Chapter 15 #2
“I’m not sure that’s in the spirit of the thing.
” Arthur didn’t understand everything there was to know about their curse, but he did know that most of the rules around vampiric existence had been set forth by fae, notorious for their legalese.
In fact, he was fairly certain it was the fae who’d first invented such standard practices as fine print and terms and conditions.
Messing with a fae curse was tempting fate in more ways than one.
Salvatore just shrugged. “I mean, the vibe is right.”
“And we’re comfortable relying on vibes?” Arthur made a face. “It’s not exactly the most enthusiastic reply…not very potent with welcoming energy.”
“Mm, yes, the LaCroix of invitations.”
“If you end up powerless and fatigued because of this, you’ll have to find someone else to nurse you back to health,” Arthur grumbled.
“Why, Arthur. That’s not very husbandly of you. What happened to for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and all that?”
Arthur sniffed. “No, I don’t mean it like that—I mean because I’m coming with you. We’ll both be out of commission if this goes awry. So, are you sure?”
Salvatore shrugged. “No.” Then he turned the handle. Arthur expected it to be locked, but he supposed if anyone could live the small-town dream of a community where locked doors weren’t required, it would be a werewolf.
As Sal pushed the door open, darkness and silence met them on the other side. Arthur pressed a finger to his lips and Salvatore nodded before taking Arthur’s hand in his and stepping across the threshold.
Nothing happened. There was no electric shock, no immediate energy crash, nothing.
Arthur blinked, taking in Theodore’s living room with his excellent vampiric night vision, which remained unaffected by entering the house with only the barest hint of invitation. His gaze traveled over a mauve sofa, a TV mounted to the wall, bookshelves, a weirdly lumpy armchair—
The lamp beside the armchair clicked on, revealing Theodore himself sitting there in a matching set of corgi-print pajamas, face blank as he stared at them. There was a tray with a teapot and three cups beside him, all of them steaming.
“Oh,” Salvatore said breezily, “this isn’t where we parked our bike. Sorry for the mistake, we’ll be going now.”
“Come in, have some lavender tea,” Theodore said. “I insist.” His tone left no room for argument.
If he really was an attempted murderer, they had to tread carefully or risk becoming his next victims.
“Well, if you’re inviting us, I suppose we can’t say no.” Sal slowly lowered himself to the ground from his two-inch hover.
“I thought I already invited you.” Theodore waved his own cell phone, screen bright.
“I, well, we certainly didn’t—” Arthur began.
“It’s fine.” Theodore chuckled. Maybe that was a good sign. “I heard you bickering through the door.”
Arthur was about to protest—bickering was hardly the word for it—but Theodore gestured him toward the sofa and offered him a bluebell-patterned teacup.
Arthur was many things, but impolite was rarely one of them, so he sat and accepted the beverage, but didn’t drink. After all, it might be poisoned. “I can explain—”
“You don’t have to.” Theodore stood and rummaged for something in the corner of the room. “I could hear you through the door, remember?”
“Is it true that werewolves have exceptional hearing even when they’re not in wolf form?” Salvatore asked coolly.
“Are vampires all very good at basic math?”
“Of course not! I’m bisexual!” Salvatore exclaimed.
“Does one stereotype cancel out the other?” Theodore returned to the light, carrying a pile of clothes.
“Never mind. The point is, I didn’t need supernatural hearing.
You’re both extraordinarily loud stalkers.
If I was on the fence before about whether or not you’d murdered the mayor, this seals the deal.
Neither of you is stealthy enough to take down a sloth, let alone a conscious adult human. ”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Arthur deadpanned. “Now, what about you?”
“Look for yourself.” Theodore laid a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, and a Big Bad Brew T-shirt on the armchair. Wrinkled and worn they might have been, but there was no bloodstain in sight.
“You could have washed them,” Arthur pointed out. “Or swapped them out for clean alternatives.”
Theodore leaned on the back of the armchair and sighed. “I guess I can see how my showing up soon after you found Brody is suspicious, but it’s no more suspicious than the two of you looking for the kid all day, only to find him near death.”
Arthur glared. “We’re not the ones whose store he was tagging. You have more motive than we do.”
“For the record, I never thought it was you,” Salvatore said. “I was just playing along with Arthur’s fantasy.”
Arthur spluttered. “Fantasy?”
“You know, that you’re the hero of some enemies-to-lovers romance with Theo here, your dashing business rival.”
“Be serious, Sal,” Arthur said, mortified. If he’d been capable of blushing, his face would be beet red by now. “I’m not, it isn’t like that, Ted—”
“See? You’ve got a cute little nickname for him and everything.” Salvatore wiggled his eyebrows. “Good thing I’m not the jealous type.”
Theodore pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand. I didn’t hurt Brody. You can search the whole house if you want.”
Arthur took a delicate sniff of the air. Theodore’s house smelled of coffee—how utterly predictable—sage, and lavender, but there was no blood.
He had wanted it to be Theodore because he’d wanted an easy answer. They had just over a day left before the FPI arrived, and Arthur had wanted to finally be right about something.
“So that’s it, then.” Arthur set the teacup down. “Another lead come to a dead end?”
“Maybe not,” Theodore continued thoughtfully. “Brody and his friends have been tagging local businesses with anti-paranormal messages, including mine, it’s true. But that graffiti tonight…”
Arthur thought about the words on the wall for the first time. He’d barely processed them because Brody had been lying unconscious beneath. “Fur Fiend.”
“Fur Friend.” Theodore drew the letter R in the air. “Someone added a letter to make it less offensive.”
Brody’s hands had been stained with fresh paint. Blue paint. The original message had been written in white, but the new addition was blue.
The same blue that had been on the mayor’s sleeve, Arthur realized. It hadn’t been ink after all, but spray paint. It must’ve transferred during the murder, or after, when Brody was transporting the late George Roth to their property.
“Brody.”
Theodore nodded. “Exactly.”
“That’s interesting,” Sal said. “What if his friends realized he was undoing their work and got angry with him?”
“They’re rude and rowdy, certainly,” Arthur said, recalling how they’d laughed at him at the coffee shop, “but I don’t know if they’re murderous. And his other friends didn’t strike me as violent at all.”
“Speak for yourself!” Salvatore clutched a hand to his chest. “They were downright brutal about my advanced age.”
“They were just being teenagers, Sal.”
“Brody is a teenager, too,” Theodore said pointedly. “And you think he might have killed George Roth.”
“Yes, but…something’s bugging me about that. We still don’t know why he did it.” Arthur leaned back, eyeing the teacup. The contents did smell awfully pleasant.
“Problems with authority?” Salvatore supplied.
“Maybe Brody had a change of heart about the whole paranormal business. If he was altering his friends’ tags, perhaps he was willing to go further.
” Arthur chewed his lip and let his thoughts spill forth without filter.
“Who was the biggest anti-paranormal voice in town? The mayor. Maybe they fought and it went wrong. Or maybe he planned it from the start.”
“If that were the case, why would he try to then pin it on us?” Sal asked.
“We won’t know unless we can ask him.”
“I hope he pulls through.” Theodore let out a long sigh and collected Salvatore’s empty cup. “I’ll have to wish you a good night now. I’m exhausted, and I have to be up early tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” Salvatore said. “You’ve been a lovely host. Next time, you’ll have to unexpectedly break into our place. Arthur will make muffins.”
“I look forward to it.”
As Theodore ushered them to the front door, Arthur put his notebook away.
“Good night,” he said to Theodore, with a stiff nod.
“Night. Oh, and next time you break into someone’s house to snoop for evidence, make sure they aren’t home.”