"The BFA doesn't exactly make a habit of searching their employees' houses. Their funding just got cut again and the moneys diverted to that mess in the Middle East." He didn't sound too upset about the BFA's troubles.
I rubbed my tired face. "The search wasn't as much help as I'd hoped. I didn't find a scent, except for O'Donnell himself, of anyone who was in the reservation murder scenes. I don't think that there was anyone with him when he killed the fae." Except maybe Cologne Man, I thought. I had no way of telling what he really smelled like, though I had not the slightest idea why he'd have worn cologne to kill O'Donnell and not for killing the fae. Surely he wouldn't expect a werewolf or someone like me to be tracking down O'Donnell's killer.
"So your visit was uneventful." That was Samuel, his voice just a little more intense than the soft, harplike notes he was calling from the guitar. If he kept playing like that, I was going to be asleep before I finished. "Why then do you smell like blood and magic?"
"I didn't say it was uneventful. The blood is because the living room of O'Donnell's house was covered in it."
Uncle Mike gave a faint grimace, which I didn't believe at all. My experience with immortals might be with werewolves, but the fae aren't a kind and gentle people either. He might have been thrown off his game when Zee was taken into custody, but blood and gore never really bother the old ones.
"The magic..." I shrugged. "It could have been a number of things. I saw the murder take place."
"Magic?" Uncle Mike frowned. "I didn't know you were a farseer. I thought that magic didn't work around you."
"That would be terrific," I said. "But no, magic works around me for the most part. I just have some kind of partial immunity to it. Usually the way it works is that the less harmful the magic is, the better the chance it won't work. The really bad stuff usually does just fine."
"She sees ghosts," said Samuel, impatient with my whining.
"I see dead people," I deadpanned back. Oddly, it was Uncle Mike who laughed. I hadn't thought he'd be a moviegoer.
"So did these ghosts tell you anything?"
I shook my head. "No. I just got the playback of the murder with O'Donnell as the only player. I think the killer was after something, though. Did O'Donnell steal from the fae?"
Uncle Mike's face went blank and I knew two things. The answer to my question was yes, and Uncle Mike had no intention of telling me what O'Donnell had taken.
"Just for kicks," I said instead of waiting in vain for his answer, "how many fae are there who can take on the shape of a raven?"
"Here?" Uncle Mike shrugged. "Five or six."
"There was a raven in O'Donnell's house and it reeked of fae magic."
Uncle Mike gave an abrupt, harsh laugh. "If you're asking if I sent someone to O'Donnell's house, the answer is no. If you're wondering if one of them killed O'Donnell, the answer is still no. None of those with a raven shape have the physical strength to tear off someone's head."
"Could Zee?" I asked. Sometimes if you ask unexpected questions, you get answers.
His eyebrows rose and his brogue grew thicker. "Sure and why would you ask that? Haven't I told you he had naught to do with it?"
I shook my head. "I know Zee didn't kill him. The police have an expert who told them that he could. I have reasons to doubt her ability - and it might help Zee if I know exactly how far off she is."
Uncle Mike took a deep breath and tilted his head to the side. "The Dark Smith of Drontheim might have been able to do what I saw, but that was a long time ago. Most of us have lost a bit of what was once ours over the years of cold iron and Christianity. Zee less than most, though. Maybe he could have. Maybe not."
The Dark Smith of Drontheim. He'd said something like that before. Trying to figure out who Zee had once been was one of my favorite hobbies, but the current situation made the small jewel of information taste like ashes. If Zee lost his life over this, who he had once been was irrelevant.
"Just how many of the fae in the reservation..." I thought about that and reworded it a little. "...or in the Tri-City area could have done that?"
"A few," Uncle Mike said without taking time to reflect. "I've been racking my head all day. One of the ogres could have, though I'll be a Catholic monk if I know why they would want to. And once they get to that point, they'd not have stopped until they'd had a bite or two. None of the ogres were particularly friendly with any of the victims on the reservation - or anyone else, except maybe Zee. There are a few others who might have been capable of it once, but most of them haven't fared as well as Zee in the modern world."
I remembered the power of the sea man.
"What about the man I met in the selkie's..." I glanced at Samuel and bit my tongue. That ocean I knew was a secret, and it could have no impact on Zee's fate. I wouldn't speak of it in front of Samuel, but that left my sentence hanging in the air.
"What man?" Samuel's question was mild, though Uncle Mike's words, coming right over the top of Samuel, were not.
I could smell Uncle Mike's fear, harsh and sudden, like his words. It wasn't an emotion I associated with him.
After a quick, wary look around the room, he continued in an urgent whisper, "I don't know how you managed it, but it will do you no good to speak of the encounter. The one you met could have done it, but he has not bestirred himself this past hundred years." He took a breath and forced himself to relax. "Trust me, it wasn't the Gray Lords who killed O'Donnell, Mercedes. His murder was too clumsy to be their work. Tell me more of this fae raven you encountered."