Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [23]
We traveled up two more flights to the top floor of the building, which had been half-gutted to create a series of larger rooms.
The doorman left us in a parlor furnished with threadbare Persians and ravaged leather chairs that spat stuffing at me when I tried to sit in them. He mumbled that Mr. Blackburn would be with us shortly and shuffled out.
Along one wall, the building’s mailboxes had been installed minus their doors, showcasing a variety of bottles, knives, and even a caster or two. Shelby picked up one of the flat oval discs caster witches used to channel magick, made of a mellow blood-colored wood. “This is purpleheart. Got to be at least a hundred years old. And the tree it comes from is extinct.”
“Put that down,” someone rumbled from the doorway. I jumped reflexively and found myself face-to-face with a short man with iridescent white hair, a black open-collar shirt, and a mightily pissed-off look on his face.
“Mr. Blackburn, I’m sorry,” I said, snatching the caster out of Shelby’s hands and placing it back in its spot. It prickled my palms where I touched it and I brushed them together. Getting too close to magick always has a bad effect on me. “I and Detective O’Halloran apologize for her rudeness.”
Blackburn grunted. “Never mind.” He stared at both of us for a long minute. His eyes were almost all black with only the barest rim of lighter color, and he scented of char. Blackburn had been touching darkness for a long time, and it was stripping his humanity away as surely as acid strips skin. “Neither of you could put it to use,” he said. His wrinkled mouth puckered into a smile. “Might as well be red water beating in your veins,” he told Shelby. “It’s sad, all the inbreeding the O’Hallorans do and they can’t even produce magickal children. Or maybe it’s because of the inbreeding.”
“You bastard!” Shelby hissed, taking a step toward him. I put out my arm like a turnstile bar and caught her.
“Mr. Blackburn,” I said, “we need to talk to you about Vincent.”
His lips puckered in annoyance, a grimace that slid into a rueful smile. “What has my worthless son done now? He’s in trouble?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Mr. Blackburn—”
“Victor,” he corrected me, still smiling.
“Victor,” I amended. “Your son is dead.”
Nothing was apparent in his face immediately, but then the smile dropped and Blackburn swayed like someone had smacked him with a brick. His sallow cheeks grew spots of color and he reached out a ragged-nailed hand to grip the edge of the postboxes.
“Victor?” I said, reaching out to catch him if he passed out. His body didn’t look like it could take much more than a light breeze.
“How?” he whispered, knuckles white.
“We don’t have a cause of death…” I started, but he cut me off with a slashing gesture.
“Was he murdered?”
“Mr. Blackburn, I really can’t—”
“Was he murdered?” Victor bellowed. He grabbed the nearest jar and flung it across the room. Sticky liquid dripped down the wall where it shattered.
Footsteps clattered and a petite, teenage, and female version of Vincent Blackburn stuck her head in the door. “Daddy? Is everything okay?” She caught sight of us and drew back, eyes wide.
At the sight of her, Blackburn drew himself up and pressed his lips together, the picture of contained fury. “Detectives, this is my daughter, Valerie. Valerie, these are Detectives O’Halloran and…?”
“Wilder,” I said quietly, holding out my hand. “How do you do?”
Valerie didn’t take it, just flicked her gaze between the three of us. “Daddy, what’s wrong?” she demanded.
Blackburn buried his head in his hands, sitting heavily in one of the armchairs.
“Ms. Blackburn, I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” I said, “but your brother Vincent was found dead earlier this evening of an apparent drug overdose.” It wouldn’t matter to these people how Vincent had died, just that he was gone.
“No!” she wailed, running to her father and putting her arms around him. “That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid that’s how it happened,” Shelby said, speaking up for the first time. She pulled