Chapter 11

The undead, and those who have at one time or another traveled to the Nothing, lose their reflection upon returning. The superstitious see this as evidence of a lost soul, but empirical evidence suggests that the "damned" are not without their spirit any more than any other immortal. Mirrors are a doorway to the realm of the god Death and are only meant to be traveled through in one direction, always in and never out. The reflection departs when a being leaves the Nothing against the laws of nature. The consequences of this—if there are any—are unknown.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Quiet

Back in the safety of the warded bedroom, I waited until Rorick had his trousers on and fastened before I started in with the first of my many, many queries. "Penance apologized to you directly."

"She did," Rorick said as he shouldered on his white shirt and buttoned it. "Before now I had no idea she was involved."

"Involved in what, exactly? Please don't make me pry every detail out of you. I only have five days left to solve all of this." I sat back on the bed, my journal open in my lap to a fresh page, charcoal pencil behind my ear.

"Experiments. My cousin was performing some sort of testing on vampire blood." He missed a button and had to start again. "That night, a year ago, the one that went so disastrously, I told you I'd been attacked by a gargoyle."

"And that was a lie?" I guessed, feeling a pinch in my stomach at the violation.

"No, no." He lifted his paisley waistcoat off the arm of the plush chair next and unfolded it. "It wasn't a fabrication, just not the whole of the story."

"Hm. I suppose that is better, but only slightly." I set my journal and pencil aside, deciding I'd rather just listen this time.

At the gesture, tension left Rorick's shoulders and his brow smoothed. "Alex kept a gargoyle as a bodyguard on his payroll. He called him the Butler."

"Like the Gardener," I deduced.

"Everyone on his payroll who wasn't a vampire had a crescent mark inked onto their skin so coven members could recognize them." He slipped on his waistcoat, popping the collar of his shirt while he worked the buttons.

"The moon symbol that's all over the castle," I guessed.

"It looks like the letter ‘C,' so the coven began referring to these hired helpers as ‘cleaners.'" He smoothed his collar back down again, then stepped into his boots.

"And you didn't want me to know about any of this because . . . ?" My eyes searched his.

Rorick turned to face the chair, fingers tapping against the cushioned arm, gathering himself. "Alex convinced me that I owed him a great service. He claimed I ‘took from him' because he had to use so much of his blood to bring me around again. He said there were consequences to the loss. That I'd made him weak."

Out of respect for Rorick's feelings, I repressed a snort. "No offense intended to you or the rest of your family, but fuck him."

He laughed at that, gathering up his cravat next.

"No, I mean it," I said, heat churning in my abdomen. It warmed up my spine and spread across the back of my neck. "I know he was like some patriarch to you, but he deserves worse for sticking you in that coffin in the ground after he turned you. What a horrid thing to do to family."

Rorick's skin lost the little color that it had. His throat bobbed, and he worked the edges of his silk cravat so quickly between his fingers it made a rustling sound. "I've been vocal in my dreams, apparently."

I nodded, afraid I'd hurt his pride, but he continued undaunted.

"There were ichors in the graveyard the night I rose. Alex saved me from them after I made it to the castle."

I sucked in my next inhale. A shiver touched my spine. "Good grief, Rorick. That had to have been horrid."

"Alex had a reason for burying me—but then, the man had a clever reason for everything." Rorick folded and unfolded the cravat, staring off at the blank patch of wall above the desk. "He claimed we'd been childhood best friends, and I believed him. He felt familiar. My memories were such a disaster when I awoke."

I pocketed my journal, wanting it out of the way, and I scooted across the wide bed, closing the distance between us. My nearness seemed to encourage him.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, lessening the divide even further, but his back was to me. "I discovered a document with Alex's date of birth upon it. He was too old to have ever been my childhood friend, and that was the first time I realized he'd lied to manipulate me. But it certainly wasn't the last."

"I'm sorry," I said, reaching my fingers out toward him. Not close enough to touch, but I hoped he felt the intended kindness in the gesture anyway.

Rorick tossed the cravat back onto the armchair with a scoff. "You're the last person I should be complaining to about family difficulties." He tucked the ward from around his fingers into the side of his boot and began to tie his laces.

