12. Winnie
CHAPTER TWELVE
WINNIE
Mum: Winifred, you’d be so proud of me! Ken from next door came over and apologised about the magazines, but he said he thought I needed to have a tidy up, so I sat down and sorted through some boxes and I took a bag to the charity shop today. The house looks so much better. I can’t wait for you to see it!
Ken wants me to get rid of your old dolls, but of course he’s a man so he doesn’t understand about saving things for the grandkids! When am I getting grandkids? You need to start work on that ASAP. I’m not going to be around forever!
“ R eginald, what do I do if I need to go to the village?” I ask on Wednesday evening as Reginald hurries into the kitchen from outside, stomping his muddy boots on the rug. Mirabelle dashes past his feet and leaps onto the counter beside me.
After the police left yesterday, Lord Valerian and I worked until past midnight. A nightmare woke me at 5 AM, but I managed to finish another book before falling asleep again, and I didn’t get up until 1 PM today. We finished sorting the office, moving the terrarium to a nice display table and leaving everything in piles ready for when my shelves and containers arrive, and we moved on to the ballroom, which is a much bigger task. We need to clear away the tapestries before we can even think about moving the loom. It’s going to take the strength of all three of us to shift around those heavy bastards. I’m grateful for the distraction of the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven meeting tonight so I can put it off as long as possible.
“Why would you need to go to the village?” Reginald frowns at the empty plate in my hands. “Have I not been feeding you properly? Is there some comfort you require that I have neglected?”
He looks so distressed that I feel guilty.
“Everything you’ve done for me is wonderful.” I take a bite of one of the berry tarts he left for me in this morning’s breakfast spread. Honestly, Regional’s food has been amazing. Alaric and I sat beside the fire again last night and Reginald brought me an incredible venison stew. Once again, Lord Valerian didn’t eat a single thing. “It’s only that I’ve been invited to a book club at Nevermore Bookshop this evening, and I thought that sounded like fun.”
Reginald makes a face like he stepped in something foul. “Is that Isis Meriwether’s coven?”
“It’s a book club. I think she’s a member, yes.” The redhead was named Isis, I remember.
“How have you been in Argleton only four days and you’re already mixed up with Isis Meriwether and her ilk?”
“Are they the village bad girls? Do they ride in cars with boys and wear skintight leather cigarette pants?”
Reginald doesn’t seem to realise I’m joking. “They’re not evil , merely troublesome.”
“Okay, then.”
“Troublesome is far worse.”
“How so?”
“They have a reputation in the village – Isis runs the local magic emporium and is convinced that every strange happening is linked to the supernatural, and Mina Wilde who owns Nevermore Bookshop fancies herself an amateur sleuth. She’s put more murderers behind bars than the entire Loamshire police force, and they’re none too happy about it. Some people say that Beth Duncan’s tinctures and treatments are magical, although I think it’s a load of codswallop. Komal Ahuja has her finger in every committee in the village, and she flies helicopters for a living. I don’t trust people who don’t have two feet firmly on the ground.” He stomps his boots for emphasis. “And the less said about Arabella Lestrange, the better, because that woman is terrifying. The only sensible one amongst them is Isis’ sister, Dora.”
“Wow.” That’s the most Reginald had ever said in a single conversation. “You really don’t like them.”
“You may think that you’re attending an innocent book club, Ms. Preston, but you’ll soon find yourself sneaking about the village at all hours, spying on suspects and conducting naked rituals in the forest.” Reginald sighs. “Of course, I’ll be happy to drive you to the village. I’ll pick you up again when your book club finishes.”
“I don’t want you to have to go all the way just for me. Is there a car I could borrow? One that was built after the last world war?”
“I won’t hear of you driving this dangerous road by yourself. It’s my job to make sure you’re comfortable during your stay, and if that means taking you into the village so you can become Isis Meriwether’s latest project, then so be it.”
I beam. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Now I’m even more curious about the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven.
My ride arranged, I head into the ballroom to continue sorting Alaric’s junk into various piles. I dump yet another slightly crooked sword onto a towering pile.
Why does a man require so many swords?
