When Val came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, Chaz had just about forgotten his earlier terror. As hard as it was to be rooting through a dead friend’s cupboards—and now that the professor was gone, Chaz couldn’t help but think of him as a friend despite the whole I-think-you’re-a-werewolf bit—he was doing something, and that steadied him.
“Nothing unusual here,” he said, straightening up from looking under the sink. “Unless you count an industrial-sized bag of salt.”
Val raised a brow. “If the professor knew what was coming . . .”
“It becomes ordinary, yeah.” Salt was for rituals and protection. Chaz hadn’t totally dozed through Val’s Vampire’s Minion 101 lessons. But what was Professor Clearwater doing performing rituals?
“All right.” She glanced at the stove clock: four thirty. They had an hour before sunrise, an hour and a half if they wanted to push it. “Let’s start in the library, then. The real one.”
• • •
VAL LED THE way upstairs, following the trail of debris. At the top of the landing, a bloody handprint smeared down the wallpaper. Ragged claw marks marred it further. One of the Jackals had taken some damage. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt fabric, singed fur, and something oddly sweet. Across the top step, rune marks were melted into the rug. Val smiled. “You clever old son of a bitch. They tripped your wards.”
Chaz leaned down and touched the rune, which was brown and shiny in the beam of his penlight. “Do you think he killed any of them? The ones at the store didn’t seem all that hurt.”
“God, I hope so.” Not that a dead Jackal balanced out the Clearwaters’ deaths. A whole nest of dead Jackals couldn’t do that. But it helped to know they’d gone down fighting nonetheless.
A few steps down the hall, a long, greasy streak of ash on the floor answered the question. Laid atop it was a snapped-off rowan stake, its bottom half covered in ichor. “They got one, at least.” She didn’t want to look at it too long. She’d seen plenty like it on the West Coast, and heard the screams that went with the burning.
The library door hung crooked; the top hinge was all that held it up. The lower was still fastened to the frame. Runes drawn in blue chalk covered the door. Val could make out some of them—spells of protection, spells set to ward off evil—but others were completely unfamiliar. She traced one with a gloved finger, smudging the chalk. Even out here, with the room closed off, she could smell the blood: Jackal and human, making her want to gag.
Making her want to drink.
She clenched her fists and fought against the fangs and claws that were clamoring to come out. Her dead heart thumped to life, her already-sharp senses kicking even higher, amplifying the coppery tang on the air. She spoke through gritted teeth. “You should stay out here.” Without waiting to see if Chaz obeyed, she shoved through the door and into the library.
The furniture had been smashed to splinters. Not a book remained on the shelves. All around the room were piles of ruined covers and torn pages. And everywhere, the blood. The scents mingled in her nose—the heady smell of human blood with the rot and sulphur of the Jackals. She struggled with the urge to drag her finger through a puddle of the human kind and lick it off like frosting. No. This is the professor’s and Helen’s. They’re your FRIENDS.
But maybe just a taste . . . Wouldn’t it be like honoring them, in a way? She’d never drunk from them in life, wasn’t that respectful? Wasn’t it all just going to waste, there on the floor, soaking into the Oriental rug, dripping down the walls? Wouldn’t it be cleaned up tomorrow and discarded like trash? Blood was meant to sustain life, and if the original owners were dead, well, wouldn’t they have wanted it to go to a good cause? Feeding a friend was a good cause. In fact, it was an excellent cause.
“Val? Are you all right?” Footsteps shuffled behind her, and Val groaned.
She could hear his heartbeat, the rush of blood through the veins at his throat, at his wrists. Living blood would be so much nicer. Drinking blood that had cooled was like drinking coffee gone cold. Chaz would let her do it. He was her friend. He’d understand if she—
“No. I won’t!” She slapped her hand down on an empty shelf and was alarmed to see her claws out. I didn’t feel them. Her tongue snaked out and prodded the tip of a fang. She wrapped her arms around herself and counted to three. Then five. Then ten. When she felt more in control, more herself, she hissed, “I told you to stay out there.”
