“No, not especially.” I know they consume blood, that they supposedly walk about only at night. That they are exceedingly difficult to kill. I think of that dark figure, crouched over poor Arabella in the gardens. How he moved so quickly, so inhumanly. “Might there be a real vampire? The man I saw ... Arabella’s killer. He was unusual looking.”
Kate hums beneath her breath. “A real vampire ... that’s far-fetched. There’s something distinctly human about this murderer. Conniving. My father had a book in his library. I read it as a girl. It had a story in it, about a vampire lord. He moved among the upper classes, undetected. He seduced and targeted young women of means, just like this creature. It’s possible the killer modeled himself after Lord Ruthven—the vampire in the story. And made you the foil.”
“So, you think he might be part of the chivalry?”
“Perhaps. Or someone who secretly hates them. By pinning the murders on you, he won’t be subject to scrutiny. Do you have any enemies, my dear?”
“Not any one person in particular I can think of.” Plenty of people wished to see my family fall into ruin because of Papa’s cause. The chivalry bore ill will toward us, but I can think of no one who would specifically target me, apart from Arabella, and now she’s dead.
“There’s something else I’ve noticed,” I say. “The women he’s killed—they’ve all been redheads.”
“The young woman in Mount Pleasant—Tomasina Graham—was as well.”
“My sister was a redhead. It could be another way for him to tie the murders to me.”
“Possibly,” Kate says, thoughtfully. “But why redheads? And is he killing for sport? Or another reason ... I can’t be sure.”
“Nor I.” Even though I’m relieved to be removed from Charleston society and all its vanities, the thought of staying hidden away while a murderer—human or otherwise—prowls the city, unchecked, pricks at my conscience. My compassion for the murdered women stirs my guilt. Their lives mattered.
“What’s the matter, sweetling?” Kate asks.
“What can we do, to make it stop? It seems as if we’re the only ones who have the slightest inkling of what’s really going on.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve an idea. My grandest one yet. But for now ... there are other matters that need tending to. I’ve missed you. Desperately.”
One of her hands disappears beneath the water, as the other cups my breast. I sigh and lean my head back, welcoming her hungry kiss and how it soothes my worries. Before long, she has me whimpering and pleading, just as she likes me. I twist and arch against her, water splashing over the side of the tub as she wrings pleasure from my body.
“There. Isn’t that better?” she says, her tongue flicking against my cheek. “You sound so lovely when you fall apart.”
I sigh, my heartbeat slowing back to its normal cadence. “I’m lost for you,” I whisper.
“I know, sweetling,” she says. “I know.”
Life resumes as normal at Angel’s Rest. I gather the eggs; Kate cooks our breakfast. We do our chores, make love, and then nap for most of the afternoon. After supper, she goes out as Varina. Alone. I worry myself sick, often pacing the floors until she returns. She brings home news—there have been no new murders since Tomasina, and the society matrons have begun to entertain the thought of resuming their summer balls in the countryside. Their daughters need husbands, after all, and life must carry on. While this is good for Kate—she receives three more commissions for private parties—I can’t help but worry that the killer is merely lying in wait. Biding his time.
Unfortunately, my prediction comes true. During the grandest ball of the season, held at a plantation on Daniel Island, another debutante disappears. Her bloodless body is found in the Wando a few days later by a dockworker. Sophie Butler, a young woman from Florida, visiting her aunt. Also a redhead. My name is once more splashed across the pages of the paper, along with a reward for $1,000 for anyone who kills me or informs the authorities of my whereabouts. A crude, overtly sexual cartoon accompanies the article, penned by that loathsome Leroy Burrows. The cartoon pictures me feasting between a swooning woman’s legs. I laugh at the sensationalism.
Kate looks up at me. She’s expertly peeling an apple, the red skin dangling from her hands in a perfect spiral. “What’s so funny?”
“That ridiculous cartoon,” I say.
“I saw it. If only they knew it’smewith the insatiable appetite for the tender flesh of maidens,” she says with a wry grin. “Though not in the way they think.”
“Stop,” I say, blushing. “You’re terrible.”
“Yes. But you love me.” She cuts a slice from the apple and feeds it to me. I bite the tip of her finger as she pulls away. “Naughty thing.”
I sit back in the chair, the tart sweetness of the apple making my mouth water. I study my lover in the sunlight filtering through the dining room window. Her crisp jawline, that precious divot beneath her plump lower lip. My good humor fades. “I don’t think you should go out anymore, Kate. Cancel your performances. Please. I’m sick with worry anytime you leave.”
“How are we to make money, sweetling? Varina isn’t the killer’s type. Too blond. Too tall.”
“How can we know he won’t divert from his habits?”
“We can’t,” she says. She puts the apple and knife down on the table. “But I’ve been thinking. The only thing that may stop these murders is if the real killer is exposed. If we prove it’s not you.”
“How can we do that? I can’t very well show up at the City Guardhouse and say I didn’t do it. Besides, they’d still hang me for my sister’s death, even if I could prove myself innocent of these vampire murders.”
Kate studies me. “Perhaps ... perhaps we should give them what they want.”
