Into the Tiger's Hour

Chapter Eighteen

Light was everywhere, thrown by a thousand candles and the church's heavy candelabra. It reflected off of the stained glass windows, the polished marble, the shining wood and the single white casket that sat before the altar.

A photograph of Iris was to the left, surrounded by white roses, and a dozen bouquets and arrangements had been placed beneath it. The smell of flowers, incense and beeswax filled the church; combined with the various perfumes and hygiene products used by those present, it was impossible to smell anything beyond a vague, heavy sweetness.

Still, those in the first row of pews kept handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths and noses. The odor of rotting flesh was psychosomatic, but that didn't stop Ax from gagging repeatedly until he had to flee the church, a hand clamped over his eyes as he broke into rasping sobs. Seraphie twisted in the pew to look after him, but Robin touched her hand and kept her seated beside him.

A collection of Brandenburg's strangest citizens filled the front pews; business associates, police brass, the city's upper echelon and a few assorted people who had been touched by the newspapers took up the rest of the church's seating. Everyone was quiet throughout the funeral service, but Andrew went into renewed hysterics when Aeneas stood up to read a prepared memorial speech. He was taken into the church's foyer and sedated, returned to Bertram's side glassy-eyed and weeping silently.

Betre didn't look back at those present. Kearna Tierney had agreed to accompany him to the funeral, and he was preoccupied with tilting his head just enough to catch the cinnamon scent of her hair. She had thoughtfully worn a plunging neckline beneath her sedate black jacket and the glimpses he caught of her shadowed cleavage were a pleasant distraction from the proceedings. The space to his left was ostentatiously empty, and he knew that all of the strange looks being cast in his direction were because of that open cushion.

Jonas Foster was not present at his daughter's funeral.

Against the advice of the investigators into Iris's death, Betre had elected to have the funeral held after dark. They wouldn't have understood his deference to Slate's request that he and his be allowed to attend. Betre explained it away with a flimsy story about Iris's preference for starry skies and gone unchallenged. The police were setting up floodlights and cameras in the hopes of catching sight of the murderer in the crowd. Detective Landsman was near the church door, hovering over the mourners' book on the off-chance that, if it was the serial killer, a signature would lead them to Iris's murderer.

The vampires were a row behind Betre, all neatly attired. Even Nathan had broken his own tradition and worn a black silk shirt, closed at the neck. None of them wept, but Slate's face was old and drawn. Kitty kept her arm wound through his and her soft, honeyed Southern voice was easily heard as she whispered to him that they'd be through this soon and she had beer ready for him when they got home.

No one overhearing would know that the home she referred to was directly beneath the church, but that was simply one of the joys of being 'in the know.'

The demon let out a slow breath as the priest droned on and he glanced again at Kearna's chest. A hint of gold sparkled from her pale skin; he had to fight back a smirk. He'd been quietly, subtly courting the temperamental feline chef for several years now, and Kearna often wore pieces that he'd gifted her. The delicate pendant--a web of gold filigree around a central tiger's eye--had been one of the choice pieces he'd taken from Ishmael's latest shipment.

That she wore it now was a delightful, ironic statement that only he understood.

Bertram's angry looks were becoming tiresome. He was going to be cornered the moment the service was over by the old fae, released from the hospital only that morning, and have to cough up some semblance of a lie to cover for Jonas's absence. Telling the man that Jonas was too drunk to lift his face out of his own pool of vomit, let alone attend his daughter's funeral, would not go over well.