“You went quiet. I thought . . . I thought maybe something happened. They’d left one behind, or you’d set off a ward, I don’t know.” He sounded sheepish; Val half expected to see him scowling at the ground with his hands shoved in his pockets when she turned. Instead, he shone his penlight on her face, and looked relieved to see she wasn’t hurt. “Fangs, huh? That bad?” His eyes never wavered from her own.
“Look around. It’s as bad as it can get.” Breathe. Stay calm.
“Yeeeeah. I don’t think I’m going to. I’ve seen enough out of the corners of my eyes to know I don’t want to look at it full on.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I came in to see if you were okay, is all.”
“I am now.” She gave him a sharp-toothed smile. “Why don’t you go downstairs and check the other library? Never know. Maybe he hid something there.” It was a weak out and they both knew it. But it saved Chaz some face, and she didn’t want him too close just now. He had no idea how close he’d come to being a snack, and she still felt shaky. If the bloodlust rose again, it was better if he was in another part of the house. Better if he were in another part of town, but he’s not going to leave me here alone.
He edged backward, sliding his feet along so he wouldn’t trip over the debris. His gaze stayed on her until he was in the hall. “If you need me, yell.” Then he was out of her sight, and she let out a ragged sigh.
She’d been way too close to the edge. Chaz had seen the fangs and claws plenty of times before; she’d shown him both years ago, so he knew what he was getting into by being her Renfield. He’d seen her feed and he’d seen her fight, but she’d always been in control, even when she was all scratchy and bitey.
Over the years, he’d witnessed things that would have turned other men’s hair white. There wasn’t much Val could do that would faze him, which was good, but it also meant he hadn’t been afraid of her just now, when he should have been. I could have killed him. I could have been on him before he could draw breath to scream, and God knows if I could have stopped myself once the blood started flowing.
Val pushed the thought away. Dawn was creeping ever closer, and if she wanted to find anything useful, she was going to have to get used to the gore. She found an overturned chair that still had three legs intact and set it upright. She grasped the backrest to help steel herself and inhaled deeply. This time, it wasn’t as bad. She tuned the bee-swarm gabbling of the Jackals’ blood to a distant drone in her head, and made herself concentrate on the human scents.
They didn’t rouse the hunger. Instead, the lump of dead flesh that was her heart twinged with sorrow. The two people who’d always been so kind to her were gone. No, that made it sound like they’d died peacefully. They’d been ravaged, their home desecrated. Sorrow gave way to anger, and that was enough to focus her thoughts. Val opened her eyes.
Once more, to be sure I’ve got this. She breathed in, letting the scent wash over her again . . .
. . . and froze.
“Someone else was here.” Whoever it was hadn’t bled much. That was why she’d missed it the first time around. It was about as noticeable as a drop of water in a glass of wine compared to Helen’s and the professor’s blood. Val let go of the chair back and started hunting around the room, playing hot-and-cold with the new scent. It wasn’t anyone she knew, though if a student had been visiting when the Jackals attacked, that would explain it. But no one had come into Night Owls with rumors of a friend fleeing from the murderer, and no one had mentioned anyone else being missing.
Sh
e crashed about, digging through the wreckage. She was probably destroying all kinds of forensic evidence, but it didn’t matter—they’d never be able to arrest the killers, anyway. Finally, she found the place where the scent was strongest. From beneath a heap of ruined books by the door, Val unearthed a backpack. It had seen better days—its zippers were held on with paper clips; the bottom was patched and frayed and patched again. The two strips of canvas that had passed for straps had torn away. Had a Jackal grabbed the third person by this, and they broke free because it was so damned old it fell apart?
She tugged open the zippers and dumped the contents out on the ground: a half-empty bottle of spring water, with crosses drawn in Sharpie on the label; a well-worn Bible with “Motel 6, Tulsa, Oklahoma” stamped on the cover; several silver coins, and a piece of notebook paper filled margin to margin with Latin text.
