“Nothing anymore,” Kit said.
“So, how did you set the fire?” Shaun asked. “If he was compelling you not to hurt him?”
“It was an accident,” Kit said. “Kinda.”
After one too many evenings dealing with Kit crying about being starved, Lawrence let him use the kitchen. Kit hadn’t been much of a chef, but he’d muddled along with the random tinsLawrence provided. However, Lawrence hadn’t eaten food in so long that he no longer knew what was normal. That, or he didn’t care.
It made for some interesting mealtimes, including when Lawrence handed Kit a tin of spotted dick and Kit had laughed himself silly over it. It was the first time he’d laughed when staying at the manor.
The second had been during the fire.
“A dish towel caught on a flame when I was heating some beans,” he confessed. “I didn’t mean to do it. But Lawrence hadn’t compelled me to put any fireout, so it slipped through. Of course, I had to escape the fire too, but I couldn’t leave the house. I ended up sitting in the parlour, waiting for the flames to spread, until Lawrence woke up and found me. You know the rest.” He got the words out without his voice wavering, a feat he was proud of.
“Shame he didn’t burn,” Rake commented.
“Preach,” DJ said.
Quin pulled Kit in and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his temple. He didn’t need to say anything; the action was enough.
“Any more voices?” Kit asked.
Quin paused, cocking his head. It was similar to what Mabel did when she listened to Kit’s commands. Kit chose not to point that out.
“Nothing,” Quin confirmed.
Kit nodded. “To the parlour it is, then.”
TWENTY-SIX
Quin
In the parlour,the first thing that caught Quin’s attention was the painting above the mantelpiece: a full-length portrait of a blond man, standing tall and exuding pride. Even through the layers of dust and grime, and the graffiti spray-painted across the bottom, Quin could make out that he was wearing a blue three-piece suit, accented with gold buttons. A matching gilded chain of a pocket watch looped down from the centre of the man’s chest.
Quin didn’t need to be a genius to figure out it was Lawrence. The others’ collective reactions were enough. Rake, Shaun, and DJ stilled, staring up at the portrait with such intensity that Quin half expected it to burst into flames. One of them—Quin wasn’t actually sure who—hissed.
Kit, however, went blank. He avoided looking at the portrait at all, instead letting his gaze slide past it and focus on the rest of the half-destroyed room. The looters must have been here as well, but they hadn’t lifted the painting. Quin took another long look at it, committing to memory the image of the vampire. He wondered if the artist had made Lawrence so handsome on his instruction, or whether he’d been that elegant in real life. Theglimpse he’d caught of Lawrence in the mirror sprang to mind, telling him that the painter didn’t have to be kind. It was odd to know that such depravity lay beneath the beautiful visage.
“Fuck,” Kit muttered. “There’s not much here.”
“What about the painting?” Quin suggested, pointing to it.
“And give him the chance to live out some sorta Dorian Gray fantasy? Yeah, no thank you,” Shaun said.
Quin glanced his way. Shaun stood shoulder to shoulder with Kit, the two of them riffling through ripped-out pages from books that had fallen from a bookcase. DJ picked up a fire poker and looked like he was considering using it to smash something. Rake hovered near the door, his gaze flitting between his boyfriends, concern furrowing his thick brow.
A half-destroyed armchair next to the hollowed-out fireplace caught Quin’s attention. Golden hair peeked out from the side of the chair that faced away from them. “Does anyone else see the person in that seat?” he said.
The vampires turned as one towards him. “There isn’t anyone there,” Kit said slowly.
Quin steadied himself and walked closer to the armchair, giving it a wide berth, but needing to glimpse the face of whoever sat in it. He sucked in a sharp breath when he saw a boy sitting in the seat, looking over at Quin like he’d been expecting him. The boy’s edges blurred with the room around him, like his lines hadn’t been filled in.
“Hello there, Quin,” the boy said. His accent was similar to that of an old-school radio news presenter: English, but of no specific region. The telltale sight of pointed fangs jutted from the boy’s upper lip.
“Hello,” Quin said back, his voice unsteady.
“If you’re wondering how I knew your name, it’s because I’ve been listening to you all tromp through my house.” The boy—hecouldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen—had a lopsided smile on his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Quin, who are you talking to?” Kit asked from the other side of the room. He hadn’t moved a muscle. None of the vampires had. Rake and DJ were the closest to Quin, DJ with one hand grasping Rake’s wrist.
