“Fat lot of good that will do,” said Johnathan.
“Oh, don’t be so disparaging. You’d be surprised what a simple country gentleman can accomplish with the right motivation,” said Vic.
Johnathan glanced up at the man, surprised by the solemn set of his smooth jaw. A fire smoldered in Vic’s gaze. Whatever else the others thought of this matter, it clearly upset him.
“What do you think did this, sir?” Johnathan asked him. His mind wandered back to his encounter on the road, the unseen presence lurking in the woods that sent the wild animals fleeing from their nests and dens. Could that…thing…be the culprit?
Vic focused on him, his expression unreadable. “Don’t you mean who did this?”
Johnathan flushed, too aware of the crowd around them to voice his honest thoughts on the matter, even if he thought—hoped—Vic would listen. “Right you are, sir.”
“I say, what a pretty young lady, though she is a ghastly ruin now,” remarked Stebbins with all the sensitivity of a gossiping matron. “Do we know who she was?”
The gathered patrons went silent and shuffled in place around the girl’s remains, a few of whom produced lanterns to better see the body.
A man stepped forward, his face mostly concealed by a massive shaggy beard, the tops of his cheeks ruddy as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It might be Alyse Shaw.”
“Pastor Shaw’s daughter?” one of the others sputtered. “What was she doing out this time of night?”
Vic’s slender fingers balled into fists, pressed hard against his thighs. Johnathan would have missed the reaction if he hadn’t been eye level to the crowd’s waistlines. A subtle gesture, one not meant to be seen, that hinted at a possible connection, though Vic’s expression remained closed.
Johnathan’s thoughts began to turn, reaching for connections, for reasons the young woman would be out in the dark. A beautiful girl beginning to bloom with womanhood, roaming the streets to meet up with a lover? Perhaps a tryst wasn’t out of the question. Johnathan knew plenty a pastor’s daughter who felt a little too caged by the rules of the house. Except…the theory didn’t sit right with him.
Johnathan looked down at the young woman’s face, barely out of girlhood. He doubted she’d reached courting age, though she was a lovely one, once he could see past the details of her death. She looked like…bait.
A crackle of ice ran through his veins. He shook himself as buried memories stirred, determined to derail that train of thought before it left the station. There were miles and years between Johnathan and that chapter of his life, and besides, he reminded himself, this was not the work of a vampire.
Mrs. Meech’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd, the distress clear on her face. “That’s it. I’m closing up early.”
Johnathan abruptly stood, his prospects for a room rapidly slipping through his fingers. “Excuse me, ma’am? Uh, ma’am?”
The crowd turned in tandem, a solid mass of people who blocked his way until he was certain a conspiracy was afoot to keep him exposed and off balance. Johnathan wove and shoved his way through the dispersing crowd, the dead girl still heavily on his mind as he came face to face with a locked-down bar. He pounded on the door in vain hope that Mrs. Meech would open for him and allow him to barter for a room, or at least allow him to reclaim his valise. But the bar remained closed, and the streets emptied within minutes. The first streetlamps begin to flicker out, and Johnathan realized how very exposed he was.
“Dammit,” he cursed under his breath. How had this evening gone so disastrously wrong?
He debated camping on the bar’s stoop for the night with the ghost of Alyse Shaw and the monster that killed her for company. He reached into his pocket, tracing the shape of the object he'd plucked from the dead girl’s blood, smooth and so very sharp.
“Master Newman, we meet again.”
Johnathan spun around. His heart lurched in his chest. “I demand you make noise when you approach, sir.” He wasn’t sure whether Vic’s presence filled him with relief or suspicion, though he was grateful the man carried a lantern. “Why haven’t you returned to the safety of your home, sir? There’s a murderer on the loose.”
Vic tilted his head, long hair shifting off his shoulder. The auburn strands had fallen loose from their leather tie, the silken locks framing his face in a way that made him appear even more comely. In the play of shadow and the golden glow of his lantern, he looked absolutely angelic, which unsettled Johnathan on a soul-deep level, for reasons he could not yet surmise.