Anger turned to outrage as she recognized the last. She snarled as she crumpled the page, throttling it like she’d do to the backpack owner’s neck if they ever met.
A member of the Brotherhood had been here. And they’d left the Clearwaters to die.
9
ELLY DIDN’T KNOW how long she’d been running. The sun had come up, so she could have stopped, but by then she wasn’t running from the Creeps anymore. Instead, she was running from the awful things she’d seen.
She should have been inured to it by now. She and Father Value had done gruesome things in the name of eradicating evil, and she’d approached it almost clinically, every time. But this . . . this was beyond anything she’d imagined. They’d come howling through the woods, black shapes writhing against the night. It had seemed like hundreds of them; she’d heard their claws scrabbling at every window. But Henry had said there were only a few. He said one of them must have been something else before the turning, and he’d brought tricks with him through the veil.
He’d been so calm, telling her these things as he chalked the last runes on the doors and checked the salt wards lining the windows. Helen had sat on the floor in the middle of the upstairs library, weapons laid out around her like a deadly corona. She’d checked the stakes for sharpness and made sure the guns were loaded with silver bullets as if she’d been handling them all her life.
Then the Creeps had come, breaking the downstairs windows, tearing the doors off their hinges. They paid for it; Elly’s ears still rang with their pained yelps from forcing their way past the wards. Two or three pups had made way for the others, whimpering as they rubbed out salt lines so their superiors could cross. The smell of charred fur had preceded them up the stairs. When the first one died due to the sigils at the top, Elly’d let herself think she and the Clearwaters might have a chance.
But the elder three weren’t nearly as reckless. They’d roamed throughout the house, smashing and breaking things, taking their time. It sounded like an army of dogs down there, snarling and slavering. Helen’s eyes had been wide as she clutched a baseball bat to her chest. The Creeps thrived on fear. Elly knew that. Henry knew that. But their own calm hadn’t been enough to soothe Helen.
Maybe you had to be born to the Brotherhood. Maybe you simply couldn’t learn to suppress terror in an hour.
It didn’t matter. Helen broke first, fleeing the safety of the library and destroying God knew how many carefully laid wards. And what else could Henry have done? He followed his wife into the darkness, shouting her name.
It had been blood from there until the end.
Now, with a crisp autumn morning beaming sunlight down upon her, Elly’s legs finally gave out. She wobbled over to a patch of recently raked lawn, wondering where she was but not really caring. As she sprawled beside a pile of leaves, she realized she needed to take stock. But she was so damned tired. It was shock, she knew, and she ought to fight it.
But what does it even matter now? Father Value’s dead. The Clearwaters are dead. The Creeps will sniff out where the book went before long, and it was all for nothing.
She put her head between her knees and dragged in lungfuls of air. Father Value would never have allowed such a defeatist attitude. She could imagine him now: the disappointment in his eyes, the tilt of his head as he said, You’re stronger than that, Eleanor.
She hated it when he called her Eleanor.
Okay. Okay. I have the clothes on my back. I have my wallet. She patted the lump in her back pocket to confirm. I have ten dollars and a handful of quarters. I have Silver and Pointy. The weapon in question was strapped along her forearm beneath her sweater. Its weight was a comfort.
That’s where the list ran out. She had nothing left and nowhere to go.
That’s not true.
Elly blinked. No. She couldn’t. Not ever. He said he never wanted to see either of us, ever again. It was more than two years now since he’d left them, and she and Father Value had let him go. They’d hardly spoken his name in that time; she’d pretended the empty seat at the table was just another chair, and Father Value had thrown away the extra plate.
But they both knew where he’d ended up. It was just how they worked. Father Value knew someone who knew someone who knew this medium, and word got back to him. Not a lot, mostly that he was okay, that nothing had killed him yet, but Elly’d eaten those reports up like Halloween candy on All Saints’ Day.
