“You did not win,” she told him vehemently, fists clenched at her sides. “We didn’t establish round lengths or ever discuss—”
Porfirio pulled her to him, his hand sliding up the back of her neck and tangling up in her hair. She felt his lips crush hers in a kiss of victory, making liquid fire ooze through her body. His mouth searched hers, hungry and demanding, and she responded in kind, her body straining toward his, wanting to feel those muscles against hers, those hands on her skin. When he at last pulled back, leaving them both breathless, he asked, “Look, are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?”
Mae swallowed, still flushed and dizzy from the kiss as adrenaline and endorphins spiked within her. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘hard.’”
Which was how she ended up in his bed after all—without being forcefully carried there. It was the kind of aggressive, backbreaking sex that prætorians thrived on, and as she stretched out in the tangle of sheets afterward, she experienced a rare moment of exhaustion. It wouldn’t last, and if a squad of assassins suddenly burst through the bedroom door, her implant would have helped her muscles and heart get the energy they needed to contend with danger. But even prætorians needed to rest sometimes, and it was a nice feeling to lie there with all of her muscles pleasantly worn out. It would’ve been better still to sleep. Post-sex was one of the few times she missed sleep. It seemed like a natural conclusion to the act of passion, being able to drift off in a lover’s arms.
There was no sleep for either of them, though Mae stayed in bed while he showered. When he returned, he tossed something on the bed that made her sit up in alarm. For half a second, she thought he’d thrown some animal at her. Then she recognized his ponytail.
“Your hair,” she said in amazement, peering up at him. He looked as though he’d simply lopped it off in one cut. The ends of his remaining hair were uneven, but he was still dazzling to behold. “You didn’t have to do that. Or you should’ve at least gotten it done properly.”
He waved it off. “A deal’s a deal. I didn’t win. Well, not in canne. You want to keep it as a trophy?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s actually pretty creepy. I was just joking about keeping it on my dresser.”
“Good to know.” To her amazement, he unceremoniously threw the hair away and then sat back down beside her in bed. “But now you don’t have anything to remember me by.”
“Do I need something?” She drew him toward her and felt her pulse start to quicken again. “You aren’t going to return my calls?”
He smiled and ran his lips along her neck. “Were you going to call?”
“Well…” She allowed him to ease her back down on the bed. “I might need another canne warm-up. You know, to keep me in practice before a real match.”
“Well, then, for that, you can call me anytime.”
CHAPTER 17
THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN THE REPUBLIC
The Nipponese were pleasantly deferential when Justin and his entourage showed up. Reactions to servitor visits varied widely, and he and Mae had received lukewarm ones at the previous three grants they’d visited. A lot of castals resented federal interference, even if it was for their own good. Servitors especially made them nervous, because if a servitor found a dangerous religious group on the grant, he or she could pretty much call in a military invasion. None of them wanted that. The relationship between the Gemman government and “the patriarchies,” as they called themselves, was tenuous enough. The fledgling RUNA, fearing the kind of separatism and resistance to authority that had sparked Mephistopheles’s creation, had had to be careful in allowing its wealthy supporters the ethnic solidarity they’d requested. Patricians had been exempted from the mandates, at their own risk of Mephistopheles and Cain, and given their own land—with very strict regulations.
The entrance to the Nipponese land grant resembled that of all the other grants: a gated road with a checkpoint and a sign welcoming others in both English and the caste’s native language. The guards were lightly armed, per the agreement with the government. The RUNA’s flag was the only ornamentation since no unique castal symbol was allowed either.
Justin’s contact inside was an older police officer who went by his Japanese name: Hiroshi. He didn’t fall all over himself the way the gate security had, but it was clear he was floored at the idea of hosting a servitor and prætorian in his jurisdiction.
“The victim’s wife moved out,” he told them when they reached the house in which the murder had occurred. “But nothing has been changed whatsoever in the building. We got extensive pictures and documentation at the time, and I verified this morning that everything is the same.” He hesitated. “I hope that’s all right.”
“That’s great,” said Justin, earning a relieved smile.
Leo, though pleased at having uncontaminated evidence, was less thrilled at the house’s size. “It’s huge. This is going to take forever.”