“I wanted to see if you’d found a safe haven for the night.” Vic shot a disapproving look over Johnathan’s head at the closed-up bar. “But as you are apparently adrift this evening, would you consider taking my guest room?”
Johnathan hesitated. His pulse quickened at the invitation. It was true he needed allies in Cress Haven, and Vic was his surest bet thus far, but he hadn’t entirely dismissed the startling gentleman from the realm of suspicion either.
He peered hard through the gloom, dissecting each of Vic’s features for possible tells. Although on the paler side, so was much of the populace this far north, and Vic did have the healthy robust complexion of a man with constant access to fresh air, not the pallor of a fiend. He was pretty enough to make Johnathan uncomfortable, but beauty was not the defining feature of the undead. That was myth. His gaze surreptitiously flickered to the man’s fingernails.
The Society called it “corpse fingers,” the discoloration brought on by poor circulation until it appeared like bruising beneath the nails, but Vic’s were a healthy pink. At least it seemed so in the dim lantern light.
Johnathan gnawed the inside of his cheek. Did he trust his vision in near darkness?
If Vic was the vampire, wouldn’t he have taken the opportunity to attack Johnathan by now? They were alone, and after finding a ravaged body, he doubted the townsfolk were keen on venturing out at the sound of distress. Settled, he stepped forward to accept the offer and realized his traveling valise was still inside the bar.
“I have nothing that will fit a young man your size, but I can send for your things in the morning,” said Vic, clearly interpreting his distress.
“Thank you for your kindness,” said Johnathan.
Vic held up a hand. “Not at all. This isn’t charity.”
Johnathan's brow rose in surprise. “It’s not?” Once again, a brilliant response.
Vic adjusted his hold on the lantern, shoving his free hand in his pocket, out of sight of Johnathan's scrutiny. “I would like to hire you.”
Johnathan blinked. “Hire me?”
Vic rolled his eyes, clearly fed up with the repetitive nature of the conversation. “I have volunteered to investigate the murder of the unfortunate Miss Shaw. I would like to hire your services in exchange for room and board.”
Volunteered? When? How? With whom?
His words registered.
“My services?” Johnathan tensed, an internal alarm ringing that he’d exposed himself more than he realized.
“Oh, don’t be coy, Master Newman. What do you have in your pocket?” Vic began circling him, his boots dragging through the dust of the road, his lantern light spilling across their feet. It was a slow perusal, a measuring. That much Johnathan could feel from the weight of Vic’s stare. In a voice that made Johnathan shiver all while stirring his blood, Vic said, “I know you took something, which that bumbling Stebbins would have likely swept aside. Show me.”
Johnathan’s hesitation this time had a very different reason. Confronted in this fashion, there was no time to get a full measure of the man, and Johnathan grew increasingly off balance since his arrival in Cress Haven. The need for an ally was worth the risk, though he would have to be careful how he handled the far-too-observant Vic.
He withdrew the bloodied handkerchief from his pocket and carefully unfolded the cloth. The object sat in the middle of his palm, smooth and sharp, drinking in the shadows of the night.
It was a claw, e
bony black and cold as midwinter ice.
Chapter Four
Vampires didn’t have claws. Johnathan knew, with intimate experience, that this was a fact. Sure, in his training he’d tangled with more than one vampire with ragged torn fingernails, but nothing like the monstrous object spilling over the palm of his hand. He’d spotted it in the pool of blood, a shadow within a shadow, because he’d been looking for something, anything, unusual.
He certainly found the unusual, though he had no idea what, or whom, the claw belonged to. It was clear Vic shared his bafflement. He wore a stunned expression that enhanced the delicate angles of his face as he took a step forward and gently touched the tip.
He jerked his hand away with a sharp inhale.
“It’s cold.” Vic’s wide eyes seemed to glow in the muted light. He shuddered, tugging at the lapels of his overcoat. “You’d best put that away for now, until we can examine it under proper lighting. Come, Master Newman, we have a grim task to attend to before we retire for the evening.”
