Free His Father's Eyes - eARC by David B. Coe

and me, and my lover, Margarite. You’ll like her, too. Good day, gentlemen.”
    There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of Kona’s footsteps. Then the other two agents burst out laughing. It was all I could do not to join them.
    “Now, that was fun,” she said in a low voice as we exited the plane. “What did you learn? Something I hope. I’d rather not find out I went through all that for nothing.”
    “There was magic all over the cockpit,” I said, my voice low. “The same color and quality as what was on Howell. Whoever killed him also kept the plane from taking off.”
    “From the cockpit?” she asked. “Does that mean it was a member of the crew?”
    “Or a weremyste who managed to get in there. You’ve seen what a camouflage spell can do.”
    “Yeah, nice work, by the way. That would be a handy spell when Hibbard’s around.”
    “Why haven’t I ever thought of that?”
    “So what now, partner?”
    “Now we take Howell’s sock back to the men’s room where he was found and try a seeing spell there.”
    “And we couldn’t do this before because . . . ?”
    “Because I didn’t want to touch the body and mess up your crime scene.”
    “Right. I appreciate that.”
    We went back to the terminal and made our way to the restroom once more. By now, there were several cops with the body, as well as a photographer from the ME’s office. This wasn’t a casting I could do in front of others without drawing attention to myself, which meant another camouflage spell. I retreated to the gate area, cast the spell so that it would work in the restroom—why couldn’t the guy have been murdered in a bar, or one of those lounges designed for wealthy business travelers?—and went back in.
    As on the plane, no one noticed that I was there, not even Kona, since she was in the restroom when I cast the spell. I took up a position near the entrance, pulled out the sock and stone again, and cast the seeing spell.
    Once more, I saw in the stone what Howell had seen. He walked into the men’s room, took a piss, and then went to the sink to wash his hands. Several other men were in here already. They gave Howell a wide berth. I assumed they had taken note of his appearance: the tattoos, the T-shirt, the shaved head. No one spoke to him or even dared make eye contact.
    He braced his hands on the sink and closed eyes his, taking a long, rattling breath. Then he bent over and splashed water on his face. Seeing hand blowers but no paper-towel dispensers, he muttered a curse and pulled up his shirt hem to dry his face. Leaning on the sink again he stared at himself in the mirror. A man crossed behind him and appeared to leave the restroom.
    At this point, Howell gave no indication that he had noticed anything unusual. But viewing the scene through his eyes, knowing to watch for it, I did.
    No one had entered the men’s room since Howell’s entrance, and now it seemed that those who walked in with him, and those who had already been here, were gone. Howell was alone, or at least alone with his eventual killer. I don’t know how the sorcerer managed this, but I didn’t doubt for an instant that he had.
    Howell straightened, then swiveled his head left and right, his brow creasing. He checked the stalls, all of which were empty, before starting toward the restroom door. After two steps, he halted.
    Anyone in here ? he said.
    His voice echoed off the tiles, but no one answered him.
    He took another step, stopped again. Without warning, he whirled, an audible gasp torn from his chest.
    What the f— ? Who’s there ?
    He sounded more scared than angry, though I could tell he was trying for the latter.
    Again, his question was met with silence. He was edging toward the door now, his back to the sinks. This was where he was going to die, and I didn’t see anyone. Not a soul.
    He spun a second time, practically jumping out of his skin, swiping at something on his shoulder, something I couldn’t see. His killer