Chapter 2

Despite their appearance, vampire eyes are not truly lavender in color. During their death and rebirth, pigment in the iris is lost. The purple shade is an illusion created by the vessels inside the eye showing through. Vampires have blood eyes.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Rorick

Acoach pulled by four horses carried me from the train station to my next destination. As the city fell away, werewolves made themselves known in a chorus of howls that subsided amongst the thicket of dead trees. It was as though the beasts recognized the feast in the mounts but had lost their will to hunt in such poor weather. I could hardly blame them.

The road became a rough incline before the iron gates of Eckert Castle.

An impressive old tomb of somber stone stood out starkly against a backdrop of pine and ash trees. The castle's turrets cut into an overcast night sky, and darkness fell like a pall over its flying buttresses and the pointed arches of the painted windows.

I hated the expense of the coach—two whole augs more than a proper hackney—but I'd needed the extra horses to drag me up the slope in the piling slush. I didn't want to leave the warmth of the cabin or the rug over my lap. Peeking past the curtain that covered the window, I growled at the snow coming down in fat drops. The bitterness of the cold felt like a slight from the goddess Fate, determined to vex me. The path leading to the drive was overgrown and poorly tended. The carriage couldn't bring me any closer. I'd have to hoof it the rest of the way.

Cast iron lamps flanked the gates like sentries, ominously dark and dripping with icicles. Beneath them stood a witch, haloed in glittery, floating lights. She was alone—the only witch I knew who ever traveled by themselves, a rebel against the natural order of things. Her long wide-brimmed hat hid her face. A heavy cloak covered most of her form in a shadowy mass of wool.

Quiet.

Once, she'd been a partner I could almost call a friend—or she was as close to a friend as vampires and witches ever got. Now, my relationship with her was something else. Something much more volatile. My stomach pinched, guilt gnawing at me over the part I'd played in making things that way.

I threw off the rug and exited the cabin, gritting my fangs as a whistling wind beat at my clothing.

"Can't stay long in this mess!" the driver shouted over the wail. The two oil lanterns hanging from either side of his seat swung haphazardly.

"I'll be quick." Holding my bowler in place over my dark hair, I dropped into powder that came up to my ankles. The frost was already working its way toward freezing my toes solid. Goddess save me, I hated the cold. What I wouldn't give for a quick hot sip of pulsing blood taken straight from the vein to warm me.

Perhaps the driver could be made willing for another aug? He was a clean enough fellow and not altogether unappealing. My wallet was fat with banknotes just in case. I'd give up half of it for—

"Rorick!" Quiet called, ripping me from my reverie.

Hugging myself against another gust of wind, I crunched over to her in snow that clung to the soles of my boots. When I was in arm's reach, the wind died down. We stood staring at each other. She was tall enough to look me in the eyes. Hers were stormy gray under her witch's hat.

"You came," Quiet said in her husky voice. It had been just over a year since I'd heard her last. I'd forgotten exactly what she sounded like, though I'd recalled her voice was low and unique. Above her head flew beetles the size of small coins, their bodies shining with an iridescence that lit the space between us and let off a glow of heat.

"‘Course I came." I drew in closer to the warmth the beetles provided, gloved hands tucked under my arms.

Thick sable hair hung in a braid down her back. She'd come into her powers at thirty-seven winters young and hadn't aged a day beyond that, but she had the fixed and glaring mouth of a schoolmarm and a world-weariness that firmed her shoulders.

Quiet looked me over with her storm cloud eyes. A line formed between her brows. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what?" I ran a hand down the velvet that lined my coat and straightened my cravat, pushing the decorative pin out of sight. I'd known the pin was a touch too much. If I could blush, I would have. "I'm not—I'm just wearing clothes."

"Nice clothes."

"They're nothing." I'd wanted to make a better impression than the one I'd left her with before, that was all, but I couldn't come out and say that. I didn't want her to think about the last time we were together.

Turning, I put my shoulder to her to stop her inspection, eager for a topic that had nothing to do with the state of my dress. I should have known her clever eyes would pick up every detail like they always did, especially if the detail irritated me.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"It's like I told you in my note: there's been two murders. A witch from my coven and a vampire from yours. The Duke of . . ." She paused. She was probably about to call him the Duke of the Damned. I hated that vanity title, and she knew it. Perhaps it was a good sign that she faltered and said instead, "Alexander Harker, the Duke of Castleway. He's gone."

"I know."

She squinted at me. "How could you know? No one knows. It just happened last night. The bodies were only found this morning by the footman who reported it. The news hasn't even reached the papers yet."

