Page 31 of Mortdale

Her head whipped back in my direction, and she screeched a little before losing her balance on the swing, dropping face down on the wet grass.

Shaking away the fact I’d just scared my wife of a week out of her mind, I went to pick her up. Her limbs felt so light and fragile in my hands that I wondered if Agnes had agreed to hand me a glass doll so she could be easily broken and escape me as soon as possible.

“You’re back,” she said, stumbling a small step away from me and pushing hair out of her eyes. “They said…they said you wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Happy to see you, too, wife.”

“Really? You look awfully pissed. And awful.” Her dark eyes skimmed my face corner to corner, growing wider and wider the more she studied me. I couldn’t tell if she had missed me or if she wanted to crack my head open to see what was in it—the curiosity in them always threw me off. “You need a shave and some sleep.”

Probably the second.

“I can see why people get married. Nothing like a bit of warm, welcoming affection.”

“Right? It’s fun.” She cleared her throat. “Considering you vanished for a good few days, I should probably skim my fingers down the collar of your shirt and find some mysterious hair or a lipstick mark. Slap you across the face and stomp away. Divorce you and get all your money.”

“Is that what you’ve been reading at the library?”

Her dark eyes paced between mine for a moment. And I waited for a quick, curt reply before she’d fly off and lock herself in her room; as she’d done ever since our wedding. But she stayed, licked her lips, and asked, “What’s in that?”

I leaned against the old pear tree and lit my cigarette. “Whiskey,” I said, lifting the glass in her direction.

She got up from the swing and stopped in front of me, close enough I could see each small, odd dark hair between her pale grey lashes. Pressing her parted lips to the edge of the glass, she waited as I tipped it forward just slightly.

She nodded to herself, untucking some hair from behind her ear and letting it cover the side of her face. “You smell a bit different. Liam said you visit the Blood Houses in the afternoons. I guess you were there.”

I was going to dig his throat out of his ears.

“What else did he say?”

“Not much. He barely looks me in the eyes these days. He’s not very open to any kind of conversation. I tried apologising to him, but he wasn’t having it.”

He was getting his ears cut off first.

“Liam saw you talking to the dead.”

Silence echoed for a bit before blood trickled from her nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She quickly pressed her sleeve to her nose, her words coming out all muffled and stuffy. “I’m insane. I talk to myself. I should probably see an alienist.” A few moments later, she lowered the bloodied sleeve down to her side and sighed. “You don’t seem too surprised.”

“I am not. But vampires are traditional creatures. Superstitious. Liam’s just scared.”

She hummed. “I thought he was one of your big, brave killer soldiers.”

“His position is more of an apprenticeship at the moment, but he is no less skilled than the rest.”

“In killing, that is.”

“Why else would a man hold a weapon if not to kill?”

“To entertain. And a jester is much preferred to a killer. Especially if that weapon is on fire and he can swallow it down his throat. People go mad for that stuff.”

“I’ll let him know.”

She watched me bring the whiskey glass to my lips and then back to hers, letting her have another sip. “What were you reading?”

She smacked the book to my chest. “All yours. I’ve already read it twice.”

My fingers briefly got tangled in her warm ones as I grabbed the book.

Vampires in Furs?