One night. I’ll knock on his door, and if he even answers, I’ll only stay one night. Maybe borrow a few dollars so I can get a change of clothes and a new backpack. Then he can forget all about me again.
Having a plan—no matter how shaky it was—made her feel better. Elly pushed herself to her feet and dug out her wallet. Her legs still felt like they’d been stuffed with jelly, but she could walk a little longer, then stick her thumb out if she had to. She slipped a piece of paper out of one of the credit card pockets and read the address for what must have been the millionth time since she’d sought it out last spring.
He’d walked away from them, but he hadn’t gone far. Maybe because, as mismatched and screwed up as they all were, they were family.
Or maybe that’s just where he was when he ran out of money.
It didn’t matter; she’d find out either way soon enough. Elly set off down the road, composing apologies to her brother with every step.
• • •
SHE HAD TO hitch with three different people to get there. Cavale lived about twenty minutes from Edgewood, in Crow’s Neck. In the early nineteen hundreds it had been a booming industrial town, but the Great Depression saw most of the textile mills closed, and Crow’s Neck had never recovered. Eighty years had taken their toll: the abandoned factories had been overtaken by grass and trees, the glass long gone from their windows. Whole neighborhoods were nothing but boarded-up houses and lawns gone to seed.
It wasn’t so much that Cavale lived in a bad part of town, as it was simply a place no one really wanted to go if they didn’t have to. The last driver, though, did seem to think local thugs were going to steal his hubcaps while Elly got out of the car if he brought her all the way to Cavale’s door. He’d insisted on looking up directions on his phone to ease his conscience. It had taken him longer to describe how she could walk to that address than it would have taken him to drive her the last couple of miles.
That was all right, though. Walking gave her time to prepare herself for the possibility that he might slam the door in her face. Always have a contingency. It was another of Father Value’s lessons. In this case her contingency consisted of two steps:
1. Do not cry on Cavale’s doorstep.
2. Practice her best panhandling face.
Hitching rides was fine, but rare were the drivers who’d offer to buy you lunch, too. She’d never stolen—well, never money or food; artifacts buried in churches were a different matter—and she wasn’t sure she could get away with it if she tried. Something about her made shop owners suspicious even if she walked in waving cash around.
There were signs of life in most of the houses: children’s toys left out on this one’s lawn, a few early
Halloween decorations in that one’s windows, even a television blaring the twelve o’clock news—but there was an air of abandonment here, like the people who lived in these houses weren’t really there. This was the kind of place you went when you couldn’t afford better. She wondered how many families said, “When money’s not so tight, we’ll get out of here,” as their substitute for grace at dinner.
Forty-five Greenwood Street loomed like something out of a Lovecraftian dream: its chocolate brown paint was peeling, half the posts were missing from the porch railing, and the whole structure canted slightly off true. Cavale’s house was the last in the row of inhabited fixer-uppers. Beyond his residence, the street was all collapsing houses and broken pavement.
Where the other residents at least made token attempts at keeping their lawns neat, Cavale had let his grow wild. Dry, dead summer grass came up to Elly’s knees as she cut across the expanse, leaving a swath of beaten-down straw in her wake. She might have thought Cavale had moved on and abandoned the place if it weren’t for the mail in the box beside the door. The mailbox itself was holding on by one last nail, its body at a crooked angle. She wondered if she should take the letters out and have them ready to hand to him when he answered. Then she wondered if that was creepy. “Hi, we haven’t seen each other in over two years. Now here I am with your gas bill in my hand. Look how helpful I am!”
Not to mention she’d have to follow that up with “And by the way, Father Value’s dead. How’s your year been?”
Right. No mail.
It took three tries before she got up the courage to knock. Then, her first rap on the door was more a pathetic tapping than anything. Cavale would have to have been standing on the other side, his ear to the wood, to even hear it. Her second was better, louder. She thought it was the way a neighbor might knock, even: light and airy and oh-just-dropping-by.
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