Johnathan tucked the claw back into his pocket, thankful the handkerchief muffled the chill it emitted. “What task would that be?”
“As I volunteered to investigate this matter, I have also been volunteered to inform Pastor Shaw of his daughter’s demise.” Vic continued to tug at his coat. It was a tell of discomfort, one that drew Johnathan’s attention to Vic’s face. He hadn’t imagined his earlier assumption. The man’s expression hinted at some connection, possibly a deeper emotion for the recently deceased Alyse Shaw. Rage flickered there and, in the depths of those silvery gray eyes, a promise of retribution.
Johnathan swallowed. He’d never felt that emotion for another person, but he recognized it all the same. “At such a late hour? Wouldn’t it be best to wait until morning?”
Vic’s jaw tightened. “Is dreadful news any less dreadful after a full night’s sleep? Will their daughter be any less dead in the light of day?”
A rush of heat crawled across the back of Johnathan’s neck. Road weary and exhausted were no excuse for such callousness. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d shared the company of civilians. He’d forgotten how difficult it was for him to connect.
“My apologies, I’m not…used to dealing with people,” he said, revealing more to Vic than he intended in his admission, but the other man waved it off.
“Your exhaustion is clear, Master Newman,” he said. “You may wait in my carriage if you wish while I deal with this unpleasant matter.”
“Your carriage?” Johnathan peered down the empty street. A jolt of pain flexed through his calves, his whole posture sagging at such a hopeful prospect.
Vic’s lips twitched. “Round the back of the bar, Master Newman. Though you have yet to answer my initial question.”
Johnathan peered down at the man. The long day dragged on his thoughts. “What question would that be?”
“Will you work for me?”
Find allies in Cress Haven. Those were Dr. Evans’ orders. But the Society couldn’t have been aware of what was really happening in this secluded little town when the doctor left him here. In his limited experience as a Prospective in training, Johnathan hadn’t encountered beast nor creature that fit the parameters he’d observed thus far. According to the Society’s official mission statement, they sought to protect mankind from the inhuman creatures of the dark, a statement that, theoretically, covered a broad range of monsters. Vampires, who preyed explicitly on humans, were drawn to civilization and therefore the most common adversary. But this sort of creature was never covered in Dr. Evans’ lessons.
The claw grew colder in Johnathan’s pocket, burning against his thigh. It would take days to get a message to Boston. Vampire or not, innocent people were dying here. He needed all the allies he could get because one thing was for certain: He had to stop this creature before it killed again.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, “but please, call me Johnathan, or even John.”
Vic gave him a genuine smile that drew Johnathan’s focus to his mouth. The heat along the back of his neck spread, a full flush beneath his skin. He swallowed hard and viciously reassembled his thoughts. He didn’t dare consider what such a sensation meant or the last time he’d felt as such.
Johnathan cleared his throat. “You mentioned a carriage?”
The open carriage bore the same luxurious practicality as its owner, a rich exterior of dark mahogany paneling with an interior of dove gray, velvet-upholstered seats. After the hard padding of the travel coach he’d ridden in with Dr. Evans, it was akin to sitting on a cloud. The rocking motion pulled at his eyelids. It was unquestionably rude to doze off on his host, but his energy was depleted past the point of good manners.
The deceased Miss Shaw slid through his mind, alive and whole as she moved past him in a languid waltz. She paused to look over her shoulder at him, her finger crooked in a come-hither gesture. There was something terribly wrong with her hand. A trail of red ran like a ribbon, wrapped around her pale fingers. His gaze focused on her beckoning finger, to the wicked black claw that capped the tip, dripping blood.
“Come along, boy.”
Johnathan jerked awake at a gentle touch on his shoulder. So startled, he’d wrapped his fingers around Vic’s wrist, thumb pressed to the vulnerable grouping of bones present there.
“Easy, John,” Vic murmured, his tone surprisingly soft when Johnathan was positioned to hurt him.
