Kate Daniels 01 - Magic Bites

thinking. “Did you hear that?”
    I shook my head.
    “I think someone’s at the gate. I’m going to go and check on it. I’m putting my binder right here. Now, these are confidential reports. I don’t want you looking at them. In particular, I don’t want you looking at the reports from the third of this month. Or taking any copies out of this file.” She turned and marched out of the room.
    I flipped through the notebook. There were eight autopsies on the third. Finding Greg’s didn’t prove to be a problem.
    The trace evidence consisted of four hairs. In the origin column someone penciled Un. Psb Feline der. Unidentified, possibly a feline derivative. Not a feline shapeshifter. They would’ve pegged it as Homo sapiens with a specific felidae genus.
    The long folded sheet of the m-scan came next. Obeying the shake of my hand, it unfolded to its full three feet, presenting a graph drawn by the delicate needles of the magic-scanner. The faint colored lines on the graph wavered, a sure sign of many magic influences colliding in one spot. It was inconclusive by the most lax of standards and no court would have permitted it into evidence. The small header in the top corner identified it as a copy. Oh, goodie.
    I squinted, trying to make sense of it. Greg’s body had continued to release its magic even after his death and the scanner recorded it as a sloping gray line, sometimes an inch wide, sometimes almost invisible. The deep jagged purple cutting across it had to be the vampire’s magic. I looked harder. There was a third line, actually a series of lines, faint and dashing at irregular intervals through the reading. The longest was about a quarter of an inch long and the color was undeterminable. I raised the graph so the light of the ceiling bulb shone through it. The ink stood out. Yellow. What the hell registered yellow?
    I tugged at the graph, tearing it along the perforated lines and slid it into my folder. Julianne returned shortly. “Nobody there. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
    She took the binder and walked out, leaving me with the vampire’s corpse. I slipped on a pair of medical gloves and approached the body. The placement of brands depended on the personality of the Master of the Dead. Phillian marked his with a big Eye of Horus smack in the middle of the forehead. Constance marked hers in the left armpit. Since the forehead on this one was conveniently missing, it could have belonged to Phillian. Theoretically. I set about finding the brand.
    The armpits were clean, so was the chest, the spine, the back, the buttocks, the inside of the thighs and ankles. The only place remaining was the scrotum, so I spread the vampire’s legs. The testicles diminished immediately after the human’s death and continued to shrink during the vampire’s life. There was a whole study on dating the bloodsuckers based on the size of the reproductive organs. I didn’t care how old this one was, but judging by the signs he had to be pushing fifty. And he was clean. No brand. There was a scar, however, cleaving the scrotum at the base on the left side. It looked like it had been stitched together.
    A quick glance about told me I would find no scalpel in this room. I took Slayer from its sheath. It smoked, sensing the undead. Thin tendrils of pale haze curved from the blade.
    “Don’t start dripping,” I murmured and pressed the very tip of the edge against the scar.
    The undead tissue hissed as the blade sank into the flesh. I let it cut about a quarter of an inch and withdrew the saber, leaving a neat incision. Taking the flap of the skin, I pulled on it lightly, and it came away from the groin, revealing a smooth burn scar about an inch wide and three quarters of an inch long. In the middle of the burned scar sat a neat scorch mark, an arrow tipped with a circle instead of an arrowhead. Ghastek’s brand. Why wasn’t I surprised?
    “You do know there are penalties for mutilating corpses?” said a male voice.
    I spun around, blade in my hand. A tall man stood leaning against the doorway. He wore scrubs, which meant he had more right to be here than I did.
    “Watch out there,” he said.
    “Sorry,” I lowered the saber. “I don’t like being startled.”
    “Neither do I. Except by young attractive women.” He looked to be in his mid-thirties. The colored stripe on his shoulder shone bright orange. Third-level clearance. The tag clipped to his suit confirmed it: I’d gotten a bloody unit