women. No, my feeling toward Eleanor is pity, nothing more.”
Damn. We could both sense that he meant it. Another possibility squashed.
“We have nothing further to ask,” I said.
Raven added, “I assume that the police have already warned you not to leave town.”
“They think
I’m
a suspect, me! But of course I was his rival, of course they’d think—but
me
! How could they . . . ?”
We left him engrossed in a new round of babbling.
“That,” Raven said as we headed down the path, birds and squirrels doing their birdie and squirrelly activities all around us, “is either the most innocent man we’ve ever met or the finest actor.”
“He’s gay. That was true. He pities Mrs. Ex. That was true, too. And he really didn’t know how Dexter died.”
“That doesn’t mean Sinclair didn’t send an assassin: ‘Just do the job; don’t tell me how you do it.’”
I glanced at my partner. “Remind me never to get you really teed off at me.”
“Hah,” Raven began.
Then all hell broke loose, almost literally. Magic alarms blared out on all sides, nothing audible to the nonmagical but forceful enough to us to nearly stagger us.
“Sinclair!” we exclaimed as one, and raced back the way we’d just come. IDs out and yelling the mantra “MBI! Let us through!” we forced our way through the confused crowds of workers and grim-faced guards to Sinclair’s office. What had been the door to his office was now just so many splinters. Where were his wards? They should have slammed into existence the moment there was—
No, they’d only have formed in the case of a magical attack. The . . . thing menacing Sinclair, backing him against a wall, had no magical aura at all.
“What the hell is that?” Raven asked.
“Not from hell—not a demon . . .”
What it was, though, I couldn’t say. Something huge that looked like a weird cross between a lithe black panther and a heavy-furred ogre out of Faerie. But it lacked the sharp psychic tang of anything out of that Other Realm, and besides, no Faerie thing would be caught out in the daylight—
That didn’t really matter. The thing wasn’t being stopped by any of the defensive spells Sinclair was throwing at it, though all around the creature, glass was breaking and wood shattering.
Great. Not only wasn’t the monster magical in itself, it was also immune to magic. But this was definitely the thing that had killed Dexter, because judging from those powerfully massive arms and clawed hands, it was planning to tear Sinclair’s head off, too.
It’s at times like this that I really wish MBI agents carried guns.
Raven didn’t waste time in regrets. Seeing a man about to have his head torn off is a pretty good incentive for one of those feats of strength emergencies give us. Raven snatched up one of the heavy chrome and leather guest chairs as though it weighed nothing, and hurled it at the thing. The chair slammed into the monster between the shoulder blades, and it staggered—but didn’t fall. Instead, the thing whirled with alarming speed, and we saw a face like something out of a nightmarish storybook: eyes that were too big, too flaming red, nose like that of a dog, a wide human mouth filled with just too many rows of fangs.
No wonder we hadn’t sensed any magic at the murder scene—the damned thing was extra-dimensional, outside the scope of our talents.
In fact, it was so alien that it looked like a kid’s idea of a monster. Maybe that’s what inspired me—besides the realization that my partner, who was now panting from the strain of throwing a heavy chair, was about to be lunch. But some vague memory from childhood surfaced, from those days before I knew that things like this did exist outside the storybooks.
“Stop that!” I shouted at the monster—and the startled thing froze. Feeling like an idiot, I scolded, “Bad monster! Bad monster!”
It actually whimpered, a confused, puzzled sound.
“Go home!” I commanded, and
Damn. We could both sense that he meant it. Another possibility squashed.
“We have nothing further to ask,” I said.
Raven added, “I assume that the police have already warned you not to leave town.”
“They think
I’m
a suspect, me! But of course I was his rival, of course they’d think—but
me
! How could they . . . ?”
We left him engrossed in a new round of babbling.
“That,” Raven said as we headed down the path, birds and squirrels doing their birdie and squirrelly activities all around us, “is either the most innocent man we’ve ever met or the finest actor.”
“He’s gay. That was true. He pities Mrs. Ex. That was true, too. And he really didn’t know how Dexter died.”
“That doesn’t mean Sinclair didn’t send an assassin: ‘Just do the job; don’t tell me how you do it.’”
I glanced at my partner. “Remind me never to get you really teed off at me.”
“Hah,” Raven began.
Then all hell broke loose, almost literally. Magic alarms blared out on all sides, nothing audible to the nonmagical but forceful enough to us to nearly stagger us.
“Sinclair!” we exclaimed as one, and raced back the way we’d just come. IDs out and yelling the mantra “MBI! Let us through!” we forced our way through the confused crowds of workers and grim-faced guards to Sinclair’s office. What had been the door to his office was now just so many splinters. Where were his wards? They should have slammed into existence the moment there was—
No, they’d only have formed in the case of a magical attack. The . . . thing menacing Sinclair, backing him against a wall, had no magical aura at all.
“What the hell is that?” Raven asked.
“Not from hell—not a demon . . .”
What it was, though, I couldn’t say. Something huge that looked like a weird cross between a lithe black panther and a heavy-furred ogre out of Faerie. But it lacked the sharp psychic tang of anything out of that Other Realm, and besides, no Faerie thing would be caught out in the daylight—
That didn’t really matter. The thing wasn’t being stopped by any of the defensive spells Sinclair was throwing at it, though all around the creature, glass was breaking and wood shattering.
Great. Not only wasn’t the monster magical in itself, it was also immune to magic. But this was definitely the thing that had killed Dexter, because judging from those powerfully massive arms and clawed hands, it was planning to tear Sinclair’s head off, too.
It’s at times like this that I really wish MBI agents carried guns.
Raven didn’t waste time in regrets. Seeing a man about to have his head torn off is a pretty good incentive for one of those feats of strength emergencies give us. Raven snatched up one of the heavy chrome and leather guest chairs as though it weighed nothing, and hurled it at the thing. The chair slammed into the monster between the shoulder blades, and it staggered—but didn’t fall. Instead, the thing whirled with alarming speed, and we saw a face like something out of a nightmarish storybook: eyes that were too big, too flaming red, nose like that of a dog, a wide human mouth filled with just too many rows of fangs.
No wonder we hadn’t sensed any magic at the murder scene—the damned thing was extra-dimensional, outside the scope of our talents.
In fact, it was so alien that it looked like a kid’s idea of a monster. Maybe that’s what inspired me—besides the realization that my partner, who was now panting from the strain of throwing a heavy chair, was about to be lunch. But some vague memory from childhood surfaced, from those days before I knew that things like this did exist outside the storybooks.
“Stop that!” I shouted at the monster—and the startled thing froze. Feeling like an idiot, I scolded, “Bad monster! Bad monster!”
It actually whimpered, a confused, puzzled sound.
“Go home!” I commanded, and
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