Quentin was also watching her, frowning. The kid caught on quick. “Why did you call us here?” he asked.

Jan paused, enthusiasm dimming. “I needed to talk to you.”

“We’re here,” I said. “Talk.”

“I’ve got those files you asked for—and I wanted to know what you found in the basement.”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Quentin and I both tried, and we didn’t get anything. Maybe my mother could work with their blood, but we can’t. We’re not strong enough.”

“Is there anything else you can try?” she asked.

“Not without access to a police lab. Forensics isn’t my strong suit, and without proper equipment, it’s practically impossible.”

“We can’t involve the police.”

“I know.” The Fair Folk have it pretty good these days; no one believes in us anymore, and so we’re free to live our lives. It wasn’t always like that—there were bad times before we were forgotten, centuries filled with fire and iron. Not even the truly insane members of the Unseelie Court want to go back to that . . . but give the mortal world three fae corpses and we wouldn’t have a choice. That much proof of our existence would bring the old days back, whether we wanted them or not, and I’d face down Oberon himself before I’d let that happen.

Jan sighed. “I tried calling my uncle again.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” She shook her head. “I can’t get a person. I left another message.”

“I left a message for him, too, and one for the San Francisco King of Cats. I’m hoping he can help me figure out what would have been able to get the jump on Barbara.”

Jan nodded. “Keep me posted?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Is there anything else you need?”

“Yes, actually,” I said. “I want a list of the people who had access to the cafeteria when Barbara was found. If there are any security cameras that didn’t have mysterious breakdowns just before the killings, I’ll need to see what they recorded. I also want the places where bodies have been found roped off until Quentin and I can go over them—that includes the lawn outside the knowe.”

“Done and done. Do you have any idea what could be behind this?”

“I don’t think it’s a ‘what.’ I think it’s—” I stopped as the overhead lights flickered and died. The computers along the back wall went dark, and something started beeping stridently.

“This isn’t right,” said Jan. Her posture had shifted, reflecting tightly controlled panic.

“You don’t get power outages?” Dim light slanted through the room’s single window, outlining the desks. I walked to the window, pulling the drape aside and looking out at the grounds. “Quentin, check the door.”