IT TOOK ME fifteen minutes and two handfuls of shampoo to get the spider gunk out of my hair. It also gave me time to think. Tomorrow I needed to take the glass to an expert. Unfortunately any private lab analyzing magically amazing sand would have a waiting list, and taking it to the cops would accomplish nothing. Eduardo was a grown man, a shapeshifter, and he had issues with his alpha. From an outsider’s perspective, it was entirely possible that he’d simply put some time and distance between him and his problems. They would look for him, but he wouldn’t exactly make it on the priority list.

There was one person in the city who might be able to analyze the glass on short notice. Going to see him would make Curran’s hair stand on end and it would cost me an arm and a leg. But it had to be done. Time was short.

The kindjal offered another place I could dig. The silver work on the scabbard was elaborate but not exactly unique, but the blade was a dead giveaway. The inscription had been written via the koftgari method, where the smith scratched the blade, hammered fine flat silver wire into it, and then heated it to help the silver stick. Koftgari didn’t stand up well to prolonged use and the kindjal didn’t look like a refinished antique, so it had to be a recent purchase. There were two smiths in the city who could produce a weapon of that quality, and only one of them used koftgari. The other favored inlay, cutting deep grooves into the blade and filling them with wire. I would go and knock on Nitish’s door tomorrow. I had bought weapons from him in the past. He wouldn’t like it, but he would talk to me.

I wished I could’ve spoken to Mitchell tonight, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Mitchell survived because Biohazard hid him from the general public. I could only see him at their convenience. Pissing off Biohazard wasn’t in my best interests, no matter how much I wanted to know about the ghouls.

Aside from that, there weren’t a lot of paths we could take. A few years ago I would’ve tried a locating spell, but they’ve been thoroughly discredited now. The magic behind them misfired most of the time, sending you on a wild-goose chase and wasting time.

I dried off, patting the towel gently over my scrapes, and looked at myself in the mirror. My back had developed a lovely plumlike color. Twisting to look at it in the mirror hurt. Another day, another wound.

I dressed and went downstairs to have dinner.