At his back, the sun glowed bright and warm-the cold quiet of the house intensified. It drew him on.

He halted in the doorway, his gaze drawn down to the body sprawled a few feet inside the room.

His skin turned cold. After an instant's hiatus, he forced his gaze to travel the old, lined face, the straggly white hair covered by a tasseled cap. In a long white nightshirt with a knitted shawl wound around heavy shoulders, twisted onto his back with one arm outflung, bare feet poking out toward the door, the dead man looked as if he might be asleep, here in his drawing room surrounded by his antique tomes.

But he wasn't asleep-he hadn't even collapsed. Blood still seeped from a small cut on his left side, directly beneath his heart.

Lucifer dragged in a breath. "Horatio!"

On his knees, he searched for a pulse at wrist and throat, and found none. Hand on Horatio's chest, he felt a lingering warmth; slight color still graced the old man's cheeks. Mind reeling, Lucifer sat back on his heels.

Horatio had been murdered-minutes ago.

He felt numb, detached; some part of his brain continued cataloguing facts, like the experienced cavalry officer he'd once been.

The single killing stroke had been an upward thrust into the heart-like a bayonet wound. Not much blood, just a little… oddly little. Frowning, he checked. There was more blood beneath the body. Horatio had been turned onto his back later-originally he'd fallen facedown. Catching a glimpse of gilt under the shawl, Lucifer searched with fingers that shook-and drew out a long, thin letter knife.

His fingers curled around the ornate hilt. He scanned the immediate area but could see no sign of any struggle. The rug wasn't rumpled; the table between the body and the rug appeared correctly aligned in its normal place.