There aren't many sure ways to kill a thrope or a pire, but decapitation is one of them.

In the frozen instant before his body slumps to the ground beside his head, I remember who Tanaka really was and what he meant to me. It's no coincidence-it's one of the spells woven into the fabric of this place, doing what it was designed to do. Make me hurt.

Kamakura Tanaka. Proud member of the last samurai clan in the world. Security liaison between the NSA and the Nipponese Shinto Investigative Branch, until he was forced to choose between his country and me. My first supernatural lover. An honorable man who betrayed his own beliefs, and never forgave himself.

I'm supposed to blame myself. And maybe, if the spell were working properly, I would-but it's not, and I don't. I know that's not really Tanaka, just someone with a head full of implanted memories. Probably not even real memories, either; the fact that Tanaka's already dead is a little detail I doubt I'm supposed to recall. Or maybe I'm supposed to believe this is some sort of second chance, that he's not really dead-but whoops, now he is.

The body hits the floor.

You'd think that somebody getting their head chopped off in the middle of a bar fight might have enough shock value to bring the whole thing to a halt, but no such luck. People continue to curse, punch, kick, and throw things. I've laid out more than a few demonic road workers, and Charlie seems to be doing fine with just his fists. And feet. And knees. And elbows. And anything else that comes to hand.

What does stop the melee is the roar of a gun.

Everybody freezes and looks toward the door. Sheriff Stoker and Deputy Silver stand there, Stoker with a double-gauge to his shoulder and Silver with a drawn pistol.

"That's enough," Stoker growls. "This is my town. Any of you think you're tough enough to take a load of buckshot to the chest?"

Apparently these demons aren't as invulnerable to harm as some supernaturals, because they all lower their fists or release whomever they're holding. The townies still look mad enough to eat razors and crap barbed wire, but they back off, too.

"They killed Tanaka!" the mayor says.

"Yeah?" Stoker replies. "Where's the body?"

I look down at the floor. Sure enough, both the head and the rest of the corpse is gone. There isn't even any blood.

Mayor Leo glowers at him, but doesn't reply.

"R and R is over," Stoker says, addressing the road workers. "I think you all have a better place to be, don't you?"

One of them steps forward with a slight smile on his face. "Sure. Okay. Thanks for the dance."

Without a word or a grumble, they grab their hard hats and file out the door in a straight line. Their faces all wear that identical slight smile, which is about as eerie as it sounds.

"The march of the wooden soldiers," Charlie murmurs behind me.

"Something tells me these guys aren't nearly as flammable, though," I murmur back.

Mayor Leo, realizing how absurd his claim is with no proof to back it up, strides up to Stoker and glares at him. "You're just going to let them go?"

"I've got more important things on my plate than bar fights and wild accusations. They'll go back where they belong, and so will you. Understand?"

Something passes between them. "Yes," Leo snarls. "And I hope you do, too."

He stomps out, Varney and Prince behind him.

"Why am I not surprised to see you here, Valchek?" Stoker says.

"Your surprise gland isn't responding to the medication?"

He sighs. "You going to tell me you saw a murder, too?"

"Not me. I was busy dancing."

"Uh-huh. Charlie, you might want to think about finding a different dance partner."

"I like this one just fine, thanks," Charlie says flatly.

"Well, I'm getting tired of the whole do-si-do," Stoker says. "Because every time I hear the music start up, guess who's first out on the floor. One Miss Jace Valchek."

"That's because it's all about me, Sheriff. Haven't you figured that out yet?" Still charged up with adrenaline, I spit the words at him-then realize I've gone too far. He stares at me with a new expression on his face as a realization of his own hits him. If, as Cassiar claims, Stoker's the new leader of the cult, then he knows exactly why I'm at the center of all his problems. But until this minute, he didn't know I know, too. Good job, Jace.

"What I've figured out," Stoker says, "is that maybe you need to stop roaming all over town looking for trouble."

"I've looked into having it delivered, but I can't find a rate I like-"

"Maybe a nice cell would firm up the decision-making process."

"I doubt that," I say carefully. "Trouble stalks me like an old boyfriend with OCD issues and a pair of night-vision goggles. You can lock me up, sure-but that just means trouble will have to go through you to get to me. Right?"

He thinks about it. I don't know how informed he is as to Ahaseurus's plans, but he has to know I'm basically cursed. Cursed in such a way that the collateral damage surrounding my immediate presence can get pretty lethal. Presumably he thinks he's protected against such things-the whole purpose of the cult is supposedly to summon the Gallowsman so that he and his friends are happy and safe while others suffer-but by now he knows something's gone terribly wrong.

"Let's take a little ride down to the station and discuss it," he says finally.

"Is she under arrest?" Charlie asks. His voice is very calm, which sets off all sorts of alarms in my head.

"Charlie, relax," I say. "Sure, Sheriff. Can we turn on the lights and siren, too? I love that."

Stoker lowers his gun. "We'll see."

I can see Charlie's vehicle through the back window of the police car, following us. I hope he's not planning anything stupid; he seems to have taken an instant and extreme dislike to the sheriff. That's not a good sign, but I don't have the chance to question him about it.

Sheriff Stoker doesn't have the chance to question me, either. We're only halfway to the station house when his radio crackles and the dispatcher tells him he's needed at the bed and breakfast. Immediately.

"What's going on?" I ask from the back seat.

"Don't know yet," he says tersely. "But at least for once you're not involved."

"Not yet, anyway."

