9
The small problem of blood spatter we cured with brown paper towels in the bathrooms. They scoured a few layers of skin off in the process, but the exfoliation did enhance my youthful glow. We were heading back to the inn, where we could have showered before we changed, but a sharp-eyed security guard, his stealth skills zero, had followed our shopping spree with a tad too much interest.
Probably on account of the blood on our clothes, in our hair, and on our faces when we walked in.
We ended up returning to the bathrooms after a trip to the register to change into our new outfits. I was not a fan of this plan, but better to risk stains than get arrested on suspicion of murder and require a bail out from Clay. I finished changing well before Asa, but his discount store debut was worth the wait.
Clothes did not make the daemon. The daemon made the clothes.
Asa proved it when he strolled out wearing a magazine-spread-worthy suit cobbled together from their limited selection. Meanwhile, in my element, I had hit the sales rack only to discover several key pieces of my existing wardrobe marked as clearance. As if they had gone out of style.
Pfft.
Cheap never goes out of style.
I would have been insulted if I hadn’t found dupes of all my favorite pieces to trundle back to Samford.
Dinner was burgers and fries in a moving vehicle, from a chain restaurant no less.
Had Clay been here, he would have cried over the soggy buns, the limp fries, and the flat drinks.
Aware of the trauma it would inflict, I texted him whatever was the opposite of food porn for a laugh.
For me.
>>I hate you.
>>You deserve those fries for what you’ve done.
>I’ll bring you back a combo.
>>Do it, and you’re dead to me.
The steady tick, tick, tick of the blinker drew my focus away from tormenting Clay long enough to orient myself. We were back at the colonial, which had gone dark due to the late hour, lending it a creepy vibe. Or maybe it was the memory of Ms. March cheering on Frankie like I had the daemon that spooked me.
“The cars haven’t moved.” I ducked my head to see the second floor. “No lights on upstairs.”
“Lights are on downstairs.” Asa checked with me. “Either Ms. March is in her room…or ours.”
“Thanks for that.” I shoved him. “Good thing I didn’t want to sleep tonight.”
We had proof she had been present when Frankie killed her second victim, but we needed more than that.
“You find this creepy, right?” I craned my neck as Asa parked next to one of the guest’s cars, giving us an excuse to snoop. An old Mustang GT Fastback sat beside me in mint condition, minus the layer of pollen caking it bumper to bumper. Clay would kill for that car. Part of me wondered if Ms. March already had. “This one’s been sitting for a while.” I checked the other vehicles. “These too.”
“That doesn’t bode well for our fellow guests.”
This time, our hostess didn’t greet us at the door, but we heard lively voices in the vicinity of her room.
With our accommodations so close to hers, we didn’t even have to come up with an excuse to do some eavesdropping of our own.
“Take out the mage,” Ms. March hollered. “He’s on your left. No, not that left. Your—”
A man yelled obscenities as an orc bellowed and explosions rang out down the hall.
As we neared our room, the door to our immediate right swung open to reveal Ms. March wearing an expensive-looking headset.
Behind her, spread on the bed, was the wizard’s robe from the video, complete with a knobby staff I suspected might be constructed from EVA foam, like Trinity’s armor, for her to swing it so easily. The design of her robe convinced me it had been sewn from the same pattern as Markus’s. One of Trinity’s custom orders? Paired with the staff, I placed the odds at better than good she was the supplier.