His father’s eyes narrowed with reptilian fury. He leveled the barrel of his rifle at Cal’s chest. “I strongly suggest,” hebegan, rage pouring from every word, “that you rethink that stance.”
Cal looked at the gun. “You’ll have to remove the safety if you want to scare me.”
A knock sounded at the door before he could do just that. His father jumped, squeezing the trigger instinctively. There was a loud click that made both of them visibly tense.
His father recovered first. Giving Cal a dark look, he arranged his face into the most basic semblance of humanity before twisting around to open the heavy front door.
A woman stood on the porch, hand still raised. She was wearing a turquoise suit that was already starting to wrinkle, her face heavily made up. “Mr. Cullraven,” she said brightly. “Shelly Mable, Cable 16, local news. We were hoping to get a quick tour of your mansion for tonight’s segment. Helena Peters sent us your way, said you were open to the public.” Her eyes skipped over him, going to Cal. Her expression faltered. “Unless it’s a bad time?”
His father’s jaw tightened, giving his smile a ghoulish quality. “Regrettably, I’m afraid Ms. Peters misled you. This is a private residence and tours are available by appointment only. My daughter’s website . . . confuses people,” he said tightly, “but let me see if my wife is around to show you the place. After all—” he gave a false laugh “—it’s festival day.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Shelly, after an awkward pause.
His father inclined his head, as if to agree that he was constantly extending his largesse to the undeserved. Cal and the reporter watched him saunter upstairs, his grip on his weapon relaxed and familiar. He could see her clocking thewallpaper, the portraiture, the expensive antique furniture, as the cameraman fumbled to clean the misty vapor from his lens.
Then their eyes met and she gave him a blue-white smile that was considerably more enthusiastic than the one she’d given his father. “Shelly Mable,” she said. “And you are?”
“Caledon Cullraven,” he said. “The second.”
Her smile grew wider. “Just like the statue in the square! We were just admiring it.”
Cal smiled tightly, feeling as if wires were pulling at his flesh. Undaunted, she continued.
“My goodness, it’s an impressive sight—and the inscription at the base . . . so cryptic and mysterious!—but I can see why your parents gave you that name. You’re quite an impressive sight, too. Why, you could be the spitting image of your—”
“Great-grandfather,” he said, in an exasperated tone. He glanced at the stairs, wondering what his sparrow was doing. It was nearly time for lunch but he hoped she hadn’t eaten yet. She’d told him her illnesses didn’t last that long . . .
“You sure you don’t have a painting rotting in your attic?” the reporter teased, drawing his eyes back to her. “Wouldn’t that make for an amusing ghost story? The founder of the town rising from the dead and going walking once a year—every festival night, perhaps. It just gives me the shivers to think about.”
“Yes,” Cal said, not finding it very amusing at all. “Excuse me.” Knowing his father waited upstairs, he squeezed past Shelly and her cameraman to go back outside, despite both their protests.
“Wait! I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the festival!”
“Ask my father,” Cal responded, without turning back around.
The town center was a bustle of activity. Several large cattle trucks were parked near the western entrance to the woods. He could hear the deer bleating inside them. Their ears had been clipped with orange tags to designate them as the festival deer. Tomorrow, the local restaurants would serve hyper-seasonal dishes made from the meat of tonight’s catches, some of which his family would prepare personally. Today, they were still alive, hearts beating, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited them.
Their heads appeared over the steel edge of the gated back when they jumped, before landing against the metal flooring with a loud, banging thud, followed by the clatter of their hooves on the grating. The gate was too high to give them proper clearance, but was just low enough to give them a cruel glimpse of freedom. For the first time he could remember, Cal found himself with the rather perverse urge to undo the latch, and loose them early.
“Cal!” His sister’s voice drilled into his ear as her hand gripped his bicep hard enough to startle. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“The woods,” he said impulsively.
“Ah, ah, ah, you know the rules.” She steered him back towards the house, away from the trailers, and he wondered absently if she had a better read on him than he’d thought. “No cheating. You were going to pluck a deer for your own, weren’t you?”
“I was going for a little walk to clear my head.”
“Of course you were.” She widened her eyes at him. “Does this have anything to do withNadine? I noticed she didn’t show up at breakfast this morning. Nor did you.”
“Very little escapes you, as ever.” Cal sighed. It morphed into a growl when he saw Ben striding out of the house, looking far too pleased with himself. “Yes, I spent the morning with my sparrow.”
“But Father said—”
“What did Father say?” Ben stopped in front of them, giving Cal a brief once-over, before looking pointedly at the empty space to his right. “Where’s your so-called sparrow, Baby Cal?”
“Regaining her strength.”
Ben looked momentarily unsettled. Then he laughed nastily. “Well, I suppose she’ll be needing it for tonight.”
