Black Wings, Gray Skies (Black Hat Bureau 4)

“Hmm.” I reached back in my memory. “The third victim’s blood was found on Morris Island, right?”

“Near the lighthouse.” He checked the files on his phone. “At the mouth of Charleston Harbor.”

“We’ll have to charter a boat if we want to see it for ourselves.”

The odds of a wreath surviving out there this long were slim, but I bet there had been one.

“That can be arranged.” He watched me. “There are tours that go out that way.”

“Let’s find out if our victim took one.” I kept circling back to our earlier points. “If so, we can book with that company and get an idea of how those last few hours went down.”

One good thing about the bountiful tourism? It made finding a lift—land or sea—fast and cheap.

“Easily done,” Asa told me then pulled out his phone and began texting. “Colby added it to her to-do list.” After logging the unhappy pinch of my lips, he resumed typing. “Which she will start on tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I shook off my weird mood. “You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just I hate dumping on her.”

“We have other resources, and we can use those any time you believe Colby is taking on too much.”

A good reminder, given her drive to prove herself was as bad, or worse, than mine.

“And where,” I asked him, voice gone soft, “does that leave us?”

We had documented the two sites searchable on foot, but Morris Island required daylight.

“Restaurants are still open, if you want to grab dinner.”

“Eat in public?” Hand to chest, I staggered back. “Like a normal couple?”

We tended to order in, if I didn’t cook. Aside from the occasional diner breakfast, we didn’t have time to sit around and wait on food. On a case, it was all go, go, go. Except like now, when it was wait and see.

“Okay.” I stuck out my hand. “I spotted a place a few blocks over that looks interesting.”

“Lead the way.” He linked our fingers. “We can pick up something for Clay to reheat later.”

“Good plan.”

Halfway back to the restaurant, I detected a faint scent that was not the ricotta gnocchi à la Bolognese in the article I read on best eats in the city. Dark, coppery, and bitter. Not black magic, but a similar profile.

This was the odor from the Battery, from the skin, from the wreaths. Only fresher, more pungent.

Breaths coming in fast, I cut my eyes toward Asa, but he only tightened his grip on my hand in response.

The earlier impression of being watched intensified until my nape stung like second-degree sunburn.

“What is that?” The urge to glance back twitched in my neck. “You smell it, right?”

“We interrupted a feeding.” He nudged me toward the restaurant. “Go get us a table.”

As in, he would investigate the obvious threat while I munched on warm breadsticks.

Pfft.

Not happening.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with loose connectors in my brain.

“We better hurry.” I checked my phone. “We’ve got an hour before the restaurant closes.”