Johnathan kept a watchful eye on the town as they passed through. The townspeople went on about their day, with work, with errands, with gossip, and all the usual facets of town life. He caught snippets of conversation, mentions of the latest wares to arrive by coach delivery, who was sleeping with who, who committed some gaffe or another, but not a single mention of the dead girl found in the middle of their streets. Not a whisper of missing girls or a call for action. There was something fundamentally wrong with the lack of conversation on the matter. Johnathan knew how small-town news functioned. A matter like this should have consumed the gossipmongers. The names of the dead girls should be on the lips of every housewife and ale house patron. That it was not proved how deeply rooted the problem was in Cress Haven.
Johnathan called for Vic to stop outside the boarding house tavern. The building served another purpose as Cress Haven’s post office. He passed along a hefty tip to Mrs. Meech for his letter to be sent with the afternoon coach. Rejoining Vic, he pushed the letter from his mind. It was a precautionary measure, something he would be foolish not to take. Johnathan was certain his unease had nothing to do with his tenuous agreement with the vampire, nothing at all.
The coach continued through the town proper, following a road that took them past the church and the Shaw household. The venerable pastor himself was outside the church, tending the grounds with meticulous care, surrounded by two boys and a girl who were Alyse’s younger siblings. Pastor Shaw nodded to Vic’s coach as they passed, a neutral expression on his heavily lined face. Johnathan waited until they were long out of ear shot before he spoke.
“Does that man have any notion of your relationship with his daughter?” Johnathan frowned at himself. What did it matter if Alyse placed herself in an untoward position with the vampire? It wasn’t like she was coerced or had no grasp over her faculties. He doubted Alyse could be forced into any sort of relationship, be it with a vampire or the Devil himself. The question was, why did he feel the need to broach the subject with Vic?
“Why, John, do you believe I am compromising the innocent Miss Shaw?” The smallest hint of sarcasm resonated in the vampire’s voice.
“It is not my business to question the nature of your relationship with Miss Shaw,” Johnathan said through his teeth. “I inquire to the level of your restraint. It would be a shame for the good pastor to be caught unaware at the sudden loss of his child.”
Vic paused, his voice touched with ice when he spoke. “I don’t know what I find to be the greater insult, that you thought I lied about the handling of my appetites, or that you consider me so careless with a bed partner that I would break them in a moment of passion.”
Johnathan couldn’t help but notice that Vic didn’t confirm whether Alyse was his bed partner or not. Unwilling to back down from the argument, Johnathan said, “You have a predator’s nature. That is not so easily stymied despite honorable intentions.” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew how they sounded.
Vic ground his teeth together and tightened his hands on the reins until the leather whined. “This might be difficult for you, Johnathan, but attempt to stifle your tendency to be an absolute prick in the presence of the Fairchilds.”
Johnathan knew he should have left well enough alone, especially with Vic watching his back in this matter. The ghost of Sir Harry lingered in his thoughts, laughing at his failed dealings with the vampire. Vic was not Sir Harry, and Johnathan needed to separate the two in his mind.
The coach drew to a stop outside of the town proper, at a painted Dutch colonial. At first glance, the structure of the house and the surrounding grounds spoke of wealth in a league above the majority of residents in Cress Haven, but the grounds bore evidence of inattention, overgrown and choked with weeds.
The house itself was a silent sentinel to their arrival, not a hint of movement within from any household staff or the Fairchilds themselves. Vic appeared undeterred by the lack of reception. He smoothly dismounted from the coach.
Johnathan hesitated, his eyes on the multitude of windows that faced the road, the windowpanes broader and more open than he was used to seeing in a house of that structure. A lot of glass for a country house, specially this far north, on the fringe of the wilderness. The Fairchilds must have brought wealth with them before acquiring the lumber mill, perhaps inherited wealth, though that didn’t account for Mr. Fairchild’s change of heart regarding his business property.
Johnathan slid from the coach and sped up to match the vampire’s pace. Nobody in the house stirred to greet them. Peculiar, a house this size usually boasted a small staff, someone to intercept visitors before they reached the door.
Johnathan didn’t like it. The grounds felt stale and still.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.” Johnathan spoke softly; the atmosphere called for silence.
Vic’s pace remained steady, but he peered at Johnathan from the corner of his eye. “How did you sleep last night, John?”
