chapter twenty-eight

I bit back an unexpected surge of anger. Victor had been afraid because a gang of vampires had broken into his home to kill him. Fresh paint and new carpeting hid the signs of violence, but they couldn't erase what had happened here. I wondered how much the Sanchez family knew about the former owner. "Can you talk to him?"

"Given time," Nicholas said lazily.

On another day, I would have been fascinated to study a ghost-talker's magic up close. Some of the bitterest feuds among Porter researchers revolved around the matter of ghosts. There was no question that, in certain cases, something lingered on after death…but was it truly the spirit of the departed?

One school of thought argued that ghosts were nothing but memories given form by survivors. Living humans created ghosts through the mourning process, much as readers provided the belief libriomancers used for our magic. That

theory had been mostly debunked, as there were documented cases of ghosts providing information the survivors shouldn't have known.

Others believed that people with magical powers of their own could leave behind an "impression" of themselves, a kind of magical shadow. Unfortunately, the research had never found any statistically significant correlation between reports of ghosts and magical ability.

And then there was the theory that so-called mediums actually used a form of temporal projection, mentally reaching backward through time to read the minds of the deceased before they died. Given what I had seen and done yesterday in the woods, this line of thought held possibilities.

"How much time?" I asked.

Nicholas waved a hand. His skin reminded me of mildew-damaged paper. Jeff's upper lip curled back in distaste. "This place smells like blood,

bleach, dog piss, and too many damn people."

"Do any of those people smell like the man from the woods?" Nidhi asked. "If Victor left something behind, anyone from this family might have found it."

"I can't say for sure in this form." From the front pocket of his jeans, Jeff tugged out a worn leather pouch. He picked at the knotted cord, then peeled back the pouch to reveal an object wrapped in black velvet. "Hold this."

It was heavy and oblong, solid as stone beneath the wrap. I started to peek beneath the layers.

"Not yet, dammit." Jeff finished unbuttoning his shirt and tossed it onto the floor. He kicked off his shoes, then unbuckled his belt. "The youngsters think it's cool to keep their clothes on for the change, to burst through the seams like they do in the movies. The shredded shirt and jeans look is always in style, but then they figure out that not only are their parents going to make them pay for a new wardrobe, but shapeshifting in your clothes hurts. You ever tried to rip a pair of jeans with your bare hands? I've seen kids howling in pain, stuck between forms and desperately chewing at their own crotch, trying to tear out a stuck zipper."

Age-spotted skin and tufts of white hair couldn't conceal the lean strength in his chest and arms. And legs, for that matter. He kicked his shoes and jeans aside and dropped to all fours. Blue boxer shorts followed next.

"You brought me a werewolf strip show?" Deb smirked. "But I didn't get you anything."

"Now, if you wouldn't mind," said Jeff.

I tugged the wrappings loose. Silver light shone from between the layers. I slid the rest free to reveal a long, gleaming crystal attached to a loop of black leather. "Jeff, is this what I think it is?"

"Yah." Black fur poked through Jeff's skin. The sound of popping bones

and tearing muscle made me wince. His next words were low and gravelly. "Kristen Britain, I think."

"Green Rider, or one of the sequels. Dammit, Jeff, do you know how much trouble you could get in for this?" I was holding a moonstone. A muna'riel, to be precise. Britain's Eletians, essentially an elven race, collected the light of the silver moon in these stones. The purity of the muna'riel made it an exceptional lantern, and the light tended to be off-putting to evil, which might explain why Nicholas was scowling at me. "I thought these things only worked for Eletians. Though I suppose if you pulled it from a scene in which it was already lit, you might be able to lock it into that state…"

"Don't ask me. I never read the book."

I could barely understand his words anymore. I didn't ask him which libriomancer had reached into Britain's books to create the stone, nor what Jeff had paid for it. The Porters kept a close eye on black-market magic, but they couldn't catch everything.

Jeff snatched the crystal from me and looped it over his head. His fingers were curled and knotted. He was panting hard. Pointed teeth dug into his lip. He grabbed his hand and bent the fingers back with a grunt of pain. The knuckles cracked so loudly I thought he had broken his bones, and he gasped. He did the same to the other hand. His fingers finally shrank into furred, clawed toes.

"Damned arthritis." Whatever else he might have said was lost as he finished his transformation into a lean, black-furred wolf. He lowered his gray- dusted muzzle to the floor and sniffed. His lips peeled back in a low growl.

"Oh, cool," I said.

"What is it?" asked Lena.

"I can understand him." Jeff wasn't speaking a true language, but the fish in my head could pick up the thoughts behind his vocalizations. "He doesn't think the family was involved, but whoever killed those wendigos was here. The scent is too faint for it to be someone who lived here."

Jeff padded into the kitchen. Dirty dishes and pans filled the sink. Others were stacked in a wire rack to one side. A toddler and his mother slept at a round table, a half-eaten jar of applesauce between them. The toddler lay with his head on the tray, black hair full of food. Nidhi stroked the hair back from his face and used a napkin to wipe a chunk of applesauce from the side of his nose.

"One of ours died here," Nicholas said, brushing his fingertips over the edge of the sink. He breathed deeply, like he was sniffing a fine wine. "She cried out in pain and anger."