and wiped the facility clean, knowing how damaging it would be to official Fae relationships? Or had most of the evidence burned? Regardless of the reasons, the Meridian was left to report—not without risk I was sure—on the political mutterings in the streets.
The most prominent of the newspaper’s headlines was: Stuffing the Boxes—How the Rich Man Gets Both His Vote and Yours.
When we’d first met, Shea had mentioned that although the Warckum Territory supposedly elected its officials by popular vote, Ivanova blood had held the governorship for longer than anyone could remember. Whether or not tampering with the elections occurred, I did not doubt friends of the Ivanova regime benefitted from the Governor’s good fortune, fueling their desire to maintain the status quo.
I skimmed the article; then my eye was caught by another, smaller headline in the bottom-left corner of the page. It read: Child Disappearances Still Rampant; Still Unsolved. See page 4.
My heart lodged in my throat, and I practically ripped my way to the middle of the paper. The first paragraph told me all I needed to know.
A new form of population control may have emerged among the impoverished residents of Sheness. As if disease, starvation, and crime-related deaths weren’t enough, child disappearances are occurring in record numbers. The skeptical among us are questioning law enforcement’s devotion to unraveling the cause. Does the loss of infants and toddlers living in squalor really matter to those in power?
I crunched the page in my fist, a single word thrumming in my brain: Sepulchres. Whether humans knew it or not, the timing of the disappearances and the nature of the victims pointed to that conclusion and no other.
I pressed my palms against my temples, compressing the memories of Evernook Island into a coherent whole. There had been Sepulchres on that accursed chunk of rock, once-beautiful beings who had been trapped on the human side of the Bloody Road when the Faerie race had been driven from the Territory; Sepulchres who had survived their separation from magic by feeding on children, the younger the better, because they were so pure; Sepulchres who had been made even more dangerous to humans by torture and abuse. I didn’t know how many of the creatures might have been imprisoned in that fortress, but it was possible some of them had survived the fighting and fire and gone to Sheness.
Pushing back my chair, I dashed to my room and locked the door, images of Shea’s younger sisters, Marissa and Magdalene, springing to mind. They and many other innocent children crawled into their beds safe and sound at nightfall, but some awoke to spindly white fingers and mouths scarred shut. I didn’t know how Sepulchres killed, but no child who gazed upon one would die without screams.
I began to pace, fighting the tide of emotions the memories generated. The human world was gray and black and soiled, full of ugliness and pain—pain that the humans caused themselves and others. And now the masterminds of Evernook had unleashed a horde of monsters. While it seemed clear that Fae-haters were behind the experiments on the island, it wasn’t Fae they were hurting now. I would have reveled in the irony of this fate, except the lives being lost weren’t the right ones. If the creatures would only hunt their tormentors...but then the words I had twice heard from the Sepulchres themselves spilled forth.
“Save us—save us all,” I muttered, repeating their mantra. “But what does that mean?”
Frustrated, I dug my hands into the base of my long hair and tugged, unable to attach any more meaning to the words than on the occasion I’d first heard them. The only certainty was that they were a plea for help. Legend told me Sepulchres weren’t predatory by nature. They needed help, and so did the people of the Warckum Territory.
With a groan of misery, I sank down on my bed. Did I have a responsibility in this by virtue of accidental knowledge? And even if I accepted that I did, what could I do? I dared not deliver the information I had to the unpredictable hands of the newspaper owners. Nor could I approach the Constabularies, who would be duty-bound to arrest me, whether or not they believed my tale.
What about Fi? She seemed to have some line of communication with the Lieutenant Governor, and he knew Sepulchres existed within the Warckum Territory. But he would be smart enough to surmise the information had come from me—Fi would not have personal knowledge of happenings on the coast. And that might also land me in the hands of the Constabularies.
What about Officer Matlock? He had helped me before and was less likely to take me into custody. But was that a risk I was willing to run? No, it wasn’t, at least not until I had recovered and returned the Anlace to the Queen. At that point, with the power of the Redwood Fae behind me, I’d no longer have to fear arrest. And recovering the Anlace had become a far more manageable task thanks to the information I’d obtained from the guard—the sooner I pursued it, the better.
Then I might go to Tom.
Once my affairs were sorted.
Once the stink of Cysur is off you. He’ll smell it on you. He warned you not to try it, but you didn’t listen, and he’ll smell it on you clear as if you slept with hogs.
Air. I needed air. I grabbed my cloak and stepped outside, hoping the voice in my head—the voice that echoed formlessly inside my skull, reminiscent of my own, yet quite distinct—would be drowned out by the bustle of the street.
I stood still for a moment, trying to shake my jitters, then headed south toward the business district, where the guard had indicated I might find Kodiak Sandrovich. A collector might have a shop, and even if he didn’t, his proclivities would surely be known. He had to obtain the pieces in his collection from somewhere. And his name alone suggested he was a member of the upper class, a man who could pay top dollar.
The streets grew less dirty, and the windows of the buildings less grimy, as I walked along. By the time I reached the market district, the shops were in decent repair, though their signs and storefronts were worn and mundane. I glanced up and down the side streets while I advanced, searching for pawn, antique, and collectors’ shops. My eyes lit on a man about a block ahead of me who was busily hanging a freshly painted business sign, and I stopped so suddenly that the people behind me stacked up like a deck of playing cards. They stepped around me, some casting withering glances, and I buried my hands in my cloak and darted across the street. After rushing into the store nearest me, I hastened to look out its front window, surprised to find it was grated with bars. Nevertheless, I studied the workman, gradually relaxing my clenched fists. The worker wasn’t Thatcher More. Still, there was little doubt the store was being prepared for him. The sign read: More Clocks, More Cabinetry, More Skill. Despite my jitters, I smirked. Thatcher was a master carpenter and clockmaker, and the play on words would surely make his business memorable. Then the import of the sign registered. If Thatcher was back in town, so was his family. So was Shea. Sweat prickled the back of my neck and revulsion seemed to rise like bile in my throat as I tried to imagine what I would do if I came face-to-face with her. She’d better hope I didn’t have a weapon.
I tore my gaze from the window and turned around to discover I stood in the very type of store I had wanted to find. Baubles and knickknacks were peppered throughout displays of plates, sculptures, weaponry, glassware, and jewelry, the more valuable of which were in locked cabinets. I spotted the proprietor at a desk, apparently engrossed in record keeping, and wandered over to him, glancing at some of the objects I passed. When he did not look up, I cleared my throat to draw his attention.
“And how can I help you?” he almost sneered, his eyes climbing up and down my form, no doubt assessing how much of his merchandise might be tucked within the folds of my cloak.
“I’m looking for a dagger that once belonged to my aunt,” I informed him. I pushed aside the garment to put my hands on my hips in the hope of allaying his suspicion and encouraging his cooperation. “It’s a pretty thing with a red jewel in the handle, though its true worth lies in sentimental value.”
“A dagger, you say?” He stroked the stubble of his chin with some thoughtfulness. “I’ll show you what I’ve got, though I don’t recall anything the likes of what you’re describing.”
He led me to a glass case that held a row of blades lying on a