When she finally got home, the flat felt very quiet and very empty. Mallory might have only been at the MacTire stronghold for a few days but she’d grown used to the hustle and bustle of dozens of werewolves constantly coming and going.
‘It’s good to finally get some peace,’ she said loudly. Her voice echoed around her empty living room. She wrinkled her nose and started flicking through the letters and notes that had been left at her door.
There were four letters from Chester Longchamps, which was quite a feat given that she’d only been away for three days. She sighed; no prizes for guessing what he wanted. She supposed she ought to show willing either way and read them. He was an important client and his favour was definitely a work in progress.
The first letter was a rolled-up scroll sealed with scarlet wax. Mallory thumbed it open to reveal headed notepaper with Longchamps’ name and address. As she read the looping,handwritten script, she noted with grim amusement that he styled himself as ‘lord’.
Dearest Mallory,
I trust this finds you in good health and warm spirits.
I assume that you are not at home as you are out seeking a bellarmine jug. I would very much appreciate it if you could keep me updated daily on the search. I have full faith in your capabilities and I expect you will locate a bellarmine jug for me by the end of the week.
Kindest regards,
Lord Chester Longchamps
Mallory pursed her lips.Although the message was pointed, his language was polite and there was no indication of the rage he’d directed at her during their last meeting. She reached for the second letter, which was in a normal envelope albeit addressed in the same handwriting using the same ink.
Dear Mallory,
I am concerned that you have not been in touch with me as agreed. Update me ASAP on your search for a bellarmine jug.
Regards,
Chester Longchamps
Mallory glancedat the date at the top of the page: he’d left it two days earlier. Uh-oh. With a sense of foreboding, she picked up the third note. It wasn’t in an envelope; in fact, it was nothing more than a folded piece of paper. The ink was also different.
As she squinted at it, she realised he’d scrawled his words in blood. For goodness’ sake. The idiot vampire was making a point – and it wasn’t a particularly subtle one.
Mallory,
What is happening? Where is my jug?
Chester
She already hadan inkling what the fourth letter would say and the smart move would have been to discard it without reading it, but unfortunately Mallory wasn’t always smart. She picked up the scrap of crumpled paper and tried to decipher the barely legible handwriting.
Where the fuck are you?And where the fuck is my fucking jug? If you don’t come up with the goods as promised within the next twenty-four hours, I will gut you and feed your roasted entrails to my thralls.
He hadn’t bothered signinghis name at the bottom.
She stacked the four letters, put them on her coffee table and gazed at them for a long moment, then shook her head, got to her feet and started to prepare.
The magicked bloodon the stone steps leading to Longchamps’ front door continued to glisten and sparkle in the moonlight. Mallory avoided it and marched down, raising her fist to knock loudly against the door.
It wasn’t long before the iron grate in the door’s centre rattled and the face of the same thrall as on her first visit peered out at her. Strange shadows covered his cheekbone and his frown was heavier than usual. ‘It’s you,’ he muttered. ‘He’s not expecting you.’
She gave him her sunniest smile. ‘Hi, Eric!’ It wasn’t his fault she was here; he wasn’t the one who’d ruined her quiet night at home. ‘I bet he’ll see me if you tell him I’m here.’ She made a point of adjusting her backpack; she’d ensured it was bulging and heavy before she’d left home.
Eric glanced at it and then at her. ‘You’ve found one,’ he breathed and his expression transformed. ‘Thank goodness. Another day and I’m not sure we’d have made it.’
Mallory’s brow creased with confusion, but when he opened the heavy door and she saw more of his face it was clear that the ‘shadows’ were actually purple bruises that curled around one eye and reached down his cheekbone.
‘Wait in your usual spot,’ he told her. ‘I’ll tell Lord Longchamps you’re here.’
She had barely sat down on the uncomfortable wooden bench when the Cursed Portrait started its refrain. ‘You’re going to die.’ She glowered at it. ‘He hates you now and he’ll make sure you suffer. You’ll wish you’d never come here. You’ll wish you were never born. You…’