And what’s with all the crucifixes? Alaric doesn’t strike me as a religious type, but every time I move something in this house, I come up with another crucifix. I’ve been tossing them into a bucket for him to sort through when he wakes up.
As I work and sing along with Iggy Pop at the top of my lungs, I find myself glancing at the doorway, hoping that Alaric will wake early. I set aside several items that I want to discuss with him. But he doesn’t appear until the sun falls beneath the horizon, and when he shows himself?—
“Good evening, Ms. Preston.”
“Good even—” I turn to the door and my words catch in my throat.
Alaric stands beneath the gothic arched doorway, clad only in a pair of his tight, impeccably-tailored trousers and his high leather boots. His upper torso is naked, gleaming with beads of water that roll down the kind of perfectly chiselled alabaster chest that would have Michelangelo’s David reaching for the kettlebells. The only dent in his perfection is a white scar that extends from beneath his left armpit.
He flicks a wet curl from his forehead and regards me with those dark eyes, pressing his lips together as the corner of his mouth quirks up in what might’ve been a lordly smirk if Alaric Valerian were capable of such things.
Maybe he is. There’s a warmth at the edge of his coal-dark eyes I haven’t noticed before.
He tilts his head to the side, regarding me as I struggle to put out the fire in my ovaries. “Winifred, are you quite okay?”
“I…um…forgot…what I was going to say.” I run my hands through my hair, searching for a coherent thought. “Why are you damp?”
“I begin my evenings with a swim.” He rubs his hair, and I try not to drool. “There is a path down to a beautiful spot I like to go. I could show you?—”
“I never learned to swim,” I blurt out.
Wait, why did I say that?
Because he’s standing there all naked and wet and perfect, that’s why.
“You cannot swim?” He looks confused. “Everyone should learn to swim. It’s a basic survival skill.”
“I don’t disagree. But at my school, you needed a parent to sign a consent form before you could have swimming lessons. My mother took the form from me and said that of course, she’d sign it, she wanted me to enjoy swimming with my friends. But then the permission slip disappeared somewhere and when I reminded her about it, she said that she’d get to it, that she’d already handed it in, that I wasn’t to worry. I asked my father, but it made him angry. ‘I can’t believe she’d lose something so important.’ I hid under my covers with my fingers in my ears while they had a huge fight. All because of me and my swimming. So I didn’t ask again. I didn’t hand in a permission form, so I had to sit in the bleachers and do worksheets while my class had swimming lessons. That was the last fight they ever had because my father left the next week?—”
I snap my mouth shut. I can’t believe I said all that. I’ve never, ever spoken about my parents to anyone except Claire. I’ve barely known Alaric and here I am spilling one of my most horrific secrets.
Blame my feisty ovaries. Blame Patrick’s parting words about me being too boring and predictable. Blame the beautiful damp man standing before me.
“I understand, Ms. Preston,” he says. “I too have a difficult mother, as you may discover if you are still here when she arrives.”
“Winnie,” I say. “Please, call me Winnie.”
“I’ll call you Winnie if you call me Alaric.”
“But you have a fancy title. If I had a fancy title, I’d make everyone use it.”
“Would you like a fancy title?” The corner of his mouth quirks again. “I believe I have the power to bestow them. Would you like to be ‘Empress Winifred, Lady of Light and Laughter and Terrible Music,’ or perhaps, ‘Grand Poobah of the Clutter Castle.’”
“You are ridiculous.”
“The Very Very Reverend Winifred, Mistress of the Storage Containers.”
“Stop!”
“Galactic Czarina Winifred? Witchfinder General Winnie?” He taps his chin. “I’m certain there is a title that will convey all of your beauty and brilliance…”
“Just Winnie! Please!” My stomach hurts from laughing. “Alaric.”
At the sound of his name on my lips, both corners of his mouth crick up into an unmistakable grin. I catch a flash of perfect white teeth before he wipes the smile off his face and strides towards me, all seriousness. “Winnie, I hope you haven’t been waiting for me too long. I’m eager to begin our work.”
The way he says this, his eyes locked on mine with the same raw intensity he usually reserves for his arm, makes me self-consciously check that I definitely, absolutely remembered to put clothes on this morning.
What is it about being around him that makes me feel naked, like he can see through my skin?
