“But you didn’t go because . . . ?”

Her smile was grim. “This is my County. I leave it, I’m probably not getting it back without a lot more lives lost. I’m staying as long as there’s any chance we can save what we’ve been building here.”

“Oberon save me from the idealists,” I muttered. Louder, I said, “I need to know everything. Where the bodies were found, who found them, who might have had access to those areas before the bodies were discovered, everything. Photographs would be good, if you have them.” I’d be surprised if they didn’t have security cameras, given the rest of the knowe.

“Whatever you need,” Jan said. “Of course, you realize that if it somehow turns out you’ve found a way to mimic someone else’s magic and you’re not who you say you are, I’ll have you tried for treason.”

“And I’ll applaud it. Did anyone photograph the bodies? I want to compare the wounds.”

Elliot looked sickened. Jan squeezed his shoulder again, saying, “No—”

“Damn.”

“—but we have the bodies, if you’d like to see them.”

I stared. “What?”

“We have the bodies.” Jan looked at me levelly. “They’re in the basement.”

The cafeteria was an unmarked murder scene and the basement was full of bodies? Cute. On the other hand . . . a firsthand examination might give me something to go on, and I needed it. Colin apparently died of three small punctures, none of which hit a major artery, and some minor blood loss. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Have you taken Colin there?” I straightened, gesturing for Quentin to come. He moved to flank me, silent.

Jan nodded. “Peter and Gordan will have finished moving him by now.”

Those two were toting bodies down the stairs while the full-sized people sat around? Oh, thatwas a fair division of labor. “Good. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Elliot asked. It was clear he knew the answer but was hoping to be wrong.

Tough. “The basement. I need to see the bodies.”

“Right.” Jan straightened, taking her hand off Elliot’s shoulder. “Follow me.”

“Can I stay here?” Elliot’s voice sounded shaky. “I don’t want to go down there.” Jan gave me a pleading look, and I nodded. With the way the morning was going, he’d throw up on the bodies. I’m no forensics expert, but even I know that vomit doesn’t usually improve the evidence.

“You can stay here,” I said. When he brightened, I continued, “I want you to get me everything you have on the victims. Personnel files, medical records—anything.”

“I can do that,” he said, tone almost painfully grateful.

“I’m going to want to search their offices and work spaces. I’ll also need to examine the murder scenes.” There might be something,unlikely as it was starting to seem. “All right?”

“No trouble at all.”

“Good. Jan, Quentin, let’s go.”

“All right.” Jan looked over her shoulder, asking, “Elliot, will you be okay?”

“No. But I don’t think it matters right now. I’ll cope.” Elliot stood. “Take them to the basement. I’ll start finding the stuff they need.”

“Do you need anyone to help?” They spoke like equals, but there was an underlying unease there—I got the feeling he was usually the one taking care of her, not the other way around.

“I’ll call April if I need help,” he said, forcing a smile.

“All right, Elliot.” She moved toward the door. We hurried to catch up.

“What do you think?” I murmured to Quentin.

“I think we should leave a trail of bread crumbs,” he replied.

I barked a humorless laugh and picked up the pace.

The route followed a series of twisting halls over what the windows indicated to be multiple floors. I was learning not to trust my eyes at ALH. By the time we stopped, I was so disoriented that I didn’t know if we were on the roof, the ground floor, or the island of Manhattan. The last hall was lit by dim fluorescent bulbs, with a floor covered in industrial gray linoleum. The only door in sight was painted dull orange, trimmed with yellow. A sign at eye level read “Warning: Hazardous Materials. Keep Out.”

Jan saw me eyeing it. “It’s a joke. It’s been hanging there for years. We didn’t put it up because . . .”

“Fine,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. “Can we get this over with?”

“Right.”

The stairs descended almost vertically into a large, well-lit room. Judging by the stacks of computer parts and desk furniture lining the walls, they used it for storage before it became a makeshift morgue. The air was cold and tasted faintly bitter, like machine oil and carpet cleaner. Three army cots sat in the center of the room, covered by white cotton sheets with unmistakable shapes beneath them. The dead have their own geometry.

Jan stopped at the base of the stairs. I gritted my teeth and walked past her.

“Jan?”

“Yes?”

“Come here. Quentin, you too.” No sense coddling him now—he was going to have to face the reality of our situation sooner or later.

They walked over to me, both frowning. Quentin was trying to look stoic; Jan just looked sad. I held my hand over the sheet, asking, “This is . . . ?”

“Barbara,” Jan said. “She was the first.”

“Right.” I studied the shape through the sheet, trying to get an idea of the body before I disturbed it. Under normal circumstances, I leave the dead to the night-haunts and the police . . . but the night-haunts had opted out, and I couldn’t exactly call the police when the bodies belonged to clearly inhuman creatures. That left me. Reaching down, I folded the sheet away from Barbara’s face. Jan turned away. Quentin put a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide.

Alive or dead, Barbara was beautiful. Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her lips were naturally red, making her look like every Disney princess that’s ever graced the silver screen. Her hair was a long, toffee-colored tangle, and bands of matching fur tipped her sharply pointed ears. The only marks on her were the punctures at her wrists and neck, identical to the marks I’d seen on Colin: clearly missing the major arteries and just as clearly fatal.

“Toby . . .”

“I know, Quentin. Jan?”

“Yes?”

“You know who we’re supposed to be looking at. Is this Barbara?”

“Yes.” She sounded strained.

I knew how she felt. “When did she die? I need a time frame.”

“Sometime over Memorial Day weekend. She stayed late on Friday—she had a deadline to meet—and that was the last time anyone saw her alive. Terrie found her on the cafeteria floor when she came in on Monday.”

“Barbara was already dead?” I bent, prying her left eye open, and stared into the jade-green iris. Her pupil didn’t contract. I let go.

“She was . . . like this.”

“Did Terrie check for a pulse or try to perform CPR?”

“She said Barbara was cold and didn’t respond when her name was called.” She grimaced. “Terrie couldn’t call the ambulance. She couldn’t spin an illusion that would last long enough to fool the paramedics if the night-haunts didn’t come.”

“Don’t you have security cameras?” I raked both hands through my hair. “Is there a way we can get a better idea of when this happened?”

“We have cameras, but they weren’t running.”

I dropped my hands, turning to stare at her.

“We don’t know what happened. All the records were wiped.”

“So you have no idea when this woman actually died, and a four-day window for the event.” Jan nodded. I groaned. “Lovely. Terrie works nights, right? When does she get in?”

“She works from nine at night until six in the morning, usually. She’d taken the weekend off for a convention—she stopped in Monday morning to turn on the lights and make sure the place was still standing.”

“So Terrie wasn’t expected?”

“No.”

“And what time did she find the body?”

“4:52 AM.” The exactness of the answer startled me. I blinked at her, and she shrugged. “She paged us—Elliot and I—as soon as she realized Barbara was cold.”