Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alexandru
KC Hawkins lives in a low, flat dwelling—a “ranch house” Ms. Renfield calls it—on the outskirts of Creighton. There’s a lot of forest around here, but KC’s grass is an unnatural green, and the hedges are trimmed into rigid geometric shapes.
“Huh,” Ms. Renfield says.
“What?”
She studies the house with her usual analytical gaze. The gaze that precedes a spreadsheet. “Just... kind of outlandishly controlled.”
She produces a small kit from her bag and has the back door open in under a minute. I raise an eyebrow.
“Granabelle,” she says by way of explanation. “Don’t ask.”
Inside, the neatness continues. Humans usually clutter their nests with ridiculous items—photographs of loved ones, trinkets from travels, cards, and the various appliances and junk they seem to collect. This house has none of it.
She moves through the space with her usual focus, opening drawers, checking cabinets. I watch, remembering the feel of her mouth under mine. The dazzling scent of her blood.
“Bedroom,” she says, heading down the hall.
I follow.
The bedroom is more of the same—neat, sparse. She checks the closet. I check under the mattress. Nothing.
“He’s smart,” she says. “He wouldn’t keep anything obvious.”
She crouches to look under the bed, raven hair spilling forward, and I am struck by the fierce concentration in her small frame. So one-pointed, this woman. So carefully controlled.
I could reach down and fist that dark hair and pull her back up, pulling her face to mine, her mouth to my mouth. Or perhaps I would push her onto the bed and kiss her elsewhere until that magnificent control shatters entirely.
I look away.
My mind is warped with hunger.
That is the only explanation for this fixation on a Renfield. We return to the living room. She’s running her hands along empty bookshelves—why? Checking for hidden compartments? I open a closet and find it contains only a vacuum cleaner and a single coat.
“Is this part of the game? To have a home that defies investigation?” She presses her fingers to her temples. “Uhh!”
But it is not the search that bedevils her. She is reliving the kiss—it’s in her scent, the increased heat on her skin. Her spiking pulse.
I am, after all, exceptional.
“Alexandru...” But then her gaze falls on something in the corner. “There’s a laptop!” She flies to it and opens it up, taking a seat on the bed. “Password, password. What do you think of Sherlocksmith?”
I open the small wooden box next to the computer. Inside, newspaper clippings, all of them about the crossbow murders. Arranged. Waiting.
For us.
One second too late, I understand.
The first bullet takes me in the shoulder.
The second and third follow before I can turn. The fourth catches my throat. I hear Ms. Renfield scream as if from a great distance.
Fifth. Sixth. Seventh.
I stagger backward. This is not pain, precisely, but there is damage and a great deal of concentrated force. My body requires a moment to process it all.
More bullets. I lose count. The wall behind me explodes with plaster dust.
I go down.