Finally, his voice came again—very close to her ear, a maddening tickle. “When you wake, I shall have answers.” Another long, slow inhale; he was sniffing her hair again, like a total creep. “But for now, little leman, I did not harm your brother. Rest.”
Not fucking likely. She huddled on tangled blankets, listening intently for footsteps, for the sound of the locked door opening or closing.
Nothing. Was he still playing with her, cat at the mousehole? The instant she moved, he’d bite her again.
Or worse. Her neck didn’t hurt, simply felt swollen and warm, as if wrapped in a smooth thick scarf. The trembling came in waves, and each high tide pressed more tears between her tightly closed eyelids. She lay, cramps gripping her leg or the arm under her head, and prayed for dawn.
Which was ridiculous, she’d seen ‘Chris Everly’ walking around in daylight with her own two eyes. Fucking confusing, except for the number of serious occult weirdos—not to mention monster hunters on the dark-web forums—who swore some bloodsuckers could do that. Plenty of the old folklore said so as well, in as close to original sources as she or Don could get.
She had unequivocal proof about a lot of things now. Fat lot of good it did her. Her breath came in short hard chuffs as she shook, hoping against hope to be ignored for as long as possible, and when she finally passed out it was a blessing.
It wasn’t the first time she’d awakened in a bathtub—there had been a couple really wild college parties, back when Bea thought she was actually going to make something of herself. Best time of her life, really, out from under Jare’s shadow and feeling halfway pretty.
It was, however, the first time she’d achieved consciousness in a huge cast-iron number, clutching a pillow and two blankets dragged from a giant four-poster bed.
At some point last night she had apparently headed for what her subconscious considered safer ground. Under the bed clearly hadn’t worked, but that was beside the point. The slip was twisted all around, she had to rub her eyes twice before she believed anything they were telling her, and there were still no toiletries, just that pristine shell-shaped cake of blue soap.
Hollow-eyed, lank-haired, she examined the six marks on her neck. Pale at the edges, the punctures each bore a single bright crimson dot in the middle. The upper arc was made of four holes, larger to the outside and smaller nestling inward; the remaining two had to be from the lower jaw, clamping to provide leverage.
So that’s a real vampire bite. I know what one looks like now, yippee for me. When she gingerly brushed the marks with bruised fingertips a strange sensation poured down her back, causing a shiver, goosebumps, and a rollercoaster flutter in her belly.
A frosted skylight beamed gently down at the bathroom, filling the mirror with pale winter sunshine. One floor below the roof, most likely? Almost definitely the penthouse—if she found the elevator, could she get out the same way she had before? What about fire stairs?
The past few days had taken on a shimmering underwater unreality. Stress, lack of food? Or had she gone really and truly around the bend?
The soap was blueberry-scented. She washed her hands, waiting for the water to warm up; it turned close to scalding while she lathered. No nail brush, but she made it work, and it gave her a perverse satisfaction to drop a blue hand towel from the glass shelf into the sink afterward.
In any case, her hands no longer felt bloody. She’d have to take the notch off her monster hunting belt; he was definitely alive and kicking. Which was great for her conscience but now she was wondering just how badly the immediate future was going to go.
First she had to look for tools—something, anything she could break or splinter.
Then she’d see about that big oak double door.
CHAPTER 8
His daylight office had taken on new interest, each edge sharply delineated, the desk glowing secretively and the shelves of decorative trash alive with murmuring meaning. Walnut barrister files stood stolid sentinel, though any information in their grasp was also safely contained within his own mental halls; the faded, antique Persian rug worked with geometric designs was vivid enough to fall into.
Just how ossified had he been? Very close to the edge indeed, and the truly embarrassing thing was how he had not guessed. The muffling of physical senses and mental acuity, settling into the rigidity of a too-old beast in a modern world, had hunted him with skill and patience.
All burned away, now. No wonder leman were so prized. An eternity with these sharp sensations would barely scratch the surface of their beauty; even the painful acuity of fledgling sensation when new to the Gift paled into insignificance.
And his servants had been busily collecting what knowledge they could. “Jared Michael Dunlevy.” Wrenfeldt laid the file on the desk blotter, retreating with quick mincing steps. A dogsbody knew to be cautious, especially when their master or mistress appeared thoughtful; like many very large mortals, he was surprisingly light on his feet. “Writer, two books of historical fiction. First one garnered some critical acclaim, second posthumously published. Dead four years ago, just before May Eve.”
Four years. Such a short while, though nearly endless for some mortals. Lukas nodded, opening the file. A black-and-white headshot, probably taken for the lad’s book covers. Yes, there was a distinct resemblance to his leman; the pale eyes, thickly lashed, the shape of the underlip, the cheekbones, the exact proportion of wave in light hair. A handsome boy, though he had not shared his sister’s sheer incandescent sensitivity. “Vermont. We made more than one offer for the property, yes?”
“Several, escalating to far more than it was worth. He and one other holdout refused to sell, and I recall you said something personal was needed.”
“Yes.” Sometimes the quietus could be used to gain longer-term mortal compliance, if applied with a skilled touch. Lukas’s memories were returning, hazy but distinct, as he leafed through papers—property records, a vitae done by a private investigator’s firm, copies of the publishing contract, death certificate, a few coroner’s pictures showing the immense damage wrought upon a mortal body.
And she had witnessed...what? Now Lukas remembered following the stench of greiben and mortal death to a ramshackle building which had once indeed been a stable, to judge by the faint tang of horse hiding in its depths. He had seen the young mortal lying in pieces upon dirt studded with ancient hay, and now that he thought of it there had indeed been another lump of white-furred flesh nearby.
Who kills dogs, you fucking monster? “Nothing about a sister here, Wren.”
“That’s the original file.” Wrenfeldt held up another manila folder. His suit jacket flapped briefly, giving a glimpse of the shoulder holster. Mortal weaponry, useless against dangers a sanguinant could easily overpower, but camouflage and dealing with mortal authorities were by far a dogsbody’s more important duties. “I went back, did some other digging. Dunlevy did have a sister, best guess is two or three years younger. She vanished that night.”
Now that was interesting. “How thoroughly?”
“Nothing remains online, not even old social media profiles. A search in the physicals of the hospital where the brother was born turned up a birth certificate plus a few more Dunlevys, mother and father. The patriarch succumbed to liver failure when Jared was fifteen or so, dear mother to leukemia when he was twenty-four. None of the others seem viable connections.”