"It's not a competition," I said sympathetically. Rorick was once the man I'd lowered my defenses for so much, I'd shared things with him no one else knew. Not even my sisters. The reminder of exactly what I'd lost in him when our partnership ended made my throat turn tight and scratchy.

"My father never abandoned me to fend for myself in some tiny cottage in the wilds when I was only seven," he said, his own self-deprecation hunching his back. "If it were a competition, you'd have me beat by a landslide. My family spoiled me. They gave me wealth and educated me—probably overeducated me. I should be more grateful."

"You aren't ungrateful just because you recognize the abuses of your dreadful cousin," I said, and the lightning beetles that had saved me in those cold woods all those years ago came streaming in around me, like they remembered that time too. "You don't need to survive in the woods alone as a child to deserve better from family."

Rorick took a steadying breath. Then he turned to face me. "I ‘cleaned' for Alex."

The confession seemed to cost him. His head dropped forward, and palpable guilt radiated from him.

"That must have been hard," I said, and my empathy wasn't feigned. I'd do absolutely anything for the sisters who made up my coven, even if I didn't like it. I'd destroy important documents. Lie. Cheat. Commit crimes.

Hide dead bodies. Get trapped in malevolent castles. Anything.

"While I lived here," he explained, "Alex was turning wealthy noblemen left and right, rich and powerful men who could lend their influence to the goals of the coven. It seemed helpful at first. He righted a few laws that punished our kind unjustly. But then Alex ordered me to clean up after an earl from the south who accidentally murdered his wife trying to turn her. I don't know why the vampirism didn't take. I've never tried to turn anyone before."

"Such a shame," I said.

Rorick continued undaunted. "When I showed a vague interest, Alex encouraged me to receive training as an investigator, but that's not a job for a nobleman. And yet, he acted so proud when I opened my own office as a private detective, was even more proud when I started consulting with Purgatory's police agency. I always thought that was out of character for him. He was such a prig most of the time. When he sent me to clean for the earl, that's when it finally all made sense. He planned to use my knowledge to hide evidence of coven crimes from snooping constables." He shook his head. "Goddess, and it was a mess too. The earl was a disaster. He should've been hanged."

I knew how much law and order meant to Rorick, and I reached for him again, this time stretching so that my fingers grazed his arm. Surprisingly, his body was warm through the broadcloth of his shirt. Perhaps emotions impacted a vampire's temperature. I wanted to question him about it but not enough to interrupt him.

"I hated being used that way," he said, "and I moved out of the castle after that. Told Alex I'd never do it again. That a vampire who did such things deserved what he got and more. Alex and I fought. He accused me of being ungrateful for all he'd done. Everyone had given up on searching for me after I'd had my accident. Everyone except for him."

"I'm growing to strongly dislike this man," I grumbled.

"As a ged, I was a bachelor who lived off Alex's generosity. I don't know if I believe everything else he said about me, though. Alex claimed I had a gambling problem, no friends, only bookies. He had to take care of my debts."

"Manipulative bastard," I said. "You've always liked boxing, but you've never been impulsive. I don't believe him, and I don't think you should either. Isolating you would make it easier to control you as a detective. It's odd to look at him as a perpetrator given that he's been murdered, but if you think on it, we know his type, Rorick. We've dealt with men like him before."

He stared off into the distance, contemplating my words. "Some of his stories weren't lies. I was able to corroborate pieces and parts, like my death in the carriage accident about three decades ago."

"It's the truth that makes the lies believable, though," I said.

"The newspapers were still using plated sketches at the time," he explained. "An artist's rendering made the headlines. My carriage went over the side of a bridge. Hardly anyone took to the water to recover my body because the water was so high and fast-moving. I was already dead when Alex gifted me his blood and turned me."

"I didn't know that was possible." My eyes widened. There was a great deal I didn't know about vampirism, but turning someone with a gift of magic-rich vampire blood before death was the only known method I'd ever heard of.

"I'm the only one who's managed it," Rorick explained. "It's why my memories as a ged are such rubbish. I died and was in my coffin for too long. Nearly a whole year. Alex brought me back, but it didn't take right away. He thought he'd failed, and so he buried me."