"A constable came to my brownstone to inform next of kin. He caught me just as I was leaving to meet you here," I said.

Her eyes widened at that. "I hadn't realized."

"Alex was my cousin, but we didn't get on," I said, examining the gate. It was locked. Metal chains coiled like a fat snake around the middle pickets. The padlock was as big as my fist and equally imposing.

"If you're next of kin, does that mean—"

"Yes," I said impatiently. I, Liam Rorick, was now the Third Duke of Castleway. The duchy, as well as all twenty-two acres of farm and woodland surrounding the dreary castle, including multiple cemeteries and a tiny village of the same name, were now my burden.

She shuffled closer, trailed by the cluster of light beetles. Something clattered inside her spelled hat, and the tip of it drooped behind her. The wind changed, blowing her distinct scent under my nose. Images burst to life before my mind's eye: digging my fingers into topsoil, a pestle crushing herbs—green and fragrant—in the bottom of a stone mortar, hands brushing through wildflowers, a metallic blade slicing into the rind of a ripe orange.

On impulse I filled my lungs with her rich smell and my throat tightened. I swallowed hard to clear it. "If you mean to investigate, then I hope you've got a blacksmith's bolt cutters in that hat of yours." I kept my tone level, resisting the urge to rub at my neck. She'd know what I was thinking then.

"I am here to investigate, but I don't need bolt cutters." Quiet grabbed the front of my coat and tugged on it. "I brought a vampire."

I snorted at her. Her touch was light, but her intent weighed heavily on me. We weren't partners anymore. So much had been left unsaid between us, but when I opened my mouth and tried to address any one of those things, nothing of use came out. I gaped at her ineffectually. I probably looked like a carp.

"Don't play coy with me, Rorick. I know you can do it," she said, releasing my coat.

Of course, I could do it, but that didn't mean I'd enjoy it. Metals often went sharp as they ripped apart. My skin was tough but not impenetrable.

"Make one of your bugs do it," I said, shouting to be heard over the building gale.

The glowing insects flew in under the brim of her hat, taking their light and heat with them.

"Lower your voice," Quiet scolded. "Lightning beetles are shy."

Already exhausted by her company, I took hold of the padlock and pulled until the metal crunched like a stale piece of bread, breaking apart between my fingers. A jagged chunk ripped the palm of my glove. I unwound the chain and tossed the warped metal to the side. It disappeared beneath a blanket of snow.

"Come on then," I said gruffly, shoving through the gates. Metal screeched against metal, the sound sharp in my sensitive ears.

Quiet glided over the snow at my side. Her golden skirts and dark cloak were spelled like her hat. They floated just above the slush, protected from dirt and moisture. The shy bugs returned, illuminating the way, warming my side.

Useful little things.

Their mistress had been just as useful once. A witch who'd written the book on the arcane, she'd partnered with me on a number of my private cases before . . .

Before things happened that I'd rather not think about.

She pulled off her hat and dug inside it, arm vanishing up to her shoulder. She pushed around items that sounded as heavy as furniture. "There you are," she said to herself, pulling free a small leatherbound journal and the broken end of a charcoal pencil before dropping her hat back over her head. The pointed tip flopped behind her. Quiet opened the journal, scribbling as we walked.

I squinted at her. "What are you doing?"

"Taking notes on the case." She spoke without lifting her eyes off the page.

"About what in particular?" Indignation had my chest tightening. I sensed I wouldn't like her answer.

"Motive," she said wryly.

I stopped, and Quiet followed suit. Her pencil continued to scratch across the page, and I frowned at it. "Motive involving whom?"

Her hand finally stilled. She met my eyes over her journal defiantly. "Inheriting a dukedom is an excellent reason to bump someone off. I'd be a foolish investigator if I didn't at least make note of it."

I jerked my bowler hat down my brow with a grumbled growl, turning back for the castle. "You're just trying to goad me."

She hurried to catch up with me. "That's not all I'm trying to do. I—"

"I haven't murdered anyone, thank you very much, not that you even had the decency to ask me that outright." I had to admit that I deserved her ire, but I wasn't a bloody murderer. That was a low jab, even for her. "You're just being difficult. Prodding me on purpose the way you like to."

Quiet stomped after me. "I'm not difficult. I'll have you know there are plenty of individuals in my life who think I'm downright delightful."

I waved her words away. "If anyone called you delightful, they're either liars or they want something from you. And since when do you tolerate empty flattery?"

"If I were simply trying to irritate you, then it's no less than you deserve, but I'm not doing that—not only that. Not this time."

