The Sleeper's Harp (The Arcane Artifacts, #1)

Chapter 8 - Artifacts

Eleanor hesitated outside Professor Miller's house. The entire place was done up with caution tape. Bastian had received clearance to inspect the premises. He'd done so several times already. On his own, it was unlikely he'd discover anything new. But, with Eleanor? He was counting on her presence.

He prodded her between the shoulder blades, gently, enough to get her moving. She glanced over her shoulder, glared, then walked up to the porch. She was still wearing his damned T-shirt. He hadn't expected that, but then again, it was that or the gold top. He knew which was his preference. She'd put on her cutoffs from the night before and tied the shirt in a knot at the hem, so it hugged her waist and didn't fall to her legs.

His fingers flexed, almost as if reaching for her. He hated to admit what it did to him, seeing her in his favorite shirt. Especially the way she'd looked coming into the kitchen this morning, hair mussed from sleep, that lazy look in her eyes.

Cooking breakfast was a win. He hadn't been sure how it would go over. But hearing her make those sounds as she ate his food? He'd wanted to pull her off the damn bar stool and carry her upstairs. Or rather, the goblin in him had.

He'd clamped down real fast on that.

This was getting too fucking dangerous. It needed to end. Deal or no deal, once he dropped her off at her apartment, he didn't plan on seeing her again until he needed her for the case. Consulting only. The sooner he got her out of his head, the better.

She stopped at the door; he crowded in behind her, close enough that his chest grazed her back. He clenched his teeth, ignoring the sensation, and planted a hand on the door frame, leaning over her shoulder, boxing her in. "Whenever you're ready, Sugar, it's unlocked. Take your time. We can hang out out here, if you need."

Just keep standing there. I don't mind the feel of you against me.

No, that wasn't why he'd said that. He didn't want to rush her. Even now, her scent had changed. He could smell the heavy dregs of anxiety rolling off her skin. It raised his hackles when it shouldn't have, pulling at a primal part of him. As soon as this case was solved, they'd have no reason to see each other again—what did he care if this upset her?

When she nodded, the top of her pink ponytail brushed his chin. He glanced down at it and his lips twitched. His free hand lifted, reaching for it. He stopped himself, dropping it.

Fucking fuck.

"I..." she sighed, shook her head. The door opened and she stepped through.

He gave her some space, waiting for her to acclimate. When she moved through the entry and into the living room, he hung back. She began moving around the area, inspecting things. Instead of looking around the house, his eyes drew straight to her, to her face. Her lips had pressed into a thin line, expression pinched tight.

He inhaled. The air was stagnant, the scent of death lingering. Everything was eerily silent. Something had happened here, beyond a simple murder. He felt it the moment he first arrived on the scene, and each time thereafter. A fine trace of malice, almost imperceptible.

It had always been that way for him, which was what made him so good at his job. His ability to sense lingering traces of death. No that it had done him any good in this case.

"They...her body isn't here, right?" Eleanor stood frozen in the middle of the living room.

"Nah," he said, voice calm. "Moved it to the morgue after it happened."

She shuddered, then nodded. Her throat bobbed. "Where...?"

He pointed. She followed his finger and walked over, head down, studying the area. "Burn marks?" she asked.