Titan Song Dan Stout (top 20 books to read txt) 📖

“I already have an ARC team on-site, but they need a Homicide detective, and I want you to be the first on scene, and to smile for the cameras. Is that clear?”

“Captain Bryyh—”

“Is one hundred percent behind this move. This isn’t a request, Detective.”

“I’ll get there when I get there,” I snarled, and disconnected the line. My anger was real but my delaying tactic was a bluff. I wouldn’t leave a murder victim waiting for justice.

1800 Ragweed Road was, of all things, a guidepost. St. Azzec’s catered to the wealthy and well-kept. Ironic, since its patron, Azzec the Lost, was a Mollenkampi philosopher famous for questioning the nature of the One True Path, only coming to embrace its philosophies at the end of his life. In other settings, a St. Azzec’s Guidepost would be welcoming of all those who sought insight. In Titanshade, it was preemptively protected against intrusion by anyone below a minimum income level. Official department policy for such high-profile locations is to enter quietly through the back. Unofficial department policy would never have me within a thousand paces of the place. But the DO had insisted our job was to be seen. So I decided to take him up on it.

The scrum of reporters around the front door snapped our photo and shouted questions as Jax and I strode to the guidepost. The nature of those questions took me by surprise—they were all about Barekusu. I exchanged a quick glance with Ajax. His brow was furrowed, and he looked as confused as I felt. Still, we paused by the entrance and let the press go mad, as Auberjois had instructed. I spotted Klare in the scrum, and I felt sure my photo would be running in The Titanshade Union Record that night.

We were ushered past the ornate iron detailing on heavy wooden doors by a foursome of patrol officers. No scarlet crime scene tape hung on the doors, but the patrol’s presence spoke volumes: the department brass wanted to make a very public statement about how they were responding to whatever had happened behind those doors.

Inside, the layout was simple, like most guideposts. A series of benches in the main chamber, a raised dais for the guides to speak from, a series of candle-lined alcoves for meditation, and curtains hiding the side passages intended for those seeking the inspiration and other-worldly visions of Dream Sight. The wealth showed in the details. Expensive candles, gold leaf and intricate carving on benches that would be far out of place on an actual trail. All this bore witness to the wealth of the guidepost members. This despite the fact that guideposts technically don’t have members. Like any waystation on the trail, they are open to all comers. And just like anything that is open to all, they are susceptible to being monopolized by the powerful.

Jax turned to me, his badge shiny and clean hanging on his jacket breast pocket. “What do you think is going on?” He seemed more anxious than normal, almost eager. He’d trained in a seminary, and maybe the thought of violence being done in a guidepost was enough to get his back up.

“How would I know? I haven’t been here any longer than you. Let’s go ask someone who has.” I moved down the center aisle toward the small crowd of patrol cops. I recognized a few of them and exchanged nods. One of them indicated the hallway at her back.

“They’re in the dream chamber. That one,” she said, pointing. “The other, that’s where the mess is. You’ll want to brace yourself before going in there.”

“Thank you.” Jax pushed aside the curtain and led the way to the dream chamber.

The hall was slightly less ornate than the main chamber of the guidepost, likely because it was seen less often, and maybe the donors weren’t the type to chase deep dreaming. In any case, we heard voices from one of the three chambers off of the hallway, and we pushed our way inside.

There we found one divination officer and two plainclothes personnel I didn’t recognize huddled around a Barekusu I did. It was one of the Barekusu who’d preceded the caravan’s arrival, Serrow, the sorcerer. Her voice and photo had become pictures on the evening news in the last week or so, but in those instances she had never looked so downtrodden.

Serrow crouched on her back legs, head bowed so low the light brown hair along her neck almost touched the stone-tiled floor. The crown of pointed ears circling her head drooped, and her horn slats were lowered, hiding her eyes. Her arms were pulled in tight, elbows close to her ribcage and her show hands clenched. Barekusu hands were complex things; their arms terminated with a thick three-fingered hand, heavily callused from walking on all fours. Each finger was the width of my wrist, and the two front-facing fingers had a gap perfectly sized for the back-facing finger to fold into. This was the Barekusu show hand, and it could take the near-continuous walking of the caravan in stride. Serrow’s sly hands were hidden.

My badge was on display on my breast pocket, though neither as shiny nor as clean as my partner’s. I announced our arrival. “Detectives Carter and Ajax. What’s the situation?”

The DO was an aging Mollenkampi woman who seemed enormously happy to see us. She started to respond, but one of the plainclothes humans interrupted.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, thin blond mustache quivering slightly, “but we have this under control. Please wait outside, and we’ll brief you in a few moments.”

I gave him an aw-shucks grin and scratched my head. “Well, here’s the thing. Is there a body? Because that’s usually why you call Homicide detectives.” I looked at Jax. “Don’t you find that’s the case? That there’s usually a dead body somewhere around if we show up?”

The DO shuffled her feet and peered at the plainclothes guys, as if deflecting the conflict. I figured both men to be younger