She’d searched five others from original families without anyone knowing she’d been there. Now, she was running out of both patience and places to look. If she didn’t find it soon, she’d need to go back and start tearing the walls, and people, apart.
The old farmhouse, a sprawling timber-clad home, was run down. She remembered a time when the house and land were beautiful. It was a grand place, the epitome of luxury. Now the white paint had peeled back, rotted boards peered out from beneath the shedding facade, like sets of reptilian eyes. The veranda sloped and was in dire need of repair.
She’d attended a party here once, when Boris Thompson’s great, great, grandfather had owned it. It was handed down through the sons until it ended up with Boris. A spoilt boy, who she’d never liked as a child. He’d made a string of bad business decisions and lost the wealth his father had left him. His wife had left him five years ago, who could blame her, and yet he refused to sign the agreement for the development that would give him access to over a million dollars. It would clear his debts and restart his dying farm. She had to wonder why—what did he know? What was he hiding? Something far more valuable than a million plus dollars, perhaps.
Black Death moved silently to the back door and turned the handle. It was locked. Not that a lock could stop her.
The inside of the house replicated the outside. Grime-coated wallpaper peeled back from the towering walls like shredded skin. Black Death crinkled her nose. A musty, damp and rotted stench filled her nostrils. She looked down at some of the cause of the stench, a pair of mud crusted steel-capped boots. Charming. Hadn’t he heard of bicarb soda. She moved silently through the hallway. She glanced into the kitchen. Dirty plates and empty beer cans crowded the bench tops. If the state of the house was a reflection of Thompson’s life, clearly it was a mess.
The first place she went to was the study. Bookcases covered three-quarters of the room from floor to ceiling, filled with old-style, hard cover books. It would be too observable to keep the spellbook there. But humans were not known to be the sharpest of creatures, so she scanned it. By the side window a wooden desk was covered in a stack of paperwork with bright red overdue notices stamped on top. She opened the desk drawers and rifled through. More paperwork, a stapler, ruler, pens. He was old school, there was no computer. She felt for hidden compartments under the desk’s rim and beneath the drawers, and found nothing. A quick search of the rest of the drawers, even the locked ones, held nothing of interest either. Frustrated, she gritted her teeth.
She heard Boris stir, snort, fart, and yawn. The groan of the bed, then his steps, and the creaking of stairs. Fuck sakes. He was coming down. A normal intruder might have figured Boris heard them. She held no such reservations.
She slipped on silent feet behind the door. Boris walked straight past, naked, in a sleepy daze, toward the kitchen. The clinking of glass, the sound of a running tap, gulping.
She waited for him to go back to bed. He didn’t. He went to the lounge and turned on the television. Christ. She moved to thebedroom. The moonlight swept faintly across the middle of the room, casting shadows in every corner. She scanned the room. It was standard in all its dreariness. A fabric armchair sat in the corner. Wooden beside tables, cream lamps. On the fireplace mantel was an image of him with his ex-wife. She rifled through the beside tables first and found nothing of interest, unless one counted a bottle of baby oil and a couple of well-worn porn magazines as interesting.
She knocked softly on walls, listening and feeling for inconsistencies. Went to the closet, it was too obvious a spot, but she checked anyway. She pulled out suitcases, opened them, leafed through more pictures of him and his wife. There was a picture of them smiling in front of the Eiffel tower. She turned the image over.
Jane and Boris, honeymoon, 2004.
The edges were bowed, as if it had been viewed a lot. Evidence he hadn’t moved on. If she had the mind to, she might have felt sorry for him, but she didn’t. Humans were a pest. The only thing they were good for was food. To her, beyond feeding, they were no more important than a cockroach. One she’d happily stomp on and think nothing of it.
She heard his footsteps coming her way, she fought to contain her annoyance, at this rate she’d never get done. He opened the bedroom door, pulled back the bed covers and then he paused, as if some primal instinctive knowing told him something was there. She felt her temper flare. But she could disappear and be gone before he turned back. He’d never know she’s been. She’d have to come back another time to finish her search. He spun around. She stepped out of the shadows.
He jumped when he saw her, his eyes wide, jaw ajar. His heart pounded on his fibs. He clutched his hands over his penis.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said, his voice came out high.
He was lean, strong, well-hung. Too old for her.
“That’s really none of your concern,” she spoke politely, “please get yourself dressed and then sit, Boris.” She indicated with her hand to the chair in the corner.
He appraised her. She watched the emotions change on his face. First shock, then fear, then anger. His fists clenched by his sides. The apple on his neck bobbled in and out. He wasn’t the type to take any attack lying down. He glanced at the bedside drawer. His handgun was in there. He was already calculating if he could get to it before she could pull the gun he assumed she had under her layers of clothing.
“Get out of my house, you fucking psycho,” he shouted, attempting to appear brave but not completely covering the edge of fear in his voice.
Fucking psycho.How rude. He would need to be taught a lesson.
She removed her hood. Curled her top lip, razor sharp teeth glinted into the night. She urged a black web to weave over her eyes, until they were so black they looked bottomless.
He cowered, stumbled backward, and yelped like a frightened puppy.
“I said, get dressed and sit.”
“What . . . wh-what are you?” his voice was tight and breaking, eyes wider than dinner plates. He clutched at his jewels as if they are the most precious thing he had to protect. Never mind his heart and brain.
She contained an eye roll and instead barked, “Now.”
Her voice was sharp enough to jerk him into motion. She watched him with cool indifference as he rushed to the drawer. With shaking hands, he opened it and pulled out a blue check shirt. The kind every farmer wore, as if some creed you signed when you decided to farm included a check flannel shirt, a wide brimmed cowboy hat and mid wash blue jeans.
She watched with faint amusement as he pulled mid wash denim jeans out. Reefing his foot awkwardly into one leg, he kept his eyes firmly on her. He lost his balance, jumped to maintain it and tugged at the leg. Why was it all men were unable to do two things at once? His other foot slipped into the waiting jean leg, he yanked them up, keeping an eye on her as the zip moved into place. He would defend himself or try to, she judged. He walked to the chair and sat. He rubbed his sweaty hands onto the legs of his jeans, glanced at the drawer again. Then out the window, calculating if he called out would the security guard hear him. He wouldn’t.
She stepped forward. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” he stammered, “what . . . the hell are you?”
She lifted her top lip, revealing needle sharp teeth again. He shuddered all over and shrunk back in his chair.