I swallow, running my fingers over my shirt buttons and totally, definitely not thinking about what his long fingers would feel like unbuttoning them. “You’ll be working by yourself tonight. Reginald is taking me into the village for a book club.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Are you certain it’s wise to go out by yourself? With the murderer still on the loose?”
I swallow. “You don’t need to worry about me. I won’t be by myself. I’ll be in a room with several other women armed with books.”
“Books may be wonderful, magical receptacles of knowledge, but they can’t protect you from a killer.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I grin. “If that killer dares to crash our book club, they’ll suffer death by a thousand paper cuts. I’d like you to sort out these crucifixes.”
“Done. They can all go. They’re Gideon’s idea of a joke. He likes to hide them around the castle for me to find.”
“Gideon?”
Alaric doesn’t elaborate. I wave my hands at the pile of swords.
“Can these go, too? You have a whole gallery of stabbing in the entrance hall. You can get rid of these imperfect ones. Maybe there’s a local museum or re-enactment group who’d like them.”
Alaric glares at the pile of broken, warped, and bent swords as though he only just noticed it.
His body stiffens. The warmth in his eyes flickers out, replaced by the chill of a galaxy dying.
“I…” he swallows. His shoulders slump. He looks so lost .
“I mean, keep the ones you like.” I hold up a thin blade with a bunch of glittering rubies embedded in the hilt. Are those real? Is it normal to have a bunch of expensive jewels stuck in a sword? “But like this one is all bent. Do you need to keep the bent ones?”
Alaric takes the sword from me. “Mortimer’s Cross,” he murmurs.
Mortimer’s Cross? Why is that name so familiar? Isn’t that a famous battle?
Alaric has been so decisive with his belongings up until now. But he stares at the sword in his hands, lost to a memory that renders him as stone.
“Alaric,” I say. “Did you make these swords?”
He nods.
“Years ago, I built a forge in one of the outbuildings,” he says woodenly. “You don’t want to go in there. I surrendered it to the spiders. They are the forge overlords now.”
Even that doesn’t explain his reaction. Alaric is so critical of the things he makes, that he’s consigned many of his projects to the rubbish pile for the smallest imperfections. But these swords are hard for him.
I move beside him, reaching out to touch his arm. He shrinks away, collapsing into himself.
Shame burns in my chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were important to you. You should keep them.”
Alaric shakes his head. “You’re right, they are broken, useless things. Toss them all.”
He turns his head away from me, his shoulders trembling.
“You’re allowed to keep them,” I swallow, upset with myself that I’d made him feel like this. “It’s okay if you’re not ready to part with these things.”
The sword falls through his fingers. Alaric turns back to me, his chin raised, eyes clear and cold. “I wish them gone. I shall have them removed by the time you return tonight, with the exception of this.” Alaric draws a long, curved blade from the pile. “Take this with you. For protection.”
“And put it where? Drat my luck, I left my sword-concealing pants back in London.”
Alaric tosses the blade over his shoulder and picks out a short dagger. “This one, then.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never carried a weapon around before. What if I sit on it and accidentally eviscerate myself?”
“Please, Winnie. It would ease my mind.”
I can’t refuse him a thing after I upset him, especially not when those onyx eyes are brightening again.
“Fine.”
As I reach out to take the blade from him, my hand brushes his finger.
Alaric’s skin is exactly as I remember – cool to the touch, impossibly smooth and soft. I put the coolness down to wandering the halls of this huge, drafty castle after his swim, and the fact that I’ve been working beside the fire for a few hours and must be much warmer.
Alaric’s eyes burn into mine. He doesn’t draw his hand away.
No.
What am I doing?
He’s a client. He’s technically my boss. And I’ve already made a complete fool of myself in front of him.
I close my fingers around the hilt of the blade and drop it into my tote. “Thank you for the knife. I’ll see you when I get home.”
An hour later, I leave Alaric in the ballroom tossing even more swords into the growing rubbish pile, and huddle beneath the portcullis, wrapping my arms tight around my body as the wind howls through the ancient stones. The car huffs and burbles as Reginald brings it around. I climb in, bracing myself for the drive into the village.
“Reginald?”