Johnathan scowled. Couldn’t the fiend just accept an apology for what it was? “Poorly,” he bit out, “through no fault of the furnishings, I assure you.”
Vic stopped halfway up the path to the door, halting Johnathan’s steps with a light touch on his wrist. “I know. I heard you. You talk in your sleep.” There was no judgement in Vic’s gaze, only concern, which threw Johnathan into a riot of confusion. Concern was the last emotion he expected or wanted from the vampire.
He shrugged off Vic’s touch. “This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion, Vic.” He didn’t snap, too unbalanced by the shift in Vic’s demeanor to put any real irritation into his words. He glanced at the silent house. “Are you certain the Fairchilds are present?”
“I can hear their heartbeats,” said Vic. That didn’t bode well, considering how dead the house seemed. Vic patted Johnathan’s shoulder. “Let me lead here?”
Johnathan snorted. “Whatever for?”
“You have the charm of a bulldog.” Vic shifted around Johnathan to the Fairchild’s front door.
He used the hanging knocker, the sound echoing through the domicile. Johnathan ceased grumbling as the two waited for movement inside. It was possible the Fairchilds would leave their visitors in the lurch. Everything about the premise suggested a family in the depths of mourning, so it was to Johnathan’s great surprise when the front door opened.
A woman stood there, her face pale and wan. Bitter lines bracketed her pinched mouth, and shadows haunted her watery blue eyes. Grief telegraphed itself through the lines of her body as she stepped forward and half closed the door behind her.
“Good day, gentlemen,” said the woman. “What can I do for you?”
It wasn’t an outright dismissal. The woman appeared to have far too much good breeding for that, but her irritation over their visitation was evident in the tension that held her there, a wilted butterfly pinned on display to the weather-worn front door.
Vic bowed his head in a somber gesture, the picture of the charming country gentlemen paying his respects to a neighbor. “Greetings, Mrs. Fairchild. My associate and I understand this is a delicate time for your family, but we were hoping Mr. Fairchild and yourself would be willing to cooperate with information regarding the matter of your daughter?”
Johnathan shuffled a step, the oddity of the situation deepening. This was the lady of the house? Why had she come to greet them herself?
Mrs. Fairchild stared at Vic as if he’d grown a second head. She blinked, a vacant expression settling over her features in a perfected mask. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
Johnathan frowned. She didn’t send them away, but her wording was strange. She knew what Vic spoke of, he could see that in the way her hands clenched the fabric of her skirts, but her eyes bore into Vic, daring him to say the actual words.
Vic cleared his throat. “Pardon us, Mrs. Fairchild. We have been tasked with investigating the missing girls, and your daughter was the first to vanish from Cress Haven.”
“But not the first to die,” whispered Mrs. Fairchild.
Vic went still. Johnathan glanced from the haggard woman to the vampire, sensing the predatory agitation that surrounded Vic.
“Is that so, Mrs. Fairchild?” Johnathan took a step forward and stopped when she cringed like a mouse caught in the open. ”Please, Mrs. Fairchild, we want to find what—” He paused, correcting himself. “Who. We want to find who did this to your daughter,” he said gently. “We want to stop this from happening to anyone else.”
She swallowed. “You can’t—can’t come in,” she stuttered. “Mr. Fairchild isn’t home.”
Vic sent Johnathan a weighted glance. Johnathan didn’t need the obvious gesture. He could hear the lie in her voice. Time to press her for a real reaction.
“Mrs. Fairchild, why did your husband sell the lumber mill before Lydia went missing?” he asked.
The woman staggered, her expression appalled, as if he’d said something obscene. “He…he didn’t, he…”
Vic took the opening. He gathered the woman’s hands, a touch that drew her attention to him. “Please, Mrs. Fairchild. We only want to see Lydia’s room.” That wasn’t the long and the short of it, but if Vic could charm them inside, it might be enough.
Mrs. Fairchild stared down at their hands, her eyes glassy. A lone tear spilled down her cheek. She seemed to age ten years in seconds as her gaze drifted up to Vic’s. “I didn’t want this.”
Another curious statement, one that hinted Mrs. Fairchild possibly knew far more of the strange events plaguing Cress Haven than either Johnathan or Vic, and that she felt at least a partial responsibility for the fate of her daughter.
She pulled her hands away and opened the door to usher them inside. “Her room faced the woods,” said Mrs. Fairchild. “She loved the birdsong and the sight of grazing deer at dawn.”
