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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 21 из 293I wanted to ask what could be important enough for Rhys to leave early in front of the press.
Someone shouted, “Rhys, why are you leaving?”
Rhys left the room with a wave and a smile.
Doyle helped me stand, then the rest of the guards closed around me like a multicolored wall, but the reporters weren’t finished.
“Doyle, Princess, what’s happened?”
“What did the little one say?”
The press conference was over; we got to ignore them. It might have been wise to give them an excuse, but Doyle either didn’t think we needed to bother or he didn’t know what to say. There was a tension in his arm where he touched me that indicated that whatever Rhys had said had shaken him. What does the Darkness fear?
My wall of bright-colored muscle marched me down the steps and out. When we were in the hallway, clear of the media, I still whispered. Modern technology was a wonderful thing, and we didn’t need some sensitive microphone picking us up. “What’s happened?”
“There are two dead bodies in one of the hallways near the kitchen.”
“Fey?” I asked.
“One, yes,” he said.
I stumbled in my high heels because I tried to stop, but his arm on mine kept us all moving. “What about the other?”
He nodded. “Yes, exactly.”
“Is it one of the reporters? Did one of them go wandering?”
Frost leaned in from the line of men. “It cannot be. We had spells that would make them unable to leave the safe path inside the sithen.”
Doyle glanced at him. “Then explain a dead human in our sithen with a camera beside his hand.”
Frost opened his mouth, then closed it. “I cannot.”
Doyle shook his head. “Nor can I.”
“Well, isn’t this going to be a disaster,” Galen said.
We had a dead reporter in the Unseelie sithen, and a mass of live reporters still on the premises. Disaster didn’t even begin to cover it.
CHAPTER 3
I ’D SEEN MORE VIOLENCE IN THE COURTS THAN IN ALL MY YEARS as a private detective in Los Angeles, but I’d seen more death in L.A. Not because I was included in murder cases—private dicks don’t do murder cases, at least not fresh ones—but because most of the things that live in faerie land are immortal. By definition, the immortal don’t die very often. I could count on one hand how many fresh crime scenes the police had called us in on and still have fingers left over. Even those cases were because the Grey Detective Agency could boast some of the best magic workers on the West Coast.
Someone shouted, “Rhys, why are you leaving?”
Rhys left the room with a wave and a smile.
Doyle helped me stand, then the rest of the guards closed around me like a multicolored wall, but the reporters weren’t finished.
“Doyle, Princess, what’s happened?”
“What did the little one say?”
The press conference was over; we got to ignore them. It might have been wise to give them an excuse, but Doyle either didn’t think we needed to bother or he didn’t know what to say. There was a tension in his arm where he touched me that indicated that whatever Rhys had said had shaken him. What does the Darkness fear?
My wall of bright-colored muscle marched me down the steps and out. When we were in the hallway, clear of the media, I still whispered. Modern technology was a wonderful thing, and we didn’t need some sensitive microphone picking us up. “What’s happened?”
“There are two dead bodies in one of the hallways near the kitchen.”
“Fey?” I asked.
“One, yes,” he said.
I stumbled in my high heels because I tried to stop, but his arm on mine kept us all moving. “What about the other?”
He nodded. “Yes, exactly.”
“Is it one of the reporters? Did one of them go wandering?”
Frost leaned in from the line of men. “It cannot be. We had spells that would make them unable to leave the safe path inside the sithen.”
Doyle glanced at him. “Then explain a dead human in our sithen with a camera beside his hand.”
Frost opened his mouth, then closed it. “I cannot.”
Doyle shook his head. “Nor can I.”
“Well, isn’t this going to be a disaster,” Galen said.
We had a dead reporter in the Unseelie sithen, and a mass of live reporters still on the premises. Disaster didn’t even begin to cover it.
CHAPTER 3
I ’D SEEN MORE VIOLENCE IN THE COURTS THAN IN ALL MY YEARS as a private detective in Los Angeles, but I’d seen more death in L.A. Not because I was included in murder cases—private dicks don’t do murder cases, at least not fresh ones—but because most of the things that live in faerie land are immortal. By definition, the immortal don’t die very often. I could count on one hand how many fresh crime scenes the police had called us in on and still have fingers left over. Even those cases were because the Grey Detective Agency could boast some of the best magic workers on the West Coast.