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state than something
real and lasting. Probably not the healthiest attitude for a
teenage girl, but what can you do. I’d never exactly been
normal.
    There were about a dozen people standing in
front of the vault. Of course I recognized Alister and Dex Jones
straightaway. There were two other men, younger than Dex but nearly
identical to him. It was pretty obvious they were Kabita’s other
brothers, Adam and Adler.
    The twins greeted us with warm hugs. It was
obvious they didn’t share their father’s prejudice against
Kabita.
    There were also a couple of desk jockey
types, a man and a woman, looking a little nervous around the Jones
family. Kabita pointed them out as Alison’s co-workers at MI8. I
eyed them both. They had worked in the same office as Alison which
meant they could have some idea about whatever it was Alison had
stumbled across. And that meant they were suspects despite the
dragon scale in my pocket that might say otherwise.
    The man was thin and tall with that slight
hunch that tall people sometimes had, like they were embarrassed of
how tall they were. His thin brown hair was badly in need of a
trim, and his white dress shirt and black trousers were a little
rumpled like maybe he’d been working all night and hadn’t
changed.
    The woman, on the other hand, was neat as a
pin. If she’d worn her hair down it probably would have been a
thick, frizzy mass, but she wore it pinned into a severe bun almost
hiding the fact that it was just this side of ginger. Her nose was
a little too long and her face a little too narrow to be pretty,
but she was interesting. The round wire rimmed glasses perched on
her nose were several years out of date and, combined with her
neatly pressed black skirt suit, made her look like a librarian or
a schoolmarm.
    Frankly, they both looked harmless, but I’d
learned over the years that looks could be very deceiving. I
wouldn’t write those two off the suspect list quite yet. Besides,
they worked for MI8 and when spooks were involved, even desk
jockeys could be dangerous.
    Kabita led me over to another woman standing
by herself at the front of the little group. She was slightly built
and on the short side, but she stood ramrod straight, her blond bob
topped with a chic little black hat, a wisp of netting partially
covering her face.
    It was a pretty face. She reminded me a lot
of the picture I’d seen of Alison, but older.
    “Aunt Angeline, this is my friend Morgan
Bailey. She’s the Hunter you helped me save.”
    “I remember.” Angeline Reynolds held out a
dainty hand. My hands were not big, but they dwarfed those of
Kabita’s aunt. Her skin was warm and soft and there was strength in
her.
    “Mrs. Reynolds, I’m very sorry for your
loss.”
    She gave me a gracious nod. “Thank you, Miss
Bailey. Welcome back to London.” Her voice was cultured, her
clothes expensive and the very faint whiff of her perfume
exquisite. This was one classy lady. She didn’t deserve the kind of
sorrow I saw etched into her face. No one deserved to suffer the
loss of a child. Especially not like this. And especially not the
woman who’d made sure I’d had a second chance at life.
    I kept hold of her hand and stepped a little
closer than was entirely polite. Lowering my voice, I whispered, “I
want to assure you, Mrs. Reynolds, that I will bring Alison’s
killer to justice. I don’t care who or what that killer may be. I
will not stop until it is done. Do you understand what I’m
saying?”
    Her blue eyes, identical to her daughter’s,
gazed at me from underneath the black netting of her hat. For a
long moment she said nothing. And then all she said was, “Thank
you.”

Chapter Seven
     
     
    As funerals went, it was a pleasant enough
one. The Anglican priest read some scriptures and said a few
prayers, the usual fare about ashes to ashes and so forth. Alister
made a short speech and Alison’s female co-worker said some nice
things about how Alison had been a good person and