Her tired voice dragged them into the house’s suffocating gloom. The air was choked with dust, the windows long shuttered and latched, stale and slightly sour. It gave the impression of a tomb, a mausoleum where Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild continued to reside. There was a creak of floorboards from another section of the house that sent a tick through Mrs. Fairchild’s shoulders. She kept moving until they reached Lydia’s room, where Mrs. Fairchild unlocked the door.
Why lock it at all?
A cloth had been draped over the mirror, but otherwise the room remained untouched, a shrine to the deceased. Johnathan entered the room first, Vic on his heels.
The vampire leaned in close. “Do you smell it?” he said under his breath.
Mrs. Fairchild hovered at the door, her hands clasped in front of her so tight, the bones of her fingers pressed against the skin. Johnathan caught the scent the moment Vic mentioned it, strong enough even for his human nose. A faint whiff of rotten eggs and ash that teased his senses, a scent that still lingered months after Lydia’s disappearance, closed up in her tomb of a room. He nodded.
“I’m going to see what I can pry out of our reluctant hostess,” said Vic. “I’ll leave you to it, Prospective Newman.” He gave Johnathan a mock salute and slid back to Mrs. Fairchild before Johnathan could get his hands on him. “Tell me, what interests did the young Miss Fairchild possess?” The vampire smoothly guided the woman away, which gave Johnathan complete, unobserved access to the room.
The desire to strangle Vic warred with admiration that he’d managed to give Johnathan exactly what he wanted. He refused to give the prat any praise.
Johnathan slowly circled the premise in a methodical perusal of each item, each piece of furniture and article of clothing. The contents created the picture of normality, the Lydia Fairchild who stood on the cusp of womanhood. A collection of creased, oft-read ladies’ journals lay in a careless stack on her vanity, articles of note marked by carefully folded napkins and dried flowers. A lovely, carefully arranged porcelain doll occupied the center of her bed, propped up against the pillows in a place of honor. A remnant of her childhood that she clung to, evidence to her innocence. One of her pretty dresses hung from a hook on the back of a changing divider, prepped for an event never attended.
Why was this girl singled out to die?
Johnathan padded across the dust-laden rug, searching for something, any sort of clue to her disappearance. He could hear the murmur of voices from another portion of the house, Mrs. Fairchild’s tone reedy and thin compared to the vampire’s velvet intonation. Vic couldn’t keep the woman occupied forever though. It was only a matter of time before Mr. Fairchild emerged to contend with the visitors his wife failed to dismiss.
“Come on,” Johnathan muttered. “Come on, where are you?”
His gaze slid back to the covered mirror. It was an old tradition to keep demons and restless spirits away from a family in mourning. Johnathan never put much stock in such practice. If evil creatures were determined enough, no flimsy cloth would keep them at bay.
He plucked the drape free, greeted by the sight of his own reflection. He looked worn enough to fit right in with the Fairchild household. Behind him was a clear view of Lydia’s bedroom window, the woods beyond visible through the glass. He caught something in the corner of his gaze as he turned away, frustrated. It might have been a smudge, but that didn’t fit the image of the dusty but well-kept room.
Johnathan approached the window. There was something scored in the wood, partially hidden beneath the closed sill. He unlatched it and lifted the sash to reveal the rest.
There it was, the symbol, the same damn symbol he saw burned into Mary Elizabeth’s bones, a half circle split by a straight line, reminiscent of horns.
“Behold, a clue,” he said. Little bits and pieces of the puzzle were clicking into place, and Johnathan had a very sobering theory: both of Lydia Fairchild’s parents knew a great deal about her disappearance. What bothered him more was why they would hide their knowledge. Or were they hiding their shame? The thought set his teeth on edge.
Raised voices carried through the house, dominated by the unfamiliar boom of an angry male voice. Mr. Fairchild had emerged.
Johnathan sighed through his nose. It was time to inquire why this symbol had been carved into their dead daughter’s windowsill. Vic might have the tact to get them into the house, but this revelation called for Johnathan’s “bulldog charm” to shake loose the information they needed. He wanted to know how involved these two were with their daughter’s death. No, needed to know. The need flared in his chest, hot and sharp.
It wasn’t the sound of movement, but the sense of something watching him that made the hair on his arms rise. Johnathan looked up.
The beast stood in the yard, outside Lydia’s window, bare to the full light of day.