Abe shrugged. "It may prove useful to have a hound about. As long as he stays clean and you feed him, he's welcome to live out with your horse. Besides, he's likely to know where he found the corpse. Makes for quick work."

Ilan smiled, but it was the smallest of victories.

It would be a blessing if the owner of the hand was the only body outside.

23

Ilan

The dog pulled at the leash, nose alternating between the ground and the air. As he dragged Ilan and Mihály off the road and through brown brush tangle, his ears were pricked and his steps quick and sure.

At least one of them knew where they were going.

The Izir was uncharacteristically silent, trudging behind without a single comment about the ridiculousness of Ilan being forced to rely on him for protection. He should be grateful that the man wasn’t picking over the scabs of their failed plan or Ilan’s treatment of his followers, but the tense quiet was fertile ground for stewing thoughts over being sent out here alone as if his very rational plan was something Sandor was only humoring. At least Csilla had agreed to stay in the city, writing Elmere’s family. The church wouldn’t let her do anything else for him, and it meant one less person and her feelings to worry about.

The dog stopped, the short fur of his ruff raising slightly. His barks echoed off the trees as he paced at the base of a knobby oak.

The ground was like any other part of the forest, gray and brown leaf litter with a curls of hopeful vines springing through in spots, but there were broken branches, the pale and stringy roots of bushes knocked over. Signs of a struggle that were more than damage from old snowfall or passing badgers.

Mihály moved in front, kicking at the underbrush, then bending over to pull some aside. When he turned back, his face was pale.

“He’s here. Partially.”

Ilan breathed a prayer.

The woods hadn’t been kind to the body. Fresh meat was hard to come by before litters were born, and the animals, possibly even humans, had left the man in scraps. His eyes had been picked out to hollows, the meat of his cheek shredded to bone and the cords of his throat sharp and pale. A few early flies crawled over the blackening gash where the hand had been attached.

There was no clothing, not even tatters. A human had to have been involved somehow, if only to rob the man and leave him for dead. Animals wouldn’t have stripped him.

Ilan pulled the straining dog to heel and offered the lead to Mihály. “Well we shouldn’t leave him. Let’s take him to your barn. It will be easier to examine him there.”

Carrion birds cast slow scythe-winged shadows, waiting for a chance to steal a few more bites. Bigger, hungrier things might be pacing out of sight. Ilan glanced over at Mihály. The pair of them would be no match for a winter-starved wolf pack or a ravenous bear just out of hibernation.

One good thing about traveling with Mihály: he was big enough to carry the man’s body and barely look winded, and he’d held his tongue about the smell. Within the hour they’d gotten an old tablecloth from the farmstead, one molded with disuse, and wrapped the body. They pulled it onto the table, scattering the stiff animal corpses like so many children’s game tiles. Mihály straightened the corpse, laying him out with scientific precision. If he didn’t look pleased, neither did he look sick, and that was all Ilan required.

Most of the damage had been done by nature, which was, if cruel, at least not evil. The person was of average height and what was left of the hair was mussed and dirty blond over the patches of scalp. The breadth of him, though...He’d had plenty of weight on him before he was attacked. Not like someone living on the outskirts of society or who would be begging for a spot in the brilliant city. A man who had wealth enough to eat like that was a man who would be missed.

And yet there had been no reports.

“You can see souls,” he said, looking at Mihály. “Allegedly.”

The Izir paused from where he was straightening the corpse’s legs. “If they’re here. This one is long gone, may it rest wherever it is now. There weren’t any ghosts in the woods.”

That was only to be expected. It would have been all too convenient if Mihály could simply tell them who the man had been or if a ghost was lingering to answer their questions.

He wanted to snap bones. A frustrated scream lived in his throat, pushed deep, but always waiting.

Perhaps Sandor had been right. What did it matter if the man was in the woods or in the grave? There were bites on his chest, the print of carrion birds and opportunistic things, but no marks.

“Do you have incense?” He asked. Mihály nodded and went to collect it as Ilan probed the corpse.

It was likely the man had been robbed and left, not just murdered. He rolled him enough to check the back, the skull. No bruising or fractures. But the neck was gruesome.

He tilted up the jaw, ignoring the exposed bone. The majority of the soft tissues had been torn away, but the lines along the edges were crisp. Clean.

His arm instinctively drew over, mimicking the motion of the killer. A swift slice from behind.

How had the man not heard it coming? Perhaps it was a drunk after all.

“Killing him all over?” Mihály asked, his tone mild. In addition to the incense he had paper, a pitcher of water and a reasonably clean linen towel. Good to see he had some basic knowledge.

“Did they teach you rites at University?” It wasn’t a part of the general student curriculum, but Izir were rare enough to be special cases in a number of circumstances. He’d only met one before Mihály, a tall woman who visited his mother after his eldest brother’s death. She hadn’t been terribly good comfort either, though she’d been kind enough to take all of Ilan’s questions with perfect seriousness.

“No, I never took much education in doctrine. Maybe I should have.”

Ilan gave a little laugh. Of course he wouldn’t have had to study for any part of his blessing. He pulled a flint, lit the incense, and handed it to Ilan.

Sweet sandalwood filled the room. Ilan breathed deep as rotten wood and old dust turned as hallowed as any gilded sanctuary.

He dribbled water onto the shriveled remains of the man’s lips, his single hand, his feet, though no toes had been spared. Mihály followed behind with the cloth, solemn.

“Asten, we deliver this man to you. We trust you will weigh his soul, find the balance of justice and mercy. His time in this world is done. As You will.”

The words should have held weight, but he wasn’t practiced at saying them and didn’t know who he was saying them for. Even as an acolyte he’d rarely been asked to join rites of comfort.

He took the incense and held it to where the man’s nostrils would have been, clearing out any remnants of life. If this were a funeral, friends would speak for him, his family would plead intercessions, excusing any last wrongs he had done in life so he could go clear into the next. They would watch the body for three days, letting anyone who knew come and offer a goodbye. But neither Ilan or Mihály had any right, and this man’s sitting days were long past.

“Do you really believe you could bring him back?”

“If I knew anything about him.” Mihály looked down at the body, his eyes dark. “Otherwise, everything across the ether is as hard to grasp as smoke.”

“So you know the soul you’re providing for Csilla, then?”

Mihály’s smile was inscrutable.

He picked up the cloth and put it over the body. He wished he could promise he’d give the man justice. Even the writ was perfunctory with no way to know which saint watched him, and Silgrad’s blessed Imre a mile too far to claim him. He finally selected Angyalka. The hanged saint was a strange choice for a death writ, but her choking and pain had been in hopes of getting answers. Answers were what they needed now.

At least this man didn’t seem to be related to their other victims. The ritual murders were being confined to the city. Ilan drummed his fingers on the table, turning that over. Confined to the city, but affecting the entire Union.

Mihály was already at the barn door, shrugging off the horror as easily as an ill-fitting jacket. “Would you like a drink? I have tea and whiskey and am more than happy to combine them. Or dispense with the tea altogether.”

Ilan was about to protest he didn’t drink. But there was that lump of a body, the ragged flesh beneath, and the rare pain of helplessness stabbing.

“If I drink with you, are you going to tell me more about what you intend?”

Mihály grinned. “Get me drunk enough, and why not.”