“Please, sit,” Adeline said. When I did so, she handed me the mug, then glanced at Azriel. “Would you like anything, young man?”
“No, thank you,” Azriel said, amusement in his voice. I guess there were a few people who actually called him young man.
“Right, then,” she said, sitting down on the chair opposite and pouring tea for herself. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid we’re here to ask your brother, Michael —”
“Michael?” she cut in, with a light frown. “He’s been dead for forty-odd years now.”
“Yes, I know, but we came across his name in our search” – I hesitated, then remembered I’d told her at least some of the story the last time we’d been here – “for the keys to heaven and hell’s gates, and were just wondering —”
“I assure you,” Adeline interrupted again. “Michael would never be involved in such a theft. Alive or dead.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that he was. It’s just that we think someone might have assumed his identity. In which case, we need to know more about Michael in order to track down the fraud.”
She studied me for a moment, then rose and walked over to the mantelpiece. She picked up a small, framed photograph and offered it to me. “That’s Michael. It was taken just before he died.”
The man in the photograph was silver haired, with blue eyes and round, kind features and a build not dissimilar to Adeline’s – although he was far thinner than she now was. “How old was he here?”
“Nearly thirty. Gray hair runs in the family, I’m afraid.”
“And do you have any contact with his friends? Was he close to anyone in particular, or did he make a new acquaintance just before he died?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
I ignored her question, asking instead, “And how did he die?”
“Accident. He was heavily into the motor cross scene, and slid off during a race and hit several trees. Unfortunately, one of the smaller ones speared him. He never recovered.”
So, an accident rather than murder, Azriel commented. Perhaps in this case, the shifter merely appropriated the name of someone with few relatives.
Sounds like it. Still, it couldn’t hurt to be sure. “And he was buried appropriately?”
Her frown grew. “Of course. I ensured he could not be raised, if that is your next question. And it isn’t as if a zombie would be much use to anyone anyway. They are very obviously dead.”
But they could still be damn dangerous if raised by the wrong person.
“True, but that wasn’t the point of the question. You see, Michael is not the only person whose identity our shifter has stolen, but up until your brother, he’s murdered all those whose lives he’s stepped into. I just wanted to make sure Michael wasn’t another of his victims.”
“Ah,” she said softly. “Then no, he isn’t. It was very much an accident – there were plenty of witnesses to the event.”
At least that was something. I handed the photograph back. “If someone is using his identity, is there any way you could trace them?”
“Magically, you mean?”
When I nodded, she grimaced. “I’m afraid not. I’d have to have something of theirs to even attempt a reading.”
I dug into my purse and retrieved the cuff link. “We found this, although we have no real idea if it belongs to our fake Michael Greenwood or someone else.”
She plucked it from my fingertips and studied it for several minutes. “I think it might be possible to trace whoever owned this item. It is not, however, something I wish to do without some form of protection.”
“Why?”
Her gaze rose to mine. “Because whoever owned this cuff link has a particularly nasty resonance.”
“We think the owner might be a dark sorceress.”
“That would certainly explain the resonance.” She paused, her expression curious. “How is the sorceress connected to whoever might be using Michael’s identity?”