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“He’s likely fine.” But it would just take a moment to check, and I wouldn’t get any work done until I knew he was well. “A quick visit, then, only so I can focus on my work.” I stood, and the beetle disappeared up my sleeve.
I threw on my coat, flicked the collar up, and left the shop, locking the door behind me. The winter sun hung low in the sky, about to dip behind Rochefort’s hill and cast a shadow over the town. The cold wind sought to deter me, whipping old snow from off the street. The closer I came to the Lost Penny, the more the wind pushed through me. Other townsfolk had already scurried indoors.
Like the storm last night, this was no ordinary wind. It did not want me here. I was the one cog that did not fit.
At the inn, the barman pointed me toward the stairs. I climbed them and ventured down the short hallway to Valentine’s room. His suitcases almost blocked the passageway. Perhaps he wasn’t in?
I rapped on the door, but no reply came from within, which would account for the waiting luggage. He’d clearly gone out, probably to further inquire into my father’s murder or Rochefort’s.
I’d checked. He wasn’t here. I could do no more. If he’d found his way into trouble, he’d have to find his way out again.
I returned to the bar and headed for the door. Wind buffeted snow against the windows and those inside huddled closer to the fireplaces. The beetle buzzed in my pocket. The storm last night and this one, the beetle, and the stacked suitcases? The signs did not bode well.
I had to know.
I waved the barman over. “Mr. Anzio, the investigator. Do you know if he’s in?”
“Oh yes, he’s in. Been drowning his sorrows for hours.”
“Hours?”
“Aye.”
“And he hasn’t left?”
“Not that I’ve seen. He took a bottle with him to his room. If you do see him, ask him to move those bags!”
I turned away, ignoring the rest of the barman’s words, and climbed the stairs once more. Valentine hadn’t left the room, which meant he was either asleep or ignoring me. I rapped on the door again. Still nothing. And no sound from within. “Valentine?”
No, this would not do. I took the beetle from my pocket, checked that nobody was nearby, and set her down on the floor beside the door. Her inner workings tick-tocked, and she ducked under the door. Moments later, the lock snicked over.
I slipped in—and appeared to be looking at another dead man. He lay on his back on the bed, one arm flung off the edge, the other draped over his chest. A chest that rose and fell. Lower, where I had no right to look but couldn’t tear my gaze from, the clear evidence of his arousing dream upset the tight line of his trousers.
“Well then.” A peculiar knot had made its way up my throat. I swallowed, clearing it. “He’s fine, as I said.”
The beetle hurried over, climbed the bed’s leg, dashed up his shoulder, and stopped on his chest, wings buzzing.
There was no use in arguing with her. I marched to the bed and peered down at the sleeping Valentine. “Wake up.”
Nothing. Just heavy breathing.
The beetle took flight and landed on Valentine’s desk, next to the small bottle of a strong, highly addictive opioid. Laudanum. I pinched my lips together, threw a glare toward the ceiling, and clenched my teeth to keep from ranting. Why had fate put this fool back in my path?
“Not fate,” I snarled. “Not that. This is cruel.” Unclenching my fists, I jabbed two fingers into the pulse point at his neck. Unlike when he’d lain unconscious in my store, his pulse thumped eagerly against my fingertips. He was fine and clearly enjoying an erotic dream.
An image assaulted my thoughts and flash-burned into my consciousness. Me, on my knees, with Valentine’s cock between my lips and his hands locked in my hair. A rush of lust surged through me. I reeled away.
“Of course!” I snapped at the room and willed my blood to cool. Damn him for wantingthatafter everything he’d done to me. I had half a mind to leave him to his fantasy, but the beetle’s buzz drew my eye back to the medicinal bottle.
The laudanum might drag him all the way down so he never woke up. And then where would we all be?
I threw Valentine a glare and huffed. I’d have to wait it out. I flung off my coat, tossed it over the back of the chair by his desk, and returned to the suitcases. One of us should make ourselves useful, as he wasn’t going to. Besides, I would not be making any toys while half my mind wondered whether he’d succumbed to laudanum.
I dragged his suitcases into the room and unpacked his belongings. Clothes, I folded away in the dresser. His books, I stacked beside the desk. And his notes, those I laid out on the desktop, skimming my fingers over the notebooks’ soft covers. He remained asleep and showed no signs of waking, so it was his own fault if I took it upon myself to read some of his work. What else was I supposed to do? Watch him sleep?
I sat at the desk, drew the lamp closer, and began to read. He’d written many short, sharp notes, as though needing to scribble his thoughts onto paper, afraid he’d lose them. But those thoughts were sourced with titles and page numbers from reference books. I studied those too, and as the night set in, I learned how Valentine had studied those with broken minds. He’d visited asylums, not to gawk and cringe, but with respect. He did not condone their actions, but he sought to understand them.
To understand himself.
