a Selkie and notstealing their skin? Because I haven’t.” Selkie skins can be transferred from person to person, turning the almost purely mortal into full-fledged Selkies. They get passed down in the same families for generations; a stolen Selkie skin is worth its weight or more in gold.

“No,” Elliot said, voice growing quiet. “I haven’t.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Peter swallowed hard, asking, “Is he . . . ?”

“Yes. Very.” I allowed myself a small, hard smile. “Trust me on this one.”

“But his hands . . .”

“And his eyes,” I said. Peter looked away. I was finding it hard to dredge up sympathy for his squeamishness—after all, he wasn’t the one with blood on his lips.

Quentin tugged on my arm, and I looked toward him, asking, “You okay, kid?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.” He managed to sound both humble and embarrassed about the idea. Not a bad trick.

I tried to sound reassuring as I said, “That’s okay, it’s normal the first time. Elliot, where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the entry hall, to the left,” Elliot said, sounding shell-shocked.

“All right. Come right back, okay?” Quentin nodded and took off at a run, heading for the promised bathroom. I just hoped he’d make it in time. His pride would never let him forgive himself if he didn’t.

I waited for his footsteps to fade before turning back to Elliot, saying mildly, “If anything happens to him, I’ll hurt you in ways you’ve never imagined. You know that, right?”

“Of course. Is the boy . . .”

“He’s my assistant.” I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, looking at the smear left behind. If I didn’t know better, it would have looked like lipstick.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know better.