Undercover (Into Shadow, #5)

by Tamsyn Muir

Then the cloth started coming off for real, the girl spinning through those unhurried, doped-up pirouettes. The revealed body was even prettier uncovered—what there was of it. There were moth-eaten holes in the abdomen and the neck, and one knee and one hip were fully defleshed. The raspberry lips parted to reveal the dancer’s teeth.

“It’s—it’s a catchall, ma’am. Anything wet. I mean a wet brain, anything with a body that still generates fluid. The eaters.” She felt the need to add: “Some of them don’t eat, of course. Or they eat for strange reasons. But they’re our big predators. Throat-biters, skull-crackers . . .” She hesitated, unsure how much of what she knew was smart to talk about. “Skin-wearers. Just—ghouls.”

“Amy,” the ghoul panted. “Amy, I still dream about you.”

The dancer wasn’t Tier 3. The dancer wasn’t even Tier 4. That was a Tier 6 ghoul that these gangsters had. It danced; it ate; it talked; it thought.

“Good girl, Starr,” said the Widower. “By the way—her name’s Lucille.”

It was the gold ring Lucille loved to play with. Reflexively she rubbed off some of the old brown blood. There was script on the inside. She read the inscription out loud. “‘Lucy & Lesley,’” she read. “‘Love endures.’” Lucille cackled.

She pushed the glass toward the Widower. It gleamed next to the brass nameplate. CAROL L. P. WIDDENER. “The L is for Lesley,” she said. “Isn’t it?” “And the P’s for Petronella,” said the Widower. “Damn stupid if you ask me . . . three whole names and only one I ever liked to hear.” “‘Lucy and Lesley,’” she quoted. “‘Love endures.’”

“You,” said Lucille. “You never call me ‘Lucy.’ You always called me ‘Luce.’ Amy and Luce . . . Detective Amy Starr . . . Detective Luce West.”

“Danny Keith’s girl didn’t lovergirl me,” she said. “She told Danny to let me go. Said I terrified her. Said I was creepy—something was off.” The Widower looked up. “Now, why do you think she thought that, Starr?” “Saw my hands,” she said. “I’m sorry you won’t reconsider Lucille, boss. Good day.”

She was aware of the clock ticking. She removed a good hunk off one of them, then hesitated. She was too tired. She found herself cramming the red-hot chunk of flesh into her mouth, swallowing without bothering to chew. If she had been one of the stupid ones, she would have kept going.

“Why did you kill Amy Starr?” she asked her in an almost-normal voice. “That’s a secret.” “Why? Why keep secrets now?” “Why keep secrets at all?” she said. “It’s a habit. Not just a human habit, either.” Something in Lucille’s face made her think of the woman she’d never met—of Luce West, not a dancer-turned-gangster-turned-wife-turned-ghoul. “I got hungry,” she admitted. “I needed a new face and a new body. It wasn’t personal. I didn’t know she had this much . . . baggage.”

“I never get to have their hands—damn things never fit me.” To illustrate, she peeled her dirty gloves off. They stung in the dry desert air. She watched Lucille take in the mottled skin—the glitter of the claws. She watched as Lucille held the dry old hand of Amy Starr to her cheek, like a little girl with a comfort blanket.

She started walking. After about fifty paces, she heard someone following along behind.