Page 54 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

My fingers hover over the stains without touching them. “Blood loss patterns suggest major vessel, probably the neck given the spray pattern.”

Garrett is pale as he stares and I can see him swallowing hard. He’s seen death before, hasn’t he? But there’s a difference between facing an enemy in battle and watching your own knights picked off one by one, unable to defend themselves.

My eyes follow the drag marks in the dirt leading toward the forest. The underbrush is disturbed and branches broken. Someone heavy was pulled this way. “He was taken into the woods. Still alive probably, but not for long unless someone tended to his injury.”

“How can you tell he was alive?” Garrett asks quietly.

“The drag marks are consistent with dead weight being pulled, but there are scuff marks here.” I point to shallow gouges in the dirt. “If he was already dead, the body would have been limp. These marks suggest he was conscious enough to try to resist, or at least to brace himself instinctively.”

Garrett looks like he might be sick. I realize too late that my assessment probably isn’t helping.

“We need to search the forest,” he says, his voice hard with determination.

“That could take days. Elmwood is huge.” I stand, brushing dirt from my hands. “And whoever did this had a four-day head start. The trail will be cold.”

His jaw is set with that stubborn look I’ve come to recognize. It means he’s made a decision and nothing will sway him. “We search.”

There’s no point arguing. So I nod and follow him into the woods. We spend the rest of the morning combing through the forest, following the drag marks as far as we can. The trail leads deep into the forest, winding between trees and over roots. I keep my hand near my knife. There are too many places for an ambush.

The drag marks become harder to follow as we go deeper. Whoever pulled Marcian knew what they were doing. They chose paths over rocky ground where marks wouldn’t show and they used streams to hide the trail.

“Damn it,” Garrett mutters, standing on the bank and looking both ways. The stream could go on for miles in either direction. We circle out from the stream, looking for any sign of a body or a grave or anything that might tell us what happened to Marcian. I look for disturbed earth and scavenger activity. Any of the hundred small signs that death leaves behind.

We find nothing.

Either the body was moved downstream, or it was taken somewhere we can’t easily reach. The possibility makes me wary. Whoever took Marcian knows exactly how to hide a corpse. This isn’t some fucking amateur. We have a murderer who understands how to make people disappear.

By noon, we’re both exhausted and frustrated. Garrett’s fine clothes are filthy from pushing through underbrush. His golden hair is stuck with leaves and small twigs. There are mud stains on his boots and a tear in his cloak where it caught on thorns.

I have scratches on my arms from the sharp branches, my own leather is soaked from wading through the stream. We have nothing to show for it except confirmation that Marcian is almost certainly dead.

“We should head back for now,” I say reluctantly. “Rest and recalculate.”

Garrett looks like he wants to argue. He’s staring into the forest, jaw clenched like he wants to force the trees to give up their secrets.

But finally, he nods. “You’re right. We won’t find anything else out here today.”

The ride back to the village is quiet. Garrett’s shoulders are slumped. He’s taking this personally. I keep my eyes on the path ahead.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as we emerge from the tree line.

He glances at me. “Marcian was under my command and now he’s probably dead. I don’t even know why.”

“It’s not your fault,” I offer.

He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs.

We return to the inn as the sun starts its descent. Muireann takes one look at our mud-caked clothes and the grim set of Garrett’s jaw and asks no questions.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says quietly. “I’ll send it over to your room.”

Garrett nods his thanks but doesn’t speak. We climb the stairs in silence. The room feels smaller than it did this morning. Perhaps it’s the weight of what we found and didn’t find, pressing down on us.

I check the window locks while Garrett sits heavily on the edge of the bed. He stares at his hands, still stained with dirt from searching the forest floor.

“I should wash up,” he says, but doesn’t move.

I let him sit. Sometimes people need a moment before they can keep going.