Ritual Magic

should be proof against that. I do not know if holiness on the part of one would protect others.
    “If it’s that dangerous,” Cynna said, “how can one of these hellhounds be trusted to destroy it? Unless they’re saints—”
    Hounds are immune to persuasion. I do not know the mechanism for their protection, but I trust its efficacy.
    Isen was frowning. “There must be some reason Winter hasn’t set one of these Hounds on the trail of that knife already.”
    She has. They haven’t found it. Hounds cannot be turned away from the hunt, but they require what you might call a scent or a trail to follow. Nam Anthessa is good at hiding its nature. It is worth noting that its call-name translates roughly as Eater of Truth. This is why Winter will not send a Hound of either sort unless she is convinced the knife is here. She is fond of them. If she sends one to us and it fails to find Nam Anthessa before the damage to our realm becomes irreversible, it might be lost to her.
    When Sam paused this time, Lily jumped in. “But why is Friar doing this? Why does he want to tamper with the dead, mess up time, and destabilize the realm? How does that help
her
? She wants a realm and lots of people to rule over.”
    Apparently what I thought obvious is not.
There was a distinctly acerbic flavor to that thought.
If the agent of hers who wields Nam Anthessa—presumably Robert Friar—chooses the right victims for the blade, it will create a rent in the fabric of our realm such that
she
is able to enter. This is like causing an earthquake in order to knock down a locked door. The door may come down, but there will be considerable additional damage. It seems she is willing to accept such damage in order to gain entry.
    The Great Bitch wanted in. She wanted in badly enough to destroy some part of their world to get here. This was really, deeply, seriously bad. “And if this Hound comes here and finds the knife and destroys it, will that restore—dammit.” Her phone was vibrating.
    But Lily didn’t have to finish her question out loud for Sam to hear it.
I do not know. Time itself will heal. I suspect that the spiritual damage connected with the lost memories will heal as well. I do not know if this means that the victims will regain their memories.
    Not what she wanted to hear, but better than a flat “no.” She took out her phone and looked at the display and huffed out a breath. “I have to take this.”
    She listened first, then asked a couple of questions. As soon as she disconnected she turned to Karonski. “That was an SDPD homicide detective I used to work with. He wants me to check out what looks like a ritual murder in case the body’s contaminated the way the other site was. Only it doesn’t make sense. There’s two victims, one dead, one critical. But they were gunned down, not throat-slit.”
    “That doesn’t work,” Cullen said.
    “I know. But if something other than gunplay went on . . . they got the living victim transported quickly, then pulled back because of the risk of contamination, which is exactly what they needed to do, but that means they haven’t examined the scene or the body. Maybe this Nam Anthessa was used in some way other than cutting the throat, and they didn’t see the wound.”
    I sense no additional troubling of time. I do not believe Nam Anthessa has been used tonight.
    “That’s good. I still need to go.”
    “Go,” Karonski said.
    Lily shoved back her chair.
    So did Rule. “You mean
we
need to go.”

THIRTY-FOUR

    T HE Torrey Pines Reserve was closed at night, but people interested in committing murder often don’t worry much about park rules. Maybe the killer hadn’t realized that rangers sometimes work late. Two rangers had been busting some asshole for camping on the beach below the bluff when they heard gunshots. When they checked that out, they found a bloody scene complete with arcane symbols.
    “You sure the EMTs knew to keep latex between them and their patient?” she asked T.J. as they headed up the Guy Fleming Trail. The body was at the north overlook; no one waited there but the dead. Once T.J. arrived, he’d kept everyone away except for the EMTs.
    “I told ’em. Sent word to the hospital, too.” T.J., aka Lieutenant Thomas James of the San Diego Police Department, looked less like Santa Claus than he had a few months back, when he’d grown a beard. He’d made a saggy Santa, but he did have the white hair and twinkle. Behind that twinkle was