The Wild Dead (The Bannerless Saga 2)

Enid had heard the phrase before, but rarely spoken aloud in her presence. “Yes, I know. But we don’t kill people. It’s our job to investigate when someone does.”

“But who would kill her? And why? I . . . I don’t . . .” He was stricken; his voice stuck.

“That’s what I’d like to find out. Can you help me? Answer a few questions for me?”

The stranger looked uncertain, but he didn’t reply one way or another. Enid took it as a good sign and continued.

“Where’s she from?” she asked him. “How do you know her?”

He scrubbed his runny nose on his sleeve before answering. “From the camp, up the way.” He gestured over his shoulder.

“Up where? How many days’ walk?”

He glared. He wasn’t going to give away that much.

Fair enough.

“And you—you were in love with her?”

“We were friends, that’s all. Just friends.”

It was funny. Some on the Coast Road said that the nomads—the wild folk, the ones who lived on the fringes—didn’t understand them, could never understand. Were uncivilized and not worth even speaking to. And yet, when this one said “Just friends,” the words had exactly the same tone they did when anyone on the Coast Road said it in such circumstances, and Enid could guess the meaning well enough.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The hard look he gave her suggested that he didn’t believe her. The set of his jaw indicated he was grinding his teeth. He rubbed the hilt of his knife, but didn’t seem aware he was doing it.

“I hated it when she came down here. I told her not to. Over and over I told her.”

“But she came anyway.”

“I don’t trust these folk. You can’t trust them. They give you things and you don’t know what they want from you. I told her not to trust them!”

“So then she came without you.”

“A few mornings ago, yeah. Snuck off. Didn’t want to argue with me, I reckon.”

“And then?”

“She didn’t come back. Days and days, and she didn’t come back.” He was a young man despairing, the picture of grief, the weight of it anchoring him to the ground, as if he might never move again.

Enid had a sudden thought: Was it possible Ella had been pregnant? That was usually the first thing an investigator checked for, finding a woman without an implant. But Ella hadn’t had to cut out an implant—she’d never had one in the first place. Enid hadn’t checked, and Ella’s belly seemed normal. They would’ve had to cut her open to know for sure. And, well . . . it was too late for that now.

But if she had been . . . mi

ght someone have wanted to kill her because of it?

More wild speculation. “Someone left a blanket and fire striker down in that wrecked house,” Enid said, thumb pointing downriver. “That was you, yeah?”

His eyes widened. Surprised he’d been found out. “I’d meant to go back for ’em. Didn’t think anyone would ever go in there.”

“You’re lucky that wreck didn’t slide down the cliff with you in it,” she said. “My name is Enid, by the way. And you are?”

He set his jaw, like she had asked him to hand over treasure.

“Please,” she said. “I just want to be able to call you something.”

He bit out, “I’m Hawk.”