reached into his coat pocket and removed a flask. He offered it to Blood.

Blood wiped his mouth and took a slug from it. Good Irish whiskey. He smacked

his lips and gasped, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly, handing

the

flask back to Marston.

"Thanks."

"Have another."

"No, that's all right—"

"Go on now, do you good."

Blood sighed and clapped Marston on the shoulder. "No, it really won't. Here,

be

a good lad and take it."

Marston took the flask back. Blood took another deep breath and shivered in

his

coat. "Oh, Andrew," he said. He swallowed hard. "I don't know what I'm going

to

tell His Lordship."

"You'd best tell your father soon, sir, before the damn reporters get to

him,"

said Marston.

"Hell, you're right. Glad one of us is thinking clearly. Shit. Shit, shit,

shit."

"Go on, sir," said Marston. "I'll take care of things here."

"Thanks, Ross," said Blood. He gave Marston a tight-lipped smile and got into

his car. "Back to headquarters, McCafferty," he told the driver.

As the police driver levitated the car and pulled away, Blood reached for his

notepad and opened it to the sketches he had made of the strange characters

carved into his brother's chest. Andrew's dead, and I'm sketching pictures of

what the killer carved into his chest, he thought bitterly. Sod all. A cop's

a

cop and a clue's a clue. He wished he had Marston's flask. Discipline,

Michael,

discipline, he told himself. He passed the notepad over the seat to the

driver.

"What do you make of these?" he said.

McCafferty was technically a police officer, but actually he was only a

graduate

student in thaumaturgy who drove for the police while studying for advanced

certification. He reached a hand over his shoulder and took the notepad,

glancing at it briefly, careful not to lose his concentration on levitation

and

impulsion spells.

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "Runes of some sort, perhaps."

"They mean nothing to you, then?"