"Then he saved you from the ichors. Spared you from a second death. You felt like you owed him."

"Didn't I?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know, but you certainly don't owe him anything now. Rorick, look at me, please." I plucked at the sleeve of his shirt and waited until his violet eyes lifted to mine. "Alex was a pompous ass. I wish he was still alive so you could get the answers you're hungry for and have a go at punching him right in his pretentious face."

"You understand me well," he said with a grin.

"Tell me about the gargoyle," I reminded him.

He rubbed at his chest and winced like he was remembering that old wound, the one I'd sewn up with spider thread. "Alex invited me to a coven meeting. I hadn't attended one since I moved out of the castle. He seemed to be trying to make peace. During the meeting, he made a comment about the castle wards misbehaving for him again, like it was a common occurrence. Because of you, I know a great deal more about wards than the average immortal."

"If the wards were keeping him out, that would suggest this castle was never his to inherit, just like the naysayers claimed."

"Exactly. I started investigating him. I'd drop by the castle unannounced, question staff and ged family members that still lived in the city. I discovered he was trading in rare and strange materials, collecting vampire blood for hushed experiments. He collected samples from everyone at the coven meetings. And the wards have never been a problem for me. I came and went as I pleased, either because I've been invited inside so many times or—"

"—because you're actually the next in line," I deduced. "This should have been your castle."

Rorick nodded. He found a wrinkle in the bedding and straightened it. "Alex caught me snooping in one of his offices—the man had several. We fought. His gargoyle bodyguard surprised me from behind. Next thing I know, I'm struggling awake, strapped to a chair in some sort of laboratory here in the central wing. The same gargoyle is standing over me. There are tubes sticking out of my wrists." I gasped at that. "Alex was draining me of my blood."

"The scoundrel," I breathed. "How'd you escape all that?"

"Sheer panic and brute force."

"You do have a talent for brute force," I admitted.

The lines near his eyes crinkled. "The gargoyle did a number on me. Thankfully, you patched me up."

"Thankfully," I agreed.

Silence fell heavy between us. I wanted to make notes about everything I'd learned, but that would have to wait since it clearly made him uncomfortable.

"Quiet," he whispered. His violet gaze was on me, intense in its inspection. "I don't want to be ex-partners anymore."

My heart stammered in my chest, and my stomach fluttered. Those parts of me seemed to like the suggestion, but the rest of me wasn't certain how to feel. "I don't know what to say to that."

"Say you want to be my partner," he suggested. "Say you do want to see me again after we've solved this case and saved your coven."

I left the bed and paced to the desk, needing to ground myself with something. Pressing my hands against the cool wood helped.

"You hurt me," I said gently.

"I wasn't myself. I—"

"The bite wasn't even the worst of it," I said, anger sharpening my voice. "I could wrap my head around that, but then you just vanished for months! Not a word! Not even a note, no apology!" Heat rose in my face, flushing my skin. I spun on him. "It was like you didn't even care. I know you needed blood, Rorick. I just didn't know you'd take it. I didn't know that would be the end of us. You got what you wanted, and you were gone."

"I didn't want to bite you," he stammered. Rorick ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it. "Not without permission, not like that, but I was barely lucid. And then I could smell you. And then . . . I was ashamed of what I did. Still am—but I did write you notes. Loads of them."

I scoffed. "I didn't receive a single letter."

He mussed his hair again, pulling on the curl that flopped over his brow. "Well, that's because I didn't post any of them."

I laughed, but there was more malice in it than humor. "One whole year, Rorick. Not one fucking word."

He stood then, blurring over to me with his inhuman speed. He buried his hand in the inner pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a fold of paper. "I wrote you letters, but none of them were good enough. Hell's teeth, this one is actually the best I've done, and it was made by a bloody child."

I took it from him reluctantly and unfolded it. My eyes immediately welled when I saw the hand-drawn picture, the stick figure vampire and the little witchling, the vibrantly painted I'm sorry. I closed it again, willing down the sob that caught in my throat.

