“And if it doesn’t?”

“We try something else.”

“Why can’t Jan do it?”

“Because Jan isn’t the daughter of the most powerful blood-worker in Faerie, so she probably couldn’t wake the stuff up in the first place.” I tried to focus on what I was doing. “My mother could do this without breaking a sweat.”

“Right,” said Alex. “So were you able to . . . get anything . . . from Colin’s blood?”

“No, because there was nothing for us to ‘get.’ ” I passed the second cup of bloody water to Quentin. “Here.”

Alex frowned. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. The blood was empty.” I grimaced. “And before you ask, no, it’s not supposed to work that way.”

“So how do you know this time will be any different?”

“I don’t. I’m a half-blood and Quentin’s untrained, and this blood is old enough that I might not get anything under normal circumstances . . . but it’s worth trying.” Pinching my nose, I gulped down the contents of my cup. Quentin did the same with his.

All I got was the bitter, watery taste of diluted blood. There wasn’t a flicker of memory.

Quentin coughed and dropped his cup on the tray. “There’s nothing there.”

I sighed, putting my cup next to his. “It must have been too old.” He didn’t have to know that I was lying. I crossed to Yui’s cot and folded the sheet back, saying, “Maybe three weeks will make the difference.”

“You’re going to try again?” Alex asked.

“Have you got a better idea?” I picked up the third cup, scraping the blood off Yui’s right wrist. “If so, please share. I’m all out of good ideas.”

“Not really. I just . . . I want this to stop.”

“Yeah, well, if I were you, I’d have left by now. Gone somewhere safer.” Like the middle of a minefield.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” I handed Quentin his cup, started preparing my own.

“It’s a little hard to explain.”

“Doesn’t Terrie want to go?” I asked. Quentin looked up at the mention of Terrie’s name, suddenly interested.

Alex flinched. “Not really. That’s part of it.”

“Have you tried explaining that staying here might be fatal?”

“We don’t see each other much,” he said, uncomfortably. “It makes it hard to explain things.”

“She works the night shift, and she found the first body, right?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding startled and a bit wary. Not a good sign. “How did you know?”

I looked at him blandly. “Jan told me.”

“Right.” He sighed.

“If you see her, let her know I want to talk to her.”

His eyes widened. “Why?”

I expected his reaction: no one wants to hear that someone wants to talk to their relatives as part of a murder investigation. What I didn’t expect was the expression on Quentin’s face—for a moment, he looked like I’d slapped him.

“Calm down,” I said, directing the statement to both of them. “I just want to ask her a few questions. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” Yet.