The Eighth Court by Mike Shevdon Page B

and across the outside of the shower curtain, and then left. This made no sense at all. Claire wasn’t fey, and if she’d died her body should still be here. No one was going to carry her body away. So where was she? My mind drifted back the dumpster in the alley. I had stood on top of it to try and reach the fire escape. Had I been closer than I thought?
    I stepped carefully out of the bathroom, retracing my steps and went back to the kitchen passage, polishing the light switch to leave no incriminating fingerprints as I switched it off. The welcoming dark hid the stains and the chaos. I retreated to the fire escape and closed the fire-door behind me, finding the chill, clean air welcome after the cloying smell of the flat. Taking the fire escape downwards, I was able to drop from where I had grabbed on to the rail to the alley below.
    Hoisting the lid off the dumpster, I expected to see a set of dead eyes. Instead there were plastic rubbish bags. I pulled them apart looking for something that looked less like a bag and more like a body. In the darkness, a flash of bright metal caught my eye. Amidst the bags there was a kitchen knife.
    Angling the knife so it caught the light, I could see brown stains smeared across the blade. She had been cutting peppers and tomato, and this definitely wasn’t tomato juice. My assumption was that whoever had found Claire had killed her, but without a body that theory was getting harder to substantiate. This was her knife and it had bloodstains on it.
    Maybe she wasn’t dead after all?
    When I reached the courts, all was quiet. Amber was watching the Ways. As far as she knew, I’d taken my daughter to visit my ex-wife. I’d returned covered in blood, livid bruises across my face, a gash on my forehead, and carrying a blood-stained knife. She took in my appearance and shook her head once, making no further comment. It made me wonder what would be considered worthy of comment in Amber’s world.
    When I reached our rooms I got more of the reception I’d been expecting.
    “Niall! What on earth happened to you? And where did you get that?” Blackbird was referring to the knife. She was no longer dressed up for court and looked more like the Blackbird I knew.
    “I found it in a dumpster.” It was the truth, but her expression told me it was not sufficient.
    “I can’t let you out of my sight for two minutes,” she said. “Angela, bring me a wet towel – with cold water. For goodness sake, Niall. Where did these bruises come from? I thought you were visiting Katherine.” At least she hadn’t concluded that I’d murdered them all. She made me sit while she inspected the gash across my forehead.
    “I was visiting an old friend.” Angela appeared with the towel, handing it to Blackbird, who dabbed it at my forehead. “Ow! That stings.”
    “Don’t be such a baby. You don’t want it to get infected, do you?”
    “I can’t get infections. I’m fey,” I pointed out.
    “You can still scar, and if I don’t close this wound properly you’ll have a white gash across your forehead for a long time to come.”
    “I thought it would make me more handsome… ouch! Do you have to do that so hard?”
    She pressed the cloth to the wound on my forehead. “Maybe you’ll think twice next time. So what happened?”
    Pulling Claire’s letter from my pocket, I passed it to Blackbird who passed it to Angela. I explained about what happened at the Royal Courts of Justice. I even admitted to pinning the woman against the wall.
    “I didn’t have time for twenty questions,” I explained, but still earned a frown of disapproval from Blackbird. “And then Raffmir ran me over with the van, or at least he crashed the gates into me. I’m not completely sure what happened after that. I think I staggered down into the crypt of St Clement’s Dane. I woke up in a cellar down the Way.”
    Mentioning the strange dream seemed a bad idea. I didn’t want to start sounding crazy after an obvious