It is also the truth, he replied. His mental tones were still frosty.
I sighed. And just how long are you planning to remain annoyed at me over something so trivial, Azriel?
I do not know. For as long as it takes for you to regain common sense, perhaps.
You could be in for a long wait.
I am a reaper. Patience is part of our nature.
I snorted mentally. Oh yeah, you’ve so totally proven that.
As you’ve said to me often enough, sarcasm does not become you.
“I do get the feeling,” Rhoan said, “that there’s a whole conversation happening that I know nothing about.”
I glanced at him. “I was just asking Azriel if he could tell whether we were dealing with a spirit or a demon.”
“And the answer?” His tone suggested he wasn’t believing that for a second, either.
“It’s not a demon, but he can’t confirm or deny the possibility of a spirit because they’re of this world rather than the other and therefore not his field of expertise.”
“Huh.” He crossed his arms. “Anything else you can tell us?”
I frowned, my gaze drifting up the body. The silken web that encased the victim had been leashed to the bed end rather than the floor this time, but otherwise it looked almost identical. I opened my mouth to ask if they’d found a Dark Soul business card in one of his pockets, then remembered I wasn’t supposed to know about that. Subterfuge, I thought, sucked.
“Is that wound on his stomach the only one?” I asked instead.
“Yes. And whatever was injected through those slashes liquefied every inch of his innards,” Rhoan said. “There’s nothing left but a hardened outer shell of skin.”
So it was definitely the same MO. “What about the victim? Is he human?”
“He’s a hawk-shifter. He’s also a perp with a long line of break-and-enter convictions behind him.”
I glanced at him sharply. “So this isn’t his house?”
“It’s not even his suit.” Amusement briefly touched the corners of his eyes. “The actual owner is one Shamus O’Callagan, and he’s overseas on business. Apparently, old Sam here has been putting his psychic talents to good use and keeping himself off the street by not only sourcing out temporary high-end accommodations, but taking over the owner’s identity.”
“He might still be alive if he’d been on the streets.”
Rhoan raised his eyebrows. “Meaning you think our killer has a taste for the high life?”
Maybe not so much the high life, but possibly a taste for those who are psychically endowed. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the first two victims were both gifted in that area. “How strong a psychic was he?”
“Strong enough to easily convince doubters he really was O’Callagan.”
“From what I’ve been told, the first victim was a strong telepath.”
“Given he was an old vampire, that goes without saying.”
Not all vamps were strong telepaths. There were a few—a very rare few—who missed out on that particular gift. “Then being a strong psychic of some kind could be the link.” I half shrugged. “Of course, he was also rich. Maybe our killer is going after the wealthy. Maybe their innards taste better than us more ordinary folk.”
He snorted softly. “You’re about as ordinary as a blue diamond.”
I grinned. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me for ages.”
“That’s because you keep doing dumb things.” He nodded toward the body. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”
I sighed. “No. Bit of a waste of time, wasn’t it?”