“Yes, Ms. Preston?”
“Alaric is throwing out his swords.”
“Yes.” Reginald’s hands on the wheel are white.
“Can you make sure they don’t end up in the skip? Hide them in a cupboard or something. I have an idea.”
“As you like, Ms. Preston.”
By the time we pull up in front of the bakery at the top of Butcher Street, I’m a human limpet from holding on for dear life. I manage to unjellify my legs enough to slide out of the ungainly vehicle, and Reginald gives me his mobile number and says that he’ll be having dinner at the Rose & Wimple, and to call him when I’m done.
I walk along, listening to the sounds of merriment from the pub across the village green and thinking about the poor guy who got murdered the same night I was moaning into the mouth of my future boss.
Lights blaze through the windows of Nevermore Bookshop. In the gloom, the building appears even more strange – the different architectural styles piled on top of each other as if the building is caught in some kind of temporal rift (Patrick was a big Doctor Who fan. He thought the Doctor would enjoy his favourite Riesling). Some of the windows are stacked so high with books that I can’t see inside, and the same black cat prowls along the main windowsill, glaring at me in the way cats do when you’re certain they’re cursing you but really they’re just inspecting your pockets for possible treats.
I step up to the door, but stop when I notice the CLOSED sign pasted angrily across the mottled glass window.
Oh no. Maybe I have the wrong night?
“Croak.”
“Who’s that?” I glance all around, but there’s no one else on the street, except…
A large, black raven sits on a planter filled with dead flowers next to the door, peering at me with large, fire-rimmed eyes.
“Croak?” The raven inclines his head toward the door.
“I’m here for the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven,” I tell him. “But I think I might have the wrong night. The shop’s closed.”
Why am I talking to a bird?
The raven flaps his wings and flies at the door. He grabs the corner of the sign with his beak and flips it over.
The other side also says CLOSED.
“Oh.”
The raven grips the handle in its talons and yanks sharply. The door swings open, revealing the long, narrow hallway. Someone has turned on all the lamps and fairy lights that line the shelves, so the hallway glitters like the entrance to a fae realm. The raven swoops down the hallway and disappears around the corner, croaking at the top of its lungs. From somewhere deeper in the shop, I can hear voices and laughter.
“Hello?” I call out.
“Winnie, is that you?”
Mina and her guide dog appear around the corner. The raven is sitting on Mina’s shoulder. Am I imagining it, or does that bird look smug?
“Quoth told me you were here.” Mina pets the raven’s head. It nuzzles her hand, making a nyuh-nyuh-nyuh sound in the back of its throat. She beckons me to follow her. “I’m so happy you made it. We thought we’d scared you off.”
“Nope, but I did get confused by the closed sign on the door.”
“Sorry about that. That’s my husband Heathcliff’s idea of a joke. Or maybe it isn’t. He doesn’t like customers, which I understand is a silly thing for someone who runs a bookshop, but that’s Heathcliff – a master of contradictions.” Mina leads me through the main room I’d seen last time. “Come on through. This is my guide dog, Oscar. We’re almost all here now. Arabella is late, but nothing else is new.”
Mina pushes open a door and leads me into a large event space. The walls are hung with impressive artwork. I recognise scenes from popular books like Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Grimm’s Fairy Tales. This is the room I could see from the street, but as my eyes adjust to the twinkling of even more fairy lights, I realise that what I thought was a hexagonal turret is actually a pentagram shape, which strikes me as unusually irregular for Victorian architecture, but what do I know? That part of the room is mostly in shadow, and the turret contains only a lumpy object on some kind of plinth, covered with a purple cloth. A couple of bookshelves in the opposite corner display a small selection of romance and fantasy novels, and the rest of the space is taken up with a circle of mismatched chairs, an overstuffed Chesterfield, and several beanbags arranged around a table groaning under the weight of cakes, sandwiches and open wine bottles.
Several women around my age already occupy the seats, steaming cups of tea or glasses of wine in their hands, and books scattered about their feet.
