Page 4 of Feathers From the Sky

“You alright?” she asks, and she doesn’t let the question linger, knowing the answer already. “I checked the traffic cameras. Not a single one caught anything. So whoever delivered it is probably using some sort of magic. Be it teleportation or some sort of illusion masking, I don’t know.”

“That tracks, considering we haven’t been able to pull Remy up on any cameras since the night Parsons died.”

“You’re not still hung up on that theory, are you? I—Roman, Bill died almost six months before Remy called you. You saw the footage. Bill and his wife died in a hit-and-run, and your Christine was hospitalized for a concussion.”

“Christine?”

“You know,Phantom of the Opera?You’re the ugly one with the mask,” she says. It’s a weak joke, but I know she does it to give me some sort of anchor. But normalcy is not something I will ever have again, so I ignore her.

“I don’t know, Margot. It doesn’t make sense that he just fucking disappeared after that day. Bill had to have something to do with it.”

She sighs, and I know she’s going to attempt being delicate, but she’ll say the same thing she always does.

“There are a few active demon circles in the area. Do you think he—” she begins, and I cut her off.

“He was clean, Margot. Check his blood.”

“I already sent it off.”

“Of course you did,” I sneer, angry with her for believing the worst in Remy. But wasn’t I the same way? It was my fucking fault he was banished. “He’s stayed away from that demon shit for years. Why would he risk it when he had just found Gwyn?”

“Fuck if I know, Roman. All I remember is you having to rescue him a few times.”

“Years ago, Margot. Besides, that was in Chicago.”

“Because demons don’t talk.” I can hear her eyes roll through the phone. “Maybe he got into some shit with—”

“What demons do you know that operate like that? If a demon got him, they would have been sending us pieces of his body for weeks, trying to milk us for whatever they can. It’s not a fucking demon.”

The line is silent, and I know I’ve reached her limit. “I’ll keep looking. Is there anything in particular you want me to look for?” she asks after a moment, voice softer. She’s put on her kid gloves, and it tells me I need to reel it in.

“Send me everything you have on Gwyn and Sasha after Parsons died and before she moved out of that house.”

“That’s what? Eight months worth of shit? Dude. I haven’t even gone through it myself. I’ve been too busy tracking their every fucking move for the last four months.”

“Send it. Any more information on the surrounding covens too,” I bark and hang up.

Gwyn’s dog pushes his nose between my legs, and I pet him. I scratch beneath his collar, and I notice a metal plate attached to the fabric, realizing it’s a nametag. When I can’t place the name, I pull out my phone and look it up. A huff of laughter escapes my lips, the hellhound fromGhostbustersbeing the last namesake I expect.

“Zuul, huh?” I say as I scratch between his ears. He sits, giving me his paw, and I realize he’s injured—perhaps a sprained muscle based on the wrap on his leg. I knew she took him to the veterinarian this past week and she’d stopped taking him on walks, but I had been distracted by my father. I’m not eager for his impending phone call and find it rather fucking telling it was Margot who called me about Remy’s blood and not him.

I stand, pacing around the room as Zuul follows me, nose in my ass the second I pause.

“Would you quit that? Lay down,” I order.

Deciding to do one last perusal of the apartment, I find nothing. Everything is ordinary. Other than the drinking problem and the obvious untreated depression, Gwyneth Parsons is your average twenty-eight-year-old woman.

Twenty-nine.

Even for her birthday, the anniversary of her father’s death, the most unusual thing she’d done was sleep with a bridesmaid.

“Fuck, who am I kidding?” I mumble under my breath. My best bet is finding some sort of contact from her and her father’s past. I need to use her blood to get past the residual wards hanging onto Bill’s belongings at her storage unit. She doesn’t know what a ward is, considering this townhouse holds no such magic.

It’s a shame for her that she ever moved out of her parent’s house. After using her father’s life insurance payout to finish off her student loans, I guessed it had served its purpose for her. The magic lingers there to an unnerving degree. Even now, four months after she’s moved out and listed it for sale, the magic remains, and I struggle to look upon it or remember its existence. The family living there now is especially safe from my kind. If Gwyn knew the moment she moved out of that house it would allow something such as me to find her, to learn every detail about her and her patterns, she never would have stepped a foot outside.

She’d presented herself to me, and she had no fucking idea.

When my phone dings, I’m reminded of the most interesting thing about her when I see her on the move. The GPS on that beautiful car tells me she’s driving back from Waterfront. Brunch with her sister lasted longer than it normally does, and I wonder if she’s hungover. Considering how much tequila I watched her drink the night before, there’s little doubt she feels like shit. I postpone checking the recording app I installed on her phone and pace around the small apartment instead.

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