Mortal Sins by Eileen Wilks

he was acting, though. People talk about the power of belief, but disbelief has power, too. Meacham wasn’t the first killer she’d seen wrecked by what he’d done, clinging to denial like a drowning man clings to a flimsy branch.
    “Guess you’d like to have those taken off, huh?” She nodded at his hands, still busily wrapping and unwrapping themselves.
    “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” He didn’t look down.
    “Your handcuffs.”
    He stopped blinking. “Those ain’t mine.”
    “I guess they belong to the sheriff’s department, but they’re on your hands.” She tried a smile as she reached for one busy, busy hand. Her fingertips brushed one knuckle. “Mr. Meacham—”
    “Not my hands!” he bellowed. And with that, he exploded.
    The table shot up, propelled by Meacham’s joined hands slamming it from underneath. He was roaring, on his feet, his face red and the cords in his neck standing out. Lily dived out of her chair, but wasn’t quite quick enough. The table clipped her hip as she went down. Kessenblaum was screaming, a high, staccato counterpoint to Meacham’s bass roar.
    Lily scrambled to her feet. Both guards had jumped on Meacham, who bent, sending the Hispanic guard flying over his head to collide with the upturned table. The table blocked Lily, so she skidded around it and missed seeing the blow that crumpled the second guard, his hands clutching his crotch.
    Deacon shot past her—going low, she realized, adjusting her own target.
    The sheriff hit his prisoner at the knees, taking him down. Lily landed on Meacham’s chest just as the man hit the floor. She leaned one forearm across his throat, ready to choke him as needed.
    As abruptly as it had begun, the fight was over.
    In the renewed quiet, Lily heard Kessenblaum panting, whispery little moans interspersed with the occasional “oh-mygod.” The guard who’d been kicked in the nuts was cursing steadily, but without much breath.
    Deacon shifted to sit on Meacham’s thighs while gripping the man’s wrists. He spoke calmly enough. “Anyone need a doctor?” When no one spoke, he said, “In that case, Corporal Sanchez, get your ass over here and take control of your prisoner.”
    “Yes, sir.” Sanchez finished untangling himself from the table’s legs just as the door swung open and two more guards entered, weapons drawn. “Holster ’em, boys,” Deacon said without looking over. “Matheson, stand by. Hemmings, you and Sanchez secure the prisoner for return to his cell.”
    Sanchez limped over to them. “Miss—uh, I mean Agent Yu, I’ll take him now.”
    “In a minute.” She knew the man was deeply embarrassed. Bad enough to have a fed immobilizing his prisoner when he’d failed to control the man. Worse when that fed was female, five-two, and slim.
    Tough. She looked down at the contorted face of the man who’d tried to take the room apart a moment ago. Meacham’s cheeks were wet, his red eyes streaming. “You injured, Mr. Meacham?”
    He looked up at her, blinking madly. “Got no hands,” he whispered. “Not mine. They aren’t mine.”
    She shifted so she could lay one hand along his wet, stubbled cheek without losing the ability to choke him if she needed to. She had to be sure . . . Oh, yes. Her touch confirmed the fleeting impression she’d received in the second between touching his hand and his going berserk.
    Death magic, very faint, but unmistakable in its ground-glass foulness . . . and nothing else. Roy Don Meacham had not a shred of personal magic. Nothing he could have used to call up the death magic that still clung to his skin.
    “That’s right, Mr. Meacham,” she agreed, hoarse and quiet. “Not your hands. It wasn’t your hands that did it.”

NINE
    TOBY woke all at once, blinking at the buttery daylight on his ceiling and wondering why his stomach felt so excited. Then he remembered.
    Dad was here. Right here in the house. He’d stayed here last night, which he never did because