“Winnie, you came!” Isis leaps to her feet and throws her arms around me. She’s wearing a red cottagecore dress with bell sleeves that’s covered in a print of what looks suspiciously like poisonous plants. She has purple streaks in her hair now that perfectly match the purple lumpy thing in the corner. “Have you read this week’s book? We’re discussing Butcher & Blackbird by Brynne Weaver. it’s Komal’s pick. That girl may look innocent, but she can’t get enough of dark romance.”
“Sorry not sorry,” pipes up Komal. She flips her long plait of shimmering dark hair over her shoulder. “I always crush on the villains.”
“Me too,” I say, daring a smile that I hope doesn’t wobble too much from nerves.
“Take my word for it, you wouldn’t want to be married to them,” Mina pipes up. “Fictional villains may leave your enemies eviscerated and your knees weak, but they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
The women laugh. I force a smile, knowing that it’s a private joke between established friends that I won’t understand. Perhaps they’re simply poking fun at Mina’s husband being named Heathcliff after literature’s swooniest gothic villain from Wuthering Heights.
Personally, I’m more of a Dracula-stan. Maybe I’ve duelled with London property prices too long, but I love a man who owns his own castle.
Although, my infatuation might have something to do with my present living situation.
“Next week’s book is something more lighthearted, although just as spicy. And there’s lots of juicy murder.” Isis tosses me a paperback called Lords of Pain by Angel Lawson and Samantha Rue. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
Isis sweeps her arm around the room, indicating each member of the club. “You’ve already met Mina and her dog Oscar. He’s the only man allowed in our club.”
“Croak!” the raven protests from its perch above the chamber door.
Isis rolls her eyes. “Apart from Quoth, of course. Although a little word to the wise, whatever you do, don’t quote any Poe around him. He doesn’t like it.”
I peer at the raven with renewed interest. “What does he do if you quote Poe?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.” Isis makes a face and everyone laughs again. Even the raven makes his nyuh-nyuh-nyuh sound. “Next to Mina is Maisie Collins. She’s a reporter for the Argleton Gazette and the best Aunt Sally player in the county. Then there’s my sister, Pandora?—”
“—Just Dora—” Isis’ sister mumbles, pulling her blanket tighter around herself. I see the family resemblance. Both Meriwether sisters have a wild tumble of red hair and heart-shaped faces with huge, pale blue eyes. But while Isis bounces around the room with her loud clothing and even louder voice, Dora looks as though she longs to fade into the woodwork, swimming in a scratchy-looking jumper that’s as cosy as it is unfashionable.
She’s also the only woman in the room apart from Mina wearing a wedding ring.
“Fine, just Dora. Just Dora works with me at Spell The Tea – the best magical shop in all of England. And she hates every minute of it, but with Mum gone, I need the help. Next to my gloomy sis is Celeste Lucas. She’s the village baker, owner of Glazed and Confused at the top of Butcher Street, and provider of most of our fabulous spread. But be careful around her – she’s like a drug pusher for sugary goodness.”
“Lovely to meet you, Winnie. You must try the peanut butter cookies. And the honeycomb and white chocolate doughnuts.” As Celeste shoves a platter under my nose, the fairy lights highlight bright red streaks in her short, textured brown bob.
I take a doughnut, but leave the cookies alone. Peanut butter still turns my stomach.
“And last but not least is Beth Duncan, the village beautician and yoga instructor.” Mina gestures at the standing lamp next to the fresh-faced blonde who is setting down a platter of muffins.
“And soon-to-be pole dance instructor.” Beth sweeps her strawberry blonde hair off her shoulder and glares at all the ladies in the room. “And once I’m certified, you ladies better sign up for my first class or half-price facials at Zen and Tonic will be going the way of the dinosaurs.”
“I’m allergic to exercise,” Dora mumbles.
“Count me in!” Komal reaches for a muffin. “I want to learn how to twist myself into a human pretzel for fun. Plus, it might be good for tourism. You should do a demonstration at the Midsummer Festival. That is if Augustin Durant doesn’t veto it like he does every other one of my ideas.”
“I think Mina gets enough time swinging around poles already, what with her three husbands,” Isis teases.
Did I just hear that right? Three husbands? But that’s…not possible. It must be another one of those inside jokes.
