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My mind roved over my life, picking out all the clues that had been there, the truth staring at me that I’d never seen before. Hushed conversations between Martin and Bess that cut off when I entered a room, the strange restrictions regarding school and friends, the results of which were a solitary lifestyle that kept me homebound more than not.
Never talk about home, Nora.
Don’t volunteer for anything.
Stay out of people’s way.
No sleepovers, Nora.
Most of my so-called friends stemmed from Uncle Martin’s shop, and they were frequently changing. People who either worked with Uncle Martin or for Uncle Martin, warlocks and changelings and some who had a darkness to them I could sense even as a child. When I was old enough to date, those relationships could all be traced back to the pawn shop as well until at last I informed Uncle Martin that I had no intention of dating anyone from there again. He had scowled and called me ungrateful and stalked out of the house.
It was just as well. As much as I had been taught to be grateful to him for keeping the finances in order and a roof over our heads, he was working more than he was ever home.
Nana Bess was who mostly dealt with me, and now that I looked at it, I could see that she was, in fact, merely handling me instead of caring for me. She fell to food as the ultimate cure-all, masking her aloofness to my emotions with the temporary consolation of treats. Men troubles? Brownies. Work troubles? Brownies with walnuts. School troubles? Mashed potatoes and gravy.
No real connection. She did not sit in my room and braid my hair as father had. She did not read to me or ask me about my day. She made sure I was clean, fed, and kept up on my education, but that was all.
V: Cadaver Sanguins.
She must have snuck out in the night to feed.
But no, it was worse than that.
They target families with old houses. Preferably with a basement so that they can keep a stock of dead for the vampire to feed on.
An image of the basement stair rose in my mind, and I recoiled. I didn’t like the basement. Mother used to do pottery down there and her memory was so thick I could scarcely breathe whenever I ventured down. The fact that it was also where she died compounded things and dark suspicions began to slither into view.
The first strike is always years before making actual contact with the family. If they take the father out first, Martin Birchwood poses as a helpful male figure for the mother during the time of grief. If they take the mother out first, Bess arrives on scene as a kindly matron, posing as either a governess or a distant aunt.
I sat back in the chair, staring at the papers in front of me, equal parts horrified and stunned. I could not remember Bess being present before mother died and a sick knot tightened in my gut.
I’d made it so easy for them.
A small voice inside me suggested it was all a lie, but logic quickly drowned it out. The CEB had no cause to lie to me. I had seen them at work firsthand now and they had plenty to do in a day already. There was no reason to supply me with fake files and false accusations, and anyway, some deeper part of me could sense the truth in it all.
The silence of the room stretched. I wondered how much longer Bess had meant to use me. Killing me would have been all too easy. I trusted her.
I had always trusted her, hadn’t I?
For long moments I sat there, staring at the paperwork, reading and re-reading the files as though something might magically change in them. But of course, it didn't. A sob lodged somewhere in my chest.
They killed my parents.
Grief blanketed me, a cold, quiet, grey thing that I allowed to settle. I wasn't sure how long I stayed that way, staring at the rough sketch of Bess's face, but it was long enough for the seat to get uncomfortable.
My runestone began to burn and itch. Frowning, I clutched at it, willing the pain to subside. Around me, the walls creaked and groaned, and I felt as though I were in the bowels of a ship at sea. My ears popped under pressure, and I glanced at the portal, but it was void even of water, a blank space in the wall the general height and width of a door. I blinked at it.
When had it changed?
A snapping in the west wall drew my attention and I stood, knocking back the chair. One of the wooden boards splintered open and a thin, viridian green vine snaked its way inside. It coiled and curled, inching its way up the wall, growing thicker as it went so that the splintered wall groaned and tore open. Wicked thorns hooked along the length of the vine, looking not a little like the claws of a cat.
My mind flew to that cursed dream, to the vines bursting out of Leslie manor and the gaping hole of cold black at its center, and I swallowed.
“Impossible,” I whispered.
But possible or not, there it was, and it was growing. The knot in my stomach tightened. It was too much of a coincidence, I knew that. Whatever this thing was, it was on the hunt. And I suspected it had been on the hunt since killing Lord Malcolm in the forest.
I tore my gaze from the vine, searching the spartan room for anything that might be used as a weapon. Cade’s medical case sat by the cot, bloody linens peppering the floor around it.