Though it was never far from my thoughts, the reminder of my betrayal stung sharply. I gritted my teeth, gums pulling back from my fangs. "You're investigating me. That's bad form after our history of cooperation. Despite the threat in your message, I thought you'd called me here as a partner."

"That is why I brought you here, you cantankerous old man! I knew this was your coven and I suspected I'd need your help, but I didn't know you were the next duke. How could I? Rorick is a common last name throughout the province, and you've never been very forthcoming when it comes to yourself or your family or really anything. Ever."

"Ha! You're the pot calling the kettle black now." I scoffed so loudly I startled the beetles into hiding again. "Incorrigible."

"Incorrigible when you're around maybe," she said through her teeth. "When you're not, I'm a ray of fucking sunshine!"

Slowing, I glanced over at her, taking in her all too familiar glower, the firmed mouth, the thunder brewing in her gaze. "These individuals who think you're delightful," I drawled, "are they beetles?"

Chest heaving under her cloak, her mouth thinned.

I didn't want to hear whatever hateful thing she fired back. Popping the collar of my coat to protect my ears from the wind—and her barbed retort—I returned to the hike.

A massive snowball crashed into the back of my head. Slush burst apart, knocking off my bowler. Bent at the knees, I saw glistening snow rain down around me. When the shock of it retreated, I snatched my hat out of a pile of powder and shook it dry.

Quiet stormed by, crunching snow under her boots so hotly it was a wonder the winter weather didn't all melt into a messy puddle beneath her. And what did she have to be so angry about? When did she start caring whether anyone liked her? I thought we had that in common.

From the gates, the entrance to the castle was a quarter-mile trek. We marched up the rest of the drive in silence. Eventually, the glowing bugs reemerged and the air warmed slightly. Horses whinnied from inside the nearby stables. Slick stone steps led to heavy oaken doors boasting a pewter knocker. The handle was shaped like a full moon flanked by plump flying fairies.

Quiet knocked aggressively, still angry as a hornet.

No one answered.

"Before we enter," I said, dusting more powder off my coat, "I need to know that I'm a private detective brought here to aid you. Not a suspect to be scrutinized and prodded at your leisure."

She lifted a dark brow. "You were the one who taught me not to exclude a suspect just because of my personal feelings about them."

"That goes both ways," I said. "You can't exclude people because you like them, and you shouldn't add them to the suspect pool just because you hate them."

"I didn't add you just because I hate you," she growled, her angry breaths misting before her. "I added you because you're now the Duke of the Damned, and although I used to be certain you'd trade all the wealth in the world for a simple life, a good puzzle, and a decent cigar, you've surprised me before."

"My entire personality hasn't changed just because I . . ." I couldn't finish the thought.

But I also didn't need to.

"You live alone," she retorted, rattling the knocker more fiercely than before. "Which means you won't have an alibi—"

"You don't know that!" My lip curled back.

"Fine then." She released the knocker to hook a hand on her hip. "Do you have an alibi for last night?"

"Well . . . no," I huffed.

She carried on like I'd never interrupted her. "You're strong enough to overpower another vampire. I've seen you do it before. Those gates and that horrid incline are rarely used, by the look of them. Clearly your cousin has an alternative route to come and go from Eckert to Purgatory City. As a member of his coven, you would know the route few others do. Motive and means. You have both."

My angry breaths were too cold and undead to create a mist. The confirmation of her hatred shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did. I'd been living with the suspicion of it for most of a year now. I was a fool for behaving as though I'd had the wind knocked out of me.

And I did know of a secret route, though I'd never used it before. I had no idea where to find the entrance to it in the ghastly place. Not a single one of my memories of the castle were pleasant or helpful. My cousin had been full of secrets and confided in no one.

And frankly, I hated Quiet right back! She thought of me as a monster and took every opportunity to remind me of what I was. It should come as no surprise that she immediately assumed I was capable of murdering Alex and some innocent witch.

"Suit yourself then," I snapped, voice low and rough. I knew a lost cause when I saw one. "I got you in through the gates. You can investigate on your bloody own. I'm through."

I lumbered back down the steps. She didn't even try to stop me, and that felt annoyingly like my fault.

I did this to us.

The unwelcomed truth stung, as sharp and unexpected as a wasp sting. I wouldn't admit it to her though. Not out loud. Not even for a good cigar, the perfect puzzle, and a great tip on an illegal boxing match between my favorite underground heavyweights.

With the keen eyes of a preternatural predator, I could see the gates in the distance. Our earlier footprints had already been buried by fresh snowfall that glittered in the moonlight. The drive was empty.

"Hell's bite," I murmured.

The carriage had abandoned me.