I find myself wishing that I was sticking around long enough to get all the inside jokes. Because of what Claire did, I don’t have anyone to share in-jokes with anymore…
You don’t want to stay in Argleton. That’s just your broken heart talking. You have a plan. Save the money from this job so you can get your own flat, and figure out what you’re going to do with your life ? —
“Ew. Beth. ” Komal scrunches up her face. “What’s in this muffin, apart from sadness?”
“They’re made with sprouted mung beans, ashwagandha, reishi, lion’s mane, and I mixed in a quinton shot for foundational vitamins and gut health.”
“It tastes like a hate crime.”
Beth bounces to her feet in that energetic way that fit people have that instantly makes you feel as if you should sit up straighter. She embraces me warmly. “I’m so happy you felt called to join our coven, Winnie. If you don’t mind me saying, you look a little puffy around the eyes and you’re holding a lot of tension in your body. You should stop in at my clinic next time you’re in the village – I have just the supplement regime to help. All natural, of course, and the first treatment free for new book club members?—”
“Omigod, Beth, let the girl sit down before you start selling her on your magical mushrooms,” Isis laughs.
“Although, seriously, Beth is the best.” Celeste touches her cheek. “I go hiking a lot, and because of the harsh weather, my skin was starting to resemble a cartographical map. Two treatments of Beth’s new skin serum and my cheeks look like a baby’s bottom again.”
“I’ll consider it, but I’m only in the village for three weeks. My client needs me to finish the job before his family visits. I’m a professional organiser,” I explain. “Usually, I work in London with high-end clients and lifestyle influencers, but sometimes I travel wherever the mess takes me.”
“Nevermore Bookshop must give you hives.” Dora frowns at the piles of books, teacups, and raven feathers on the floor.
“I resent that.” Mina places a device over the edge of an empty wine glass and pours the wine. The device beeps when the liquid is a centimetre from the top, and Mina stops pouring. “This place is organised chaos. You should have seen it before I moved in. It was chaos chaos. Wine, Winnie?”
I take the glass and settle into a beanbag between Isis and Mina. “This place is a Scandinavian library compared to my client’s house. He’s a Renaissance man with more hobbies and artistic pursuits than he could squeeze into one lifetime, which is making my life interesting. Speaking of which, does anyone know of a local crew who might be able to help me move a loom?”
Isis and Komal exchange a look.
“Isis tells us that your client is Lord Valerian?” Celeste accidentally-on-purpose knocks Beth’s muffin off her plate onto the floor. The raven swoops down to polish it off before Beth notices.
“Yes. His butler, Reginald, drove me in this evening. Lord Valerian lives so far out of the village and he has so much stuff that I’m staying at Black Crag Castle until the job is done.”
The entire room falls silent.
“You’re…living at Lord Valerian’s castle?” Isis’ eyes are two huge blue saucers. “Is that wise?”
“It’s better than driving that winding road every day, and Alaric—er, Lord Valerian is a perfect gentleman.” I blush when I think about the kiss at the pub. “It’s not a normal client relationship, but under the circumstances, I don’t think I’m?—”
“I mean on account of he’s a vampire.”
The girls fall silent.
Komal shoots Isis a disapproving look.
Are they teasing me? Because if I believed in things like vampires, I could see why they’d think ? —
“Isis, don’t take the piss,” Dora harrumphs.
Oh, they are teasing me.
“Lord Valerian’s definitely a bloodsucker,” says Beth with a laugh, licking her lips. “And a sexy one at that.”
“He’s straight out of one of our romance novels.” Komal holds up a paranormal romance with a smokin’ hot, dark-haired, coal-eyed vampire on the cover. I squint. The character does look a little like Alaric…
“He can sample my O negative any time he likes…” says Beth.
I think we should change the subject,” says Mina.
“Let’s review the facts.” Isis checks off her fingers. “Brooding features and mysterious past, check. Gothic castle far from prying eyes, check. Never seen in the village before nightfall, check.”
“Never?”
“Never.” Maisie shakes her head. “Recently, he’s been having a drink at the pub in the evenings. Mostly we just see his butler picking up supplies.”
“He hasn’t attended any of my yoga classes,” Beth says. “So I can’t confirm if he has a reflection.”