“My apologies, s-s-sir.” Johnathan slid his fingers free, shaken by the dream. He was shocked that he’d left himself so vulnerable.
“If I am to call you John, I insist you call me Vic,” said his host with an air of calm amusement as he pulled up the carriage with practiced ease. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather wait here? You’re dead on your feet, lad.”
Johnathan reined in a snort at being referred to as “‘lad.” Vic couldn’t have more than a few years on him, and he was shorter than Johnathan by nearly half a foot. He took in their surroundings. It was very late indeed, the deep darkness the wide yawning mouth of the night, when the nocturnal predators were in full force, the relief of dawn still hours away. Vic brought them to a farmhouse on the outskirts of Cress Haven, a plain, neatly white-washed building that matched the chapel a stone’s throw up the road, the coat fresher than any in town. In the dark, the light coating of paint appeared ghostly, a house of waiting spirits.
The thought rippled down Johnathan’s spine and rose the fine hairs on the back of his neck. A sensation of being watched stole over him. Johnathan hitched his shoulders and glanced toward the trees.
For the space of a breath, he swore he saw glowing eyes peering at him from the tree line. The claw burned cold through the cloth of his pocket.
“No, I’ll come along,” Johnathan choked out. He descended from the coach, his legs still numb and half asleep.
Vic caught his elbow and steadied him with surprising strength as Johnathan regained his balance.
“Do try not to pass out in Pastor Shaw’s parlor as I deliver the news,” said Vic. “That might make a poor impression.” His teasing tone didn’t match the somber expression on his face.
Vic turned away and clasped his hands behind his back where Johnathan could see the fine tremor in his fists. He felt a pang of sympathy for Vic.
“I could deliver the news,” Johnathan blurted. What folly. Was he still asleep? What possessed him to make such an offer other than the man’s obvious pain? He didn’t know these people. Cress Haven was a small community, and the pastor didn’t need to learn the fate of his daughter from a callous stranger. “I’m sorry, that was—”
“Kind,” said Vic. “But unnecessary.” Wearing a tight smile, he squeezed Johnathan’s shoulder before resuming his resolute walk to the pastor’s front door.
The knock echoed through the darkened residence, swallowed up by the press of night. Johnathan held his breath in that muted lull, his ears tuned for the soft shuffle of footsteps. Vic straightened as the door opened on well-oil
ed hinges. Pastor Shaw stood in the doorway in his nightshirt, his features barely defined in the dark since the man bore no candle.
“Does someone require last rites, gentlemen?” The man had a voice made for sermons, a deep baritone that soothed the spirit.
Vic bowed his head. “Not as such. I’m afraid there has been another murder, Pastor Shaw.”
Johnathan tried not to loom over the two men, his thoughts churning. Dr. Evans told him a vampire had preyed on the townspeople, but if the attacks were being carried out by this mysterious clawed creature, was there really a vampire here? His attention returned to Pastor Shaw as the man crossed himself and murmured a short prayer.
“Come in, Victor, come in,” said the pastor. He made way for them as he went to light a candle in the small front room of his home. “Do they know who the poor soul was?”
Vic cleared his throat. “Yes, the face was intact this time.”
Johnathan’s muscles grew taut with each step. He latched onto Vic’s statement. The face was intact this time? When Dr. Evans handed down this assignment, the dossier mentioned two or three victims, all young women, but it appeared the Society was terribly ill informed of the foul acts happening in Cress Haven.
A hunter’s stillness settled over him, observing the older man’s reactions. The flare of candle flame stung his eyes and threw the pastor’s face into sharp relief. Pastor Shaw was an older gentleman, his features stone wrought and crag like, but there were laugh lines around his tired eyes that spoke of an easy nature. Despite the hour, he waited for Vic to speak with the practiced patience of a man of the cloth.
“That is why I am here, Shaw.” Vic shuffled from foot to foot in an evident bid to stall the dreadful news. “You see—”
A Bargain of Blood and Gold Page 3
