“Could it be a partner?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” Redacker said. “Between the information you gathered and our investigation, it’s clear Thompson was a loner. He didn’t trust anyone. Why someone would want to cover their tracks, we don’t know. Honestly, we would have pinned a medal on the guy who killed that monster.”
“So why the letter?”
“We don’t know,” he said. “A message to us maybe. It’s possible someone has a vigilante bent, fancies himself Batman or something. Or it’s likely this person is just angry at our failure to catch Lord Halloween ourselves.”
Quinn was furiously taking notes.
“Why are you suddenly being so helpful?” Quinn asked.
Redacker paused, gave them both searching looks.
“Off the record, I won’t deny Sheriff Brown was plenty angry about your stories on Thompson,” he said. “But even he recognizes they were accurate. We would prefer that your version of events be the official one. If we thought there was some merit to Ms. Mandaville’s claims, the situation would be different. But we don’t.”
“And the best way to bury it…”
“Is to let the reporters with credibility do it for us,” Redacker said. “No one will believe us anymore, not after Holober. They will, however, believe you.”
“Anything else you can tell us about the Prince of Sanheim?” Kate asked.
She wanted to ask about the name’s origins, wondered if they had dived into the ramblings of Robert Crowley. But she couldn’t possibly bring that up without simultaneously admitting she already knew a lot more about the legend than she wanted to acknowledge.
“Not much,” Redacker said. “We’ve found some historical references to it, but mostly we think it was a play on words. S-a-m-h-a-i-n technically is the celebration of Halloween. Some scholars argue the spelling S-a-n-h-e-i-m is the correct translation. Instead of Lord Halloween, we have the Prince of Halloween.”
Quinn knew he should push further. If he hadn’t known exactly who the killer was, he would have. But this wasn’t a subject he wanted drawn out. He asked the question he had been waiting to ask.
“Do you have any leads on the Prince’s identity?”
“No,” Redacker said. “But again, we’d like you to play up the vigilante action. We don’t think this person is a threat to the citizens of Loudoun County. He thinks of himself as a protector. People don’t need to be scared. It’s possible, even likely, we’ll never hear from this person again. If we do, we’ll catch him. But we don’t think people are in danger.”
“Unless you’re a murderer or something,” Kate said, and Quinn did not like the hint of a smile on her face.
Redacker shrugged.
“What matters is that people understand they’re safe. Loudoun County’s days of murder and mayhem are behind it.”
Much later, Redacker would remember these words and regret them. He would tell his wife he shivered as he said it. But as with most false prophecies, at the time he had no idea just how wrong he was.
*****
Kate and Quinn turned in their story at 9 p.m. that evening. Tim Anderson, with the approval of Ethan, held the print edition until it was ready. Both men wanted to make sure that this was on doorsteps across the county the next morning.
Quinn was pleased with the end result. For one, the story was legitimately reported and none of it could be tied back to their own involvement. They had a copy of the letter, which they printed in its entirety. Quinn sat in his chair imagining the look on Summer’s face when she saw it. He knew she was going to go crazy.
She would try and insist that the “Prince of Sanheim” was connected with Lord Halloween. But the Chronicle story quoted extensively from police sources insisting it was the work of a vigilante, one unlikely to strike again. Lord Halloween was dead. And they did their level best to bury the Prince of Sanheim in their story as well.
There were hints of the truth. Kate had finally tracked down two teenagers who insisted they saw a horseman in black riding on Halloween night near where Lord Halloween’s body was later found. There was no mention of the fact that he might be headless. Better, Quinn thought, for there to be some surprise when fall rolled around this year.
It was the story of someone who had taken it upon himself to protect Loudoun County—and terrorize it. When it hit the streets the next day, it was an instant success. Every newspaper box in town sold out. For Ethan, Tim, Rebecca and Quinn, it was a triumph.
Only Kate remained worried. A sour feeling nagged at her, that instead of heeding Janus’ warning, they had done precisely the opposite. They had saved their careers, but in defusing that problem, they may have opened the door to a much worse one. She feared the article would be a signal flare to their real enemies.
That morning, as the reporters and editors congratulated each other, she couldn’t escape the idea that they had just made a fatal mistake.
Part II
“The Prince of Sanheim is the cycle of life and death.
That’s a litany I have heard since I can remember. Her name was Fara, and to this day I’m unsure of where or how my father came to hire her as my nanny. Certainly, she didn’t fit the usual requirements for that position.
Some of the other servants said it was witchcraft. For all I know, they might be right.
If anyone else thought it unusual, they kept it to themselves. My father had two things that made him above reproach: money and title. And he knew how to use both.
Not that either of those things ever helped him deal with me—or his wife. On paper, I’m the only son and heir to Sir Richard Crowley. In truth, we bear no relation.
I’m not certain who my real father is. Perhaps Sir Richard knew and had the man killed, or merely paid for his silence and passage elsewhere. Or maybe he never knew himself.