“Once, he and his butler came into the market when I was buying booze,” says Celeste. “He got frustrated because the automatic doors wouldn’t register him. Perhaps sensors don’t work on vampires?”
“Those doors are always finicky.” Isis wags her finger. “Once they wouldn’t let me in even when I was dancing right in front of them.”
“I think that was because you were stoned, Isis.”
Isis rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t stoned. I was channelling the Goddess.”
“I’ve never seen him eat,” I say.
I regret my words the moment I speak them. Alaric’s habits are his private business, and as much as I like these women and their silliness, I shouldn’t be speaking about a client with them. I’m acting like I’m in college and trying to get in with the cool girls.
“He doesn’t eat?” Isis slaps her thighs. “What did I tell you? That’s a classic sign of vampirism. Only blood sustains him.”
“I don’t think he’s a vampire,” I say. “He’s just eccentric.”
And brilliant. And funny. And with an arse so fine, Geralt of Rivia comes to him for workout tips.
Maisie reaches across and squeezes Mina’s knee. Something is going on here that I don’t understand.
“You know…a few months ago, the Argleton Village Tourism Board commissioned a special interest piece in the paper about castles in the area,” Maisie says.
“I told you, tourists love castles. At least that’s one idea of mine that Counsellor Durant couldn’t disagree with.” Komal munches on her second doughnut. No one has touched Beth’s muffins. “Castles are like the medieval equivalent of hugging a koala. We don’t have any cuddly animals except for foxes, and foxes are dicks. So we should be showcasing our cuddly castles as much as possible.”
“Yes, thank you, Ms. Tourism Board Chair. So, anyway, I had to go through the archives to find photographs of Black Crag to include. I found a portrait of the Lord Valerian from 1798. He looks exactly like your boss. Like, it’s uncanny. I’ll show you.” Maisie whips out her phone and scrolls through her images. “Here.”
I stare at the scanned newspaper article, pinching my fingers to zoom in on the grainy picture.
Okay, so that stuffy old lord does look an awful lot like Alaric, and if I didn’t know better, I swear he’s wearing the same coat Alaric wore the night we met at the pub. If I didn’t know it was a painting from the 1700s, I’d swear that was him.
This is weird.
“That’s Alaric’s ancestor,” I say. “It makes sense that there would be some family resemblance.”
“There’s family resemblance and then there’s ‘I’ve haunted this castle for three centuries without the love of a human woman and now I have the sweet, innocent organiser trapped in the tower,’” Maisie says.
“I’m not trapped in the tower. And he gave me a fancy candelabra so I can run away in the night if I need to, just like this lady.” I hand Maisie back her phone and point to one of the novels on the floor, whose cover shows a woman in a flower white nightgown, clutching a candelabra and fleeing in terror from a creepy manor. “Besides, he can’t be a vampire. I keep finding crucifixes everywhere, and his butler loves cooking with garlic.”
Another odd look is exchanged between the women. Mina makes a slashing motion across her throat.
“Vampire or not, there is something about those old-fashioned clothes he wears,” Beth pipes up.
“And that something is sexy,” adds Komal.
“Agreed,” I say, and instantly want to clamp my hand over my mouth.
What has got into me?
Dora glares at everyone. “Remember, there’s nothing sexy about vampires who murder innocent men.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Komal slaps her knee. “Of course, you’re not on the book club group chat. We’ll have to remedy that. And if Alaric is the murderer, he wouldn’t exactly tell you about it. I found Danny O’Hare’s body behind the Rose & Wimple the other day, and he’d was last seen alive the night before having an altercation with Alaric over a woman.”
That’s me. The woman is me.
My stomach lurches, even though I haven’t had any sprouted mung bean muffins. That’s why the police were so on guard when they questioned Alaric. “Just because Alaric was talking to this guy doesn’t mean he murdered him. I don’t know, obviously , but maybe he was helping this mystery girl? Maybe the dead guy was bothering her and Alaric shooed him away.”
With his lips.
His cool, kissable lips that I’m absolutely, definitely not thinking about right now…
My hand flies to the small graze on my neck where his teeth scraped my skin.
“We did see Alaric in the pub that night,” Isis exclaims. “He was looking all broody at the bar with his glass of red wine. He’s been coming in to the pub a bit lately.”
