One Less Warlock
Hatchet came for Babet at three in the morning. His nickname fit him. His head was wedge-shaped, and everything about him looked sharp and dangerous—a perfect man to work liaison between the supernaturals and the human enforcers.
She answered the door before he knocked. He’d waken her when he called. His news made her hustle to be ready. No one would mourn Emile, and everyone would wonder who’d been smart enough to kill him. No one thought it possible. The warlock seemed indestructible.
“Who found him?” Babet asked, as she climbed into Hatchet’s squad car.
“His personal servant. Emile sent him out while he entertained a friend. He wasn’t to return until two.”
“Do you know who Emile’s visitor was?” Babet glanced at a group of partiers, clinging to each other to stay upright, on the sidewalk outside of one of River City’s bars. Emile lived in a nearby suburb, a rich, secluded area that guarded its privacy.
Hatchet shook his head. “Emile dismissed Simon before dinner was served and ordered him to stay away until two. We’ve knocked on neighbors’ doors, but no one saw anything.”
That didn’t surprise Babet. Emile’s friends wouldn’t make a public entrance. No, she amended herself. Emile had no friends that she knew of. He threw lots of parties, but rarely entertained one-on-one. Whomever he’d summoned in the wee hours of the morning might have been dreading their meeting. Or else hoped to form a brief alliance with the warlord—but always at a price.