What he did know was that I was a bastard, one who would eventually take everything he held dear. I already owned his name and that was all that really mattered. To disown me would have been to admit fault and invite humiliation. To divorce was unthinkable.
The latter option was unavailable to him anyway. My mother died three days after giving birth to me. My father claimed it was complications from childbirth. Fara says Sir Richard poisoned her.
The facts matter little. If she didn’t die naturally, it would have been only a matter of time before she met some ghastly end. Sir Richard was not a man to cross.
Indeed, I’ve often wondered why the old man didn’t kill me as well. Fara says it’s because he couldn’t bear to watch his name be extinguished, even if his blood line was gone.
I can’t say. I’ve only had two dozen or so conversations with the man and his presence in my life is more akin to a distant, angry god than a father.
Each man is shaped by forces beyond his control, events set in motion before his own birth.
For those who believe in a chaotic universe, my birth was the random result of a young wife’s illicit affair. But for me, I know that every event in Sir Richard’s life, my real father’s existence or my mother’s world, was shaped and guided by the hand of fate.
The circumstances of my birth delivered me to Fara, who in turn showed me what I would become—and what I must do to realize my destiny.
I rose above my allotment in life to become legend: the Prince of Sanheim. But that is only the beginning of my story.”
—Robert Crowley, 1871
Chapter 4
Five months later…
September 12, 2007
Carol Cuthberson looked around the room and grimaced. The place was a disaster and it was going to take at least an hour to make it presentable again. She checked the calendar, hoping that she didn’t have any appointments in the morning. But of course it was in vain. Lately, Madame Zora had been more popular than ever.
She had hoped to make it home in time for C.S.I. Instead, she was going to spend a chunk of her evening cleaning up her kewpie dolls and picking beads out of the carpet.
She wished Mary Ann was still here, but she always left promptly at 5 p.m., whether there were clients still there or not.
I should have seen this coming.
Maybe.
She was a psychic, after all, and predicting the future was her stock and trade. But Madame Zora couldn’t see everything and this day had been cloudier than most. Even without psychic powers, she knew she was in trouble when that last customer came in. She hadn’t bothered with the smoke and mirrors she often reserved for first-timers, but instead had presented herself as unpretentiously as possible. As soon as he crossed the threshold of her shop, she felt the waves of fury coming off him. When he walked in the door, he wasted no time getting to the point.
“I just want to know who that little bitch is screwing,” Gary McLean had said.
And Carol—now dressed as Madame Zora—knew. Gary’s wife, Cindy, was messing around with her best friend, Gabby. Maybe the inclination had always had been there or maybe living with Gary had driven her to desperation—Carol didn’t blame her either way. Seeing inside Gary’s mind was dreary and depressing. She firmly believed that most people were good, or at least started out that way. Gary, though… He was the exception that proved the rule.
She could have told him the truth. And when the police showed up to find two women dead, Carol could try to convince herself she had nothing to do with it. But knowledge is power, and Carol knew she would be responsible for whatever Gary’s actions were—maybe more so than Gary himself.
So she lied. Most people think psychics lie all the time, but Madame Zora disliked it. In general, it was far easier—and more profitable—to tell the truth. But not here. So she reassured him of his wife’s fidelity and suggested he was in for a dark end if he didn’t deal with his anger issues. She thought she was doing a really great job, too.
Unfortunately, Gary was not a fan. He had destroyed her room in a fit of rage, calling her a liar, bitch, and whore before finally stomping out. She should have called the police.
She didn’t and she wasn’t sure why. Certainly, she had plenty of cause. But there was a voice in the back of her mind that told her not to. And she always listened to her instincts. Listening to instincts was what being a psychic was all about.
She had just finished picking up all the beads from the now-wrecked curtain in her doorway (which Gary had rather effortlessly damaged on his way out the door) when she heard the bell that indicated a customer had come in.
It was odd for two reasons. For one, her office hours were well past over. She had agreed to meet Gary so late only because he insisted that it was a matter of life or death. For another, she was never surprised by a customer. Well, there had been the reporter last year—she hadn’t seen her coming—but that was an unusual circumstance. She always had a sense of when someone planned to visit her. It was one of her most powerful gifts. Unless…
She glanced at the envelope lying on her desk. She had only written the letter yesterday, hoping it would be some time before she had to send it. It wasn’t even finished.
But in another brief flash of inspiration, she grabbed it and looked for the right place to hide it. She needed somewhere that the reporter would find it, but her guest, whoever it was, would not. She smiled when she found the spot and moved quickly to put the letter there.
She was just turning around to face the door when a voice came from behind her.
“Hi Carol,” he said.
She intended to keep her composure no matter who her visitor was. But when she turned around, she involuntarily let out a gasp.
“Kieran,” she said, and her voice was so soft it was barely a whisper.
“That’s me,” he said, and leaned through the entranceway. He glanced at what was left of the bead curtain and smiled. “Making friends and new customers, I see.”