“He could be the murderer!” Beth exclaims.
“Alaric isn’t the murderer,” Dora flashes Isis a look. “Remember? You had that vision which showed you it couldn’t possibly be him.”
“Oh, yes! That’s right.” Isis’ face twists into an unreadable expression. “Alaric’s not the murderer. I know because I am a skilled psychic. I just…forgot before. Winnie’s right – he was probably just shooing Danny away.”
“I’d believe that version of events,” Maisie says. “Danny O’Hare was a local builder, sort of a jack-of-all-trades, and he practically had his own barstool down at the Rose & Wimple. He was also a first-class wanker. Every woman in this room has had to fend off his overzealous advances. And two days ago, the same day that we met you, Komal found his body in the alley beside the pub, dead as a doornail and completely exsanguinated.”
Isis gasps. “That’s the horrifying murder fact you wanted to tell us? That wasn’t in your article in the paper! If a vampire is running about, sucking people dry, then the village should know about it.”
“I can’t write that the murder was committed by a vampire,” Maisie says. “Don’t you remember last time we had a vampire murder and the whole village went nuts stealing holy water from the church and keeping stakes in their handbags?”
Mina sinks lower in her chair.
“Wait a second,” I say. “A vampire murder has happened before?”
“It turned out to have a rational explanation,” Mina mumbles. “I’m sure this will, too. Right, Maisie?”
“Right. But it is all very strange. The police are stumped. Whoever the killer was, they somehow managed to follow Danny down that narrow alley and make it back past all the patrons at the pub without being seen by a single eyewitness from the pub.”
“That’s because the killer turned into a bat and flew in to make the kill.”
“Isis, the killer isn’t a vampire,” Dora huffs.
“Then explain how Danny ended up with his veins drunk dry?” Isis’ eyes dance. “I’m telling you, ladies, we have a real bloodsucker in town and if it isn’t Winnie’s boss?—”
“Don’t tell me, Isis is banging on about her vampire theories again?” a bored voice coos.
Everyone’s heads turn towards the door, where an impossibly tall and elegant woman stands. She has the silken black hair and flawless dark skin of a twenty-one-year-old film star and the haughty air of a widow who pushed her husband down the stairs and got away with it.
Isis sticks her tongue out at the newcomer, who sweeps into the room like some ancient courtesan, rolls her eyes at Isis, and flops down dramatically on the one remaining beanbag, legs akimbo.
“How are you this evening, Arabella?” Isis asks, a hint of sarcasm dripping into her voice.
Arabella – perfect name – shrugs her elegant shoulders. “New liver, same eagles.”
I gape at her. “Did you just make a Prometheus reference?”
Arabella smirks at me. “Hello, new girl. You’re going to fit in perfectly. Yes, I’ve had a terrible headache from dealing with lawyers and bankers all day, and that’s before I’ve even started my evening client meetings. I have no patience for Isis’ mad theories.”
“Arabella is our resident vampire expert,” Isis explains. “She’s one of the few humans they trust to keep their secret because she’s helping them to invest their centuries of inherited wealth so they can become even richer assholes with devastating good looks?—”
“Isis!” Mina, Komal, Maisie, and Dora snap at the same time.
“Right, er…” Isis shrinks in her seat. “I mean, I’m sure Arabella’s clients are lovely and not murderers at all.”
“I not here to discuss my clients,” Arabella huffs. “I come for one reason only – the smut . I for one enjoyed this chilling dark romance, although I don’t think the serial killers were as imaginative as they could have been. There was a distinct lack of things shoved underneath fingernails, and no one got beheaded with a rusty sword?—”
As Arabella leads the group in a lively discussion about Butcher & Blackbird , I glance around the room at these lively, friendly women and find myself wishing that I were here for longer than three weeks. My gaze lands on that purple cloth in the pentagonal turret. What’s it hiding? Why is it?—
What’s that?
In the window behind the purple cloth, obscured by shadow, is the outline of a face.
Someone’s watching us.
“Hey, Isis, can you see that?” I nudge her just as she pulls her arm back to throw a muffin at Beth.
“What?”
By the time Isis turns around, the face is gone.