I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think I know why Cassiar hasn't been answering my calls.

We pull up outside the B & B. Stoker gets out but leaves me locked in the back. Deputy Silver parks behind us, and Charlie behind him. Silver follows Stoker into the house, and Charlie strolls up to the sheriff's vehicle.

"What's happening?" Charlie asks.

"Let me out and I'll tell you." He opens my door. "Stoker got a radio call to come here. That's all I know."

Charlie looks grim. "Look, about Stoker-"

Which is when we hear a hoarse scream.

We bolt for the house. Through the door, up the stairs, straight for Cassiar's room. Deputy Silver's standing at the top of the stairs, holding back Silas Bloom, who's pale and shaking and saying, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." I realize it must have been him who screamed.

I can see the interior of Cassiar's room through the open doorway. There's blood-a lot of blood. And what's barely recognizable as a human form lying on the bed.

But it's not Cassiar. It's Therese Isamu, the wife of the pire I killed.

THIRTEEN.

Therese Isamu. Real name Teresa, real identity the curator of the Human Achievement Museum. The sight of her corpse floods my mind with memories, followed closely by a surge of grief. Get ahold of yourself. This isn't really her.

No, it isn't. This is the woman who greets me at the beginning of every shift with a friendly smile, who gives me meals on the house, who loves dirty jokes. This is-was-my friend.

"What's going on here?" demands a voice from behind me.

I turn. David Cassiar stands on the steps below me, looking puzzled.

Oh, boy.

"That's a very good question," Sheriff Stoker says, stepping out into the hall and pulling the door shut behind him. "Mr. Cassiar. You and I need to speak."

"Certainly," Cassiar says. "Would you care to step into my room, since you've been inside already?"

"That, that, that," says Silas. He looks like he's about to cry. "That's Therese, isn't it? I mean, some of her, right?"

Stoker frowns. "Quinn, take Silas downstairs and get a statement, all right? Jace, downstairs and get back in the car-you and Charlie shouldn't even be present. Mr. Cassiar, I'm going to need to talk to you right here."

Deputy Silver escorts Silas down the stairs, past me, Charlie, and Cassiar. I stay right where I am, and Charlie doesn't budge, either. He climbs a step and whispers to me, though. "Jace. Let's go. I need to talk to you."

Maybe I should listen. Maybe I should do what I'm told. Maybe I should leave the bloody crime scene to the professionals-oh, wait. That's me.

"Cassiar's not your guy," I say. "Give me two minutes with you in that room and I'll prove it. And I won't touch a thing."

"Excuse me?" Cassiar says. "Prove what, exactly? And who is Therese?"

Stoker stares at me. I meet his gaze levelly.

"I must be the crazy one," Stoker mutters at last. "Mr. Cassiar, don't go anywhere. Valchek-you got two minutes."

I nod, and wait for him to open the door again. He pulls out a pair of latex gloves and puts them on first.

We go inside. He shuts the door again.

My first good look at the body triggers another cascade of memories, but this time they're more professional than personal; forensics training, mostly. I try to focus on that.

"The amount of blood suggests she died from exsanguination," I say. "There's a blood trail from the window, but it's not extensive-probably from a minor injury as she was dragged to the bed. Blood spatter indicates arterial spray from a neck wound; her throat was torn open while she lay on her back."

"Torn?" Stoker says.

I point. "Look at the edges of the wound. Ragged, not straight. A knife or other sharp implement would have done a much cleaner job."

"What else?"

"Major organs are missing: heart, liver, lungs. Flesh on her upper thighs. If this body was found in a forest, it would be a clear case of animal predation."

"But she isn't out in the woods. She's in a bedroom."

"Yeah. Not her bedroom, either. That's because she was brought here and killed-by someone who leaped up to the second-floor window while carrying her. Probably by the throat so she couldn't scream; that would explain the blood trail, too."

He looks at me with no expression at all on his face. "Uh-huh. So an animal did this."

"I didn't say that. What I am saying is that Cassiar didn't. If he were going to do something as stupid as taking a woman back to his room to kill her as messily as possible, why would he go to the trouble of entering through a window on the second floor? Makes no sense."

"One little problem with your theory. This much blood and a wild animal? There'd be tracks all over the place."

"I never said it was a wild animal, either. But whoever or whatever did this, it didn't leave tracks coming in because of how the body was carried; the blood dripped to the side, not where it was stepping. After it was done, it leaped from the bed to the windowsill. Never touched the floor at all."

Stoker glances at the window. It's closed.

I smile and walk over to it. "Look at that. Somebody closed it. Must be a very civilized beast. But look at the sill."

Stoker does. There's a smudge of blood, one that runs underneath the window itself. Stoker opens the window-and there, on the sill, are what look like several very large paw prints, outlined in blood.

"Agile, too," I say. "Perched on the sill and closed the window from the outside. You'll find some blood transfer on the exterior wall, I'm sure. Maybe even some fur."

Stoker studies me dispassionately. "Any theories as to why?"

"Oh, that's obvious. This is a message. A warning."

He nods. "Looks like someone isn't fond of Mr. Cassiar."

Or maybe it's just the company he keeps. "You're going to take him in anyway, right?"

"Of course. If nothing else, for his own safety. And to find out who exactly is trying to scare him off, and why."

"I can help. Let me talk to him."

Stoker frowns. "You know I can't do that. This is a murder investigation, and he's in the middle of it. I shouldn't have let you in here in the first place."

"But you did. And I did what I promised, didn't I?"