It must be some kind of trick, she thought. For one, he looked exactly the same. He was tall, lanky, with a mop of unkempt brown hair. He looked to be in his early 30s, which she knew for a fact was roughly 30 years younger than he really was. But the biggest shock was entirely different.
“You’re dead,” she said. “They killed you.”
“No,” he responded and walked into her room. “But sometimes I wish they had.”
God, she had forgotten how handsome he was. It wasn’t in his looks really, but the way he carried himself. If she had just taken a photo, she might have said he was average. But some people have a personality that elevates their physical characteristics. She thought she remembered everything about him; had replayed past events with him countless times over the years. But she was surprised how much she had forgotten.
“How?” she said. “Why? You couldn’t have escaped…”
Kieran glanced around the room, taking in the kewpie dolls still lying strewn about the floor. He stopped to pick up an errant bead.
“Nice place,” he said. “A bit…dramatic, though, don’t you think? The dolls? Really? I didn’t think you were into that stuff.”
It took Carol a moment to recover herself.
“People come to see a show, Kieran,” she said.
“Yes, the great ‘Madame Zora,’” he said. “I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. Given your talents, you should be famous—a legend.”
“Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she said, keeping her voice flat.
Kieran finished his circle of the room and looked at her. It was a piercing look, one that seemed to peel all the levels of confidence and self-assurance she had gathered over the decades. In his eyes, she was that 18-year-old girl with more talent than sense. God, how she had loved him. He was funny, charming, and even if he was taken, that didn’t mean he was against a little attention on the side. And she had been stupid enough to give him some, not knowing—or not caring—what it would cost her.
“You mind if I sit down?” he asked.
He didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he just calmly took the chair and placed himself in it.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
But she knew. Of course she knew. She had expected someone to come, just not him—never him. She thought she was prepared. But maybe they were smarter than she thought. Perhaps they knew just what would hurt her the most and had hurled it at her like a spear.
Kieran gave her a look that simultaneously expressed disappointment and amusement.
“Do we have to go through this?” he asked. “You know perfectly well why I’m here. You also know who sent me, what they want, and what they will do to you if you don’t give it to them. So do we have to play this game of charades?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why…”
He sighed, and the look of amusement died.
“I guess we do. Let’s see,” he said, and he held out his hand and counted on his fingers. “Four words. Five syllables. Is that right? I always hated charades.”
“You’re going to kill me?” Carol said.
Kieran looked momentarily startled but recovered quickly.
“No, that’s five words and six syllables. You suck at this game.”
“I’m not playing it,” she said. “I asked you a question.”
Kieran looked up at her.
“I don’t want to,” he said, and she thought it might be the first honest thing he had said all day. “I really don’t, Carol.”
“So don’t,” she said. “Last I checked, you weren’t some flunky. Least of all for them.”
Kieran didn’t move a muscle, but she saw him flinch just the same. As nonchalant as he was pretending to be, the words stung him. Or maybe he was just uncomfortable with what he knew he had to do.
“Times change,” he responded. “Last I checked, you weren’t some middle-age charlatan using cheap parlor tricks to win a few coins. But we all pay a price in life, don’t we?”
“Of the two of us, I think it’s clear who has fallen the furthest,” Carol said. “She would never…”
“Don’t tell me what she would never do,” Kie
ran said and a look of anger crossed his face.
“No, I guess you already know,” she said.
“If you are trying to get me not to kill you, you need to work on your technique,” he said.
He reached behind him and pulled out a long knife. He put it on the table in front of him.
“You’ve already decided to kill me,” she said. “Nothing I can do will change that.”
Kieran stood up, glanced at the knife and then looked at her.
“That’s not true, Carol,” he said, and some part of her wondered if he actually meant it. “It’s true that they want you dead. She found you, you know that? I knew you were here—I’ve known where you are for a long time. But I had no intention of telling her, had no way of knowing you were around the Prince of Sanheim. But the minute our attention focused here, she turned you up.”
“Should I be flattered?” Carol asked.
“No, you should be scared,” Kieran said. “They want you to give me information, then they want me to kill you. But I don’t always give them what they want. I can give you another option. Work for me. I need a liaison.”
Carol stared at him. What game was he playing? She knew who he worked for now, but this couldn’t possibly be part of their plan. Did it really matter? Was she prepared to work for him? Whatever he was up to, she knew the two people he was after would pay a steep price.
She had always believed that when push came to shove, she would sacrifice herself rather than betray her principles. But now that the moment was at hand, she faltered. She didn’t want to die. More importantly, she wasn’t ready to die. There were still so many things she wanted to do.
Kieran searched her face as if he knew what she was thinking. Some faint flicker of hope sparked inside her. He meant it. He really would let her live.
As for working for him… she could do that, couldn’t she? She had gladly worked for him before.
“What is it you want?” she asked. She was stalling and they both knew it. But he could also read the temptation in her eyes.
Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles Book 2) Page 5
