She held a hand up. “I’m not in any way trying to do your job—”

“I know that.”

“What about possession of powdered silver?”

Pete went quiet, but kept tapping his stylus on the table. Then the tapping stopped. “Is that against pride rules?”

“They treat it like a drug or a poison. Possessing more than an eighth of an ounce without a legitimate reason—which I don’t think there are any—is grounds for a small fine and seizure of the powder. Second and third offenses have much more serious consequences.”

Pete seemed to be mulling something over. “You think he might have tainted that sand himself then?”

She shrugged. “Not really, but he might have been involved in it.”

“Why would he do that? Heaven was his sister.”

“Whom he admitted he never got along with. Maybe he knew if Heaven was out of the way, it would open up a chance for him to come to the States.”

“But why? That would be like a prince leaving his kingdom. Remo’s father is one of the most powerful men in all of Brazil. Why would Remo want to put so much distance between them?”

Fi traced a circle on the table top. “Remo’s the third born. I know that much about him. There was no chance he’d ever inherit that throne.” She stopped drawing. “And Doc’s a nobody to him. Maybe he thought he could come in here and take over this pride. Especially if he could throw suspicion about his sister’s death on Doc or me.”

Pete nodded. “That’s interesting. And it gives me a lot to look into.” He pushed his tablet forward a little. “I still have to ask you questions.”

“I know. And I’m ready to answer.” She’d said her piece, given him everything she and Doc had come up with in the car. Remo could definitely be behind this. And even if he wasn’t, it would buy Doc and his council a little more time to do their own investigation.

Pete cleared his throat. “Where were you the night of Heaven’s death?”

“Right there in the arena with her, getting the daylights beaten out of me. By her.” Fi took a breath. “Next?”

“The sun will be down in an hour, maybe less.” Chrysabelle pushed her dessert plate away. “I want to wake him up.”

Not alone, Velimai signed as she began to clear dishes.

“I agree.” Mortalis set his coffee cup down. “Let Damian and me go with you. Just to be safe.”

Amylia smiled politely. “I feel like I’m intruding on personal business here. Thank you for dinner, it was lovely, but I’m going to go back to the guesthouse and let you have your privacy.” She pushed her chair back.

Chrysabelle nodded, knowing how awkward this must be for the girl. “Thank you. You’re welcome for dinner any time.”

Amylia gave a little wave and left.

As the front door swung shut, Chrysabelle raised her eyebrows. “That was intuitive of her. Of course, she can’t be that comfortable knowing there’s a vampire in the house. I get it, but it is my house.” She looked at Damian. “Sorry. Our house. I guess you’re probably not crazy about him being here either.”

“Amylia’s… fine. As fine as she can be in this situation. And she understands about Mal.” He flattened the crust of his key lime pie with his fork, turning it into sand. “She knows, like I do, that Mal helped you get me out of Corvinestri. He kept you safe. And I know you have feelings for him. I’m not about to tell you whom you can and can’t love.” He looked at her. “I just hope for your sake, he wakes up like his old self again.”

“Thank you.” Having her brother on her side meant a lot. She pushed her chair back and stood. “Shall we?” She led them down the hall.

Mortalis stopped them at the door to the hurricane shelter. “Let me.” He opened the door slowly, then tapped the light panel. Soft overheads filled the space with gentle illumination.

Mal sprawled on the couch, one arm hanging off, but otherwise stone still in the deathly repose of a vampire in daysleep. Mortalis pulled a small black dagger from his belt.

Damian unsheathed the sacre he’d grabbed along the way. “Just in case,” he whispered.

She didn’t like it, but she understood. “Mal,” she called. “Can you wake up?”

No response. She went close enough to give his leg a shake. He wasn’t usually a sound sleeper. “Mal. Wake up.”

His eyes came open and he blinked a few times. The moment his gaze focused on her, he grinned. “You’re home.” He leaped off the couch.

Damian’s blade came flashing down between them. “Not so fast.”

Mal snarled, but his hands went up in surrender. “You have a death wish?”

Damian kept the blade in place. “Do you?”

“Enough.” Chrysabelle itched to touch Mal, but first things first. “Mal, how do you feel?”

“Like if I don’t get some alone time with you, I’m going to kill somebody.”

Mortalis spun the blade through his fingers. “Not the answer we were looking for.”

Mal frowned. “You know what I mean.” He turned his gaze to Chrysabelle. “Damn, it’s good to see you. I just want to hold you and make sure you’re real.”

He stared at her, his expression fraught with all the emotions that had been ripped from him, his eyes so silver they gleamed, and she knew in that moment that he was back. This was her Mal standing before her. “That might be a little uncomfortable.” She pulled up the sleeve of her tunic top. “I’m wearing my body armor.” It was the best protection she and the baby had against him if things went poorly.