I'd cared for Rorick so much. When I thought he was improving, he'd coaxed me in closer, and I thought . . . Well, it didn't matter what I'd thought. It had been the silliest notion. The biggest mistake. If I'd have kept my head and my distance, none of it would have happened.

"There is nothing in this world I regret more than hurting you, Quiet," he said softly. "Not a bloody thing. I'm so damn sorry."

"You're shit at showing it." I rapidly blinked the sting from my eyes, pressing the drawing over my heart.

A chuckle rumbled out of his chest. He was so close I could smell the apples on his skin. "I wanted to come around and talk to you. I just assumed you needed your space. I thought you hated me. I thought I was the very last person in the entire province you'd want to see."

He was, in a way. In another way, he was the one person I desperately hoped would turn up. I wanted to scream at him and beat my fists against his chest. I wanted to let all my ire out, but that night was never supposed to be a goodbye. It wasn't supposed to be the end of our partnership. "You didn't even make sure I was all right after."

"I did, actually," he protested before he seemed to deflate again. His feet shuffled beneath him. "I dropped in. I wanted to know you were safe and see if you were still angry. You always appeared to be both."

I released the hand-drawn picture to the void in my pocket and let out a sniffle I failed to keep down. "What are you saying exactly?"

"I tailed you to your volunteer shifts from time to time," he said, running a hand through his hair impishly. "The ones at the Home for Foundlings. I kept going until you switched to serving at the infirmary."

"Hold on a minute." I folded my arms, glaring at the incorrigible man. "I only started at the infirmary two weeks ago. Exactly how long have you been following me about the city?"

Rorick chewed on his cheek. My heart snagged on his crooked smile. "For a year."

I hit him then, right in the sternum with a closed fist. "When were you ever going to say anything? What a foolish man you are, just letting us both stew in silence, letting me think you didn't care!"

He rubbed at his chest like it smarted. I appreciated him pretending. He'd probably barely felt that. I'd forgotten how much a vampire's frame had in common with cement. My fist definitely hurt more than his solid body could have. Discreetly, I shook out the ache in my hand.

In my exuberance, a few strands of my hair had broken free from my braid. He tugged on them affectionately. "I was going to say something just as soon as I was sure you'd had enough time to feel your anger. We're immortals, Quiet. If you needed a decade or two or three to stop feeling betrayed, I was willing to wait."

A bark of laughter slipped out of me. "You're such an idiot. Do you know that? I wanted you to withstand my anger, to let me punish you at least a little. Not vanish for ages."

He treated me to another lopsided smile. "You do so like to punish me. You're right. I should have known."

"If we were going to try again, it would have to be different this time," I said.

"It would," he agreed. "Now, please say you'll be my partner. Save me from having to follow you around for another year or two or ten."

His pale skin went blotchy around his face and neck. Warmth came off of him in waves, stealing my focus. He was hotter than the lightning beetles. His brow appeared damp. The loose curl of his hair stuck to it.

"Rorick?" I reached up and pressed my palm to his clammy forehead. "You have a fever."

He shook my hand off. "It's nothing."

"But immortals can't catch diseases," I protested.

"That's right. We can't catch them or pass them on. It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Did the werewolf bite you? If his teeth broke the skin, you could've contracted the curse." Doom plopped onto my shoulders, pressing me down. I felt his brow again, slapping away his hand when he tried to stop me. He was burning up. "I don't know what the curse will do to someone undead. I need books—I have to read up on this."

"You're panicking."

"You should be panicking with me!" I scolded, pacing from the bed to the desk and back again.

"Quiet . . . Stop!" He brought me to a halt and grabbed my chin. His hold was firm but gentle, forcing my focus onto him and off books and afflictions and fevers and— "I'm not cursed. The werewolf never bit me."

I pushed at his arm to make him let me go, but he didn't budge. "Then why do you have a blasted fever?"

"It's nothing."

"If you know what's going on, then explain it to me!" I shoved at the hand that held my face, and he finally relented. "You tell me right now, Rorick! I mean it. You say you want to be partners again—well, then, you have to talk. You can't keep secrets from me. Not ever."

"It's a blood fever," he whispered. "I'm thirsty, Quiet. Very, very thirsty."