To be fair, the house was enormous, especially for two people. The architecture was in keeping with common Gemman luxury homes, though the pointed roof and a few other flourishes hearkened back to the caste’s Japanese roots. The inside told a similar tale. Painted screens and clean lines paired with trendy lush furniture and media screens. Here was a family in possession of stereotypical castal wealth.
Leo immediately began to take apart the house’s main security panel. It monitored every door and window in the house, and like the other sites, initial investigation of the system’s memory had shown no sign of entry anywhere. Video surveillance had been disabled, providing the only clue (aside from the dead body) that someone had been inside.
“Remind you of the old Koskinen estate?” Justin asked Mae as they strolled through the house.
“Our koi pond was bigger,” she said. She gazed around and walked over to an ornamental tea set. Her features were luminous in the light pouring through the window. He was dying to know more about the ex-boyfriend she’d hinted at on the plane and needed to figure out the best strategy for getting information without receiving bodily harm in the process. The relationships people formed—or didn’t form—spoke legions about them, and he was a little surprised that someone who feared others seeing her emotions during sex had managed any kind of long-term relationship.
She didn’t say it was long term, said Horatio.
She didn’t have to. It was in the way she spoke. When he received no response, Justin couldn’t help but add, I guess I can pick up on some things that you guys can’t.
Of course you can, said Magnus. Otherwise we wouldn’t need you.
“Dr. March?” Hiroshi appeared with a petite young woman. “This is Mrs. Hata, the victim’s wife.”
Mrs. Hata looked drawn and nervous, but Justin read it more as a reaction to his presence rather than a sign of any culpability. Police investigations had confirmed her alibi, and she didn’t look like she would have had the strength to drive the dagger into her husband’s heart anyway. He gave her a friendly smile, hoping to put her at ease.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she said. “I’ve already talked to the police over and over.”
“I know. And I’m sorry to keep putting you through this, but we just have a few more questions.” He motioned to the dining room. “Can we talk in here? I’ll keep it brief.”
She sat down opposite him at the table, clasping her hands in front of her. Her features showed the phenotype so prized by her caste: dark hair, high cheekbones, golden skin, and almond-shaped brown eyes. Long, thick lashes crowned her narrow eyelids, giving her an added touch of allure, even if the lashes were false. She wore her hair in a smart haircut that went to her chin, meaning she most likely had a touch of Cain. Genetically pure castal woman tended to show off their undamaged hair by wearing it long, like Mae did. As the light caught Mrs. Hata’s hair, he saw an almost lacquerlike sheen, verifying his suspicions. Heavy gloss treatments were a common way to cover the thin and frail hair Cain so often caused. When she brushed that hair aside, she inadvertently revealed a bit of scarring near her ears. There were certain kinds of expensive face-lifts that could smooth out the pockmarked skin of Cain, but they always left slight signs at the periphery. Mrs. Hata displayed most of Cain’s detrimental effects and had no children either. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had asthma too.
Justin was ready to reel her in with his charm and pleasantries, but a second glance at her stricken face made him decide not to play any games today. He kept his interview brief, asking the same questions he had before about any questionable religious involvement on the part of the victim. Like his past interviewees, she was quite alarmed at the thought of her family being connected to a cult. In fact, she even adamantly pointed out that her husband had petitioned the grant’s government to ban all religions on their land. He’d had a particularly vehement dislike of them. That was an interesting tidbit, and Justin wondered if it was enough to have put Mr. Hata on some group’s hit list. The only hiccup in that logic was that a retribution theory implied that a Nipponese religion was involved, which wouldn’t likely have interest in other patricians. Still, it was a connection worth noting.
They chatted a bit more, and he finally let her go. She was eager to return to her mother’s home. Mae, unable to stay still long, had gone outside, so Justin joined Leo as he examined the site of the murder.
The master bedroom was expansive, the size of three of the bedrooms back at his house put together. A silk coverlet draped the bed, and a small alcove near the fireplace held a table that might be used for reading or tea. Blood stained the carpet. Leo knelt by the fireplace and stood at Justin’s approach.
“It’s sealed. Only for show.” Leo pointed up at a horizontal line of windows near the ceiling. They were the only ones in the room. “Those are too small for anyone to get through.”
