Free Hold The Dark: A Markhat story by Frank Tuttle Page A

this before?”
    He lowered his shaded glasses, inspected the comb and handed it back to me. Then he reached back inside his coat—and withdrew an identical silver swan-comb.
    He put it down on my desk, beside the one I’d found. They were twins, down to the carving of the feathers and the color of the bristles.
    “I have three more. All found among the belongings of…” He pulled the list around, pointed to three names. “Her, and her, and her.”
    “Notice anything strange about yours?”
    He frowned. “No. Why?”
    I hesitated. But he’d told me things, and I decided if I wanted him to keep talking I might have to open up myself.
    “A friend of mine tried to do her witch-touch act to it. Dropped it like a hot brick. Said she couldn’t feel that it had ever belonged to anyone. She said that wasn’t right, that she thought someone had put some kind of black mojo on it.”
    “We tried the same thing,” said the halfdead. “No one saw anything of significance through any of these—but they didn’t notice a lack of sight either.” He nudged my comb with a forefinger. “Odd. When did your friend try witch sight on it?”
    “Yesterday.”
    He nodded.
    “Ours were not nearly so fresh,” he said. “Hmm. Perhaps if the spell were cast to fade away…”
    “My friend said that was more than just street mojo. She said it was black hex. Sorcery.”
    “That would be significant, if true,” said Evis. He looked up suddenly at me. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to take this away for further study?”
    “I don’t suppose you’d give me a receipt?”
    He beamed. “Gladly.” And I swear he reached back into that coat, pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and a gold writing pen.
    “Tell me something,” I said, as he scribbled away. “Were you maybe a lawyer, before?”
    He looked up, lifted an eyebrow. “Before I died and became a blood-thirsty halfdead fiend?”
    “I wasn’t going to say ‘fiend’.”
    He laughed. “I was a lawyer, yes. Before the War. Nevertheless, I wound up in the infantry. I took a Troll arrow at Potter’s Hill.”
    I sat upright. “Potter’s Hill? Summer of seventy-four? I was there.”
    The halfdead finished writing, signed the page with a flourish, tore the paper out of the book and slid it across the desk toward me. “There was a halfdead in our regiment. We’d spoken, become friends, of a sort. He saw I was dying, asked me if I wanted to—to take a chance.” He shrugged. “I do not recall my reply. But I woke up dead two nights later. Funny old thing, life.”
    I took the receipt. It was all there, neat and legal, one silver comb, on temporary loan for sorcerous inspection, blah blah blah.
    Potter’s Hill. Hell, he’d died right under my nose.
    “All right,” I said, tapping his comb. “One veteran to another. Mind if I keep this one to show around?”
    “With my compliments.” He slipped his notebook back in his pocket, and his golden pen. “One more thing, Mr. Markhat.”
    “And what is that?”
    “We are aware of you and your efforts. Others may be aware of these things too. Persons not as well disposed toward you as I and my House.”
    “I get that a lot,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll put two strings on my screen-door tonight.”
    He shook his head.
    “You need not waste time at the Velvet. We’ve done that already. Martha’s abductors were never on the grounds, nor were they in association with anyone employed there.” He raised a gloved hand when I started to speak. “Please, Mr. Markhat, accept this as truth. It cost us—dearly—and I am convinced it is accurate.”
    “So forget the Velvet,” I said. “That doesn’t leave me with much. Because the only other thing in her life was her home, and her brothers—and you can accept this as truth—they had nothing to do with this. Nothing at all.”
    He nodded. “We reached the same surmise.”
    I shook my head. “I still don’t understand any of this.” I sensed our