Page 220 of The Call of Crimson
“Good morning, General,” Ryder says.
“Morning,” Darian and I reply at the same time.
Our eyes connect, a look of mutual irritation on each of our faces.
Zion chuckles, and Ryder shakes his head.
“What investigation does Ayden deem above your expertise?” I ask, fighting a smirk, as I swing into the saddle.
Ignoring my insult, Darian replies, “Four bodies have turned up over the last month. All male, all with their throats slit.”
“Is there anything linking them?”
“Other than their proximity to the castle? No.”
“Where are we headed now?”
“The fourth body was only discovered this morning.” Darian swings into his own saddle and adjusts the reins. “We’re on our way to speak with his widow.”
I nod in understanding, and we fall into a comfortable silence as we make our way through town.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at a modest home located in the middle of the city. Two stories overlooking the square, painted deep green with white shutters.
The door opens to reveal a pretty female with blonde hair and mossy green eyes. She distantly reminds me of the brothers, Oren and Talon, from Ayden’s counsel.
“Greetings, General,” she says politely to Darian before turning to me. “Princess. How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon, Mariel. We’re here about Holt.” He smiles grimly. “May we come in?”
She nods, stepping aside to let us inside.
Two small heads peek from around a corner as we enter the home. Sandy blonde hair and green eyes stare up at us.
“Children, go to your rooms, please.”
Reluctantly, they disappear down the hall, doors slamming behind them.
Mariel gestures toward the sitting room. “Would you like to sit?”
“Thank you,” I say, settling into the chair closest to the fire. “Your children seem to be handling things well, all things considered.”
Mariel stiffens, taking a deep breath before answering, “Yes, well, it’s hard to miss someone you barely know.”
I nod in sad understanding.
Darian clears his throat. “When was the last time you saw Holt?”
“Three days ago.”
“Is it normal for him to be away for several days at a time?”
Mariel offers us tea, taking a sip of her own. “Business usually takes him away from home for weeks at a time. He is, was, a textiles merchant.”
I remain quiet, studying the female as Darian continues questioning her. She’s well put together, her eyes holding a certain sadness, but not the grief I expect. Her cream dress is perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle to be seen. Golden hair is twisted neatly in a bun, not a single lock out of place.
This female is more composed on the day her husband was found dead than I’ve been since Elijah died.
Grief is a fickle mistress.
