Miles
The house is quiet when I wake. The kind of stillness that speaks of the dead of night.
Everyone’s sleeping, and it feels as though the rest of the world is too, only the barest hint of life outside the house.
Xavier, who was beside me when we went to sleep, is gone.
No reason to worry, I know exactly where he is.
Hunter had to have known what would happen, too, even when he’d smiled saccharinely and shown us “our” room.
Throwing off the sheet and blanket, I lift my clothes from the rocking chair in the corner. It’s warm tonight, so I don’t bother putting socks on, and I leave my shirt unbuttoned, hanging at my sides. Quickly putting my hair up in a ponytail, I venture out.
The spare room that Matthew is sleeping in is on the way to the kitchen, and I pause, listening. No sounds from there either. Good.
Xavier’s bag is where I left it on the couch, his laptop resting inside.
Hunter is as methodical in his storage methods as he is in every other part of his life, so finding coffee items and a mug is easy enough.
It takes fewer than five minutes to be seated at the table, laptop open and coffee steaming.
The information I’m after takes a little longer. Roger has better security than I remembered. He’s learning. I hate that.
It doesn’t mean he’s good enough, or that I can’t get through. Nowhere is impenetrable. Not even our security; it’s why we constantly review it, and anything we don’t want found is simply not available to be found.
A door opens nearby and then soft footsteps. That has to be Matthew. Him walking into the room confirms that theory. He stops when he sees me and rubs one eye. Because he’s tired or checking I’m not an illusion?
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice sleep roughened.
He looks oddly endearing, standing there in the darkened doorway, wearing nothing but black boxers with bananas on them.
He’s holding one hand on his stomach, the other lower, as if shy.
Modesty, even after everything we did last night.
How long would it take for that to disappear? Would it ever?
“Working.”
Matthew blinks. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes.” The dining seat I chose gives me views of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, the entrance, and the neon time on the microwave.
I prefer to sit in complete darkness, where no one can spot me, and I can be the surprise in the dark that they didn’t count on.
Unfortunately, using a laptop ruins my element of surprise.
A necessary evil for when I have this kind of research to conduct.
“Um, I need to…” He turns around and disappears where he came from. A few minutes later he returns, his hair ruffled like he’s run a wet hand through it. “Sorry. I had to—” He cuts it short and clears his throat. “The bladder waits for no man.” He pauses. “Or woman.” Another pause. “For anyone.”
I can’t help the amused smirk. There isn’t a single thought of his that stays inside his head even if it shouldn’t see the light of day.
He sighs, filling the silence, and shuffles closer. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I like the quiet.” The early hours of the morning have always been comforting to me. It’s a good thing I’ve always functioned well on minimum sleep.
“Too bad you weren’t born a vampire.” He cocks his head. “Made a vampire? Are vampires born?” He taps his hip, all shyness gone as he contemplates his strange question. Questions.
“They aren’t real.”
He gives me a small smile and then shrugs. “Probably depends on the lore. The point is that you’d be a good vampire. All night and no day. This would be your breakfast time.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“The teacher in me has so many things to say to that.”
“I have no doubt.”
“You shouldn’t skip meals. Especially not with your physique.”
“My physique?”
He waves at all of me. “You know, the muscles and stuff. There’s no way you could maintain that on a lacking diet.”
Hmm. “It sounds like you’ve thought a lot about it.”
“The diet or your body?” Even from here and under the dull lighting, I can see the red spreading over his cheeks.
“Don’t answer that.” He lets out another sigh, this one softer, and carefully perches himself on the chair beside me, curling one leg under himself.
“Besides, I’m pretty sure that vampires only really have one diet. ”
“And that’s your suggestion? Blood for breakfast?”
“Are you a vampire?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I think you’d know.”
“Comforting.”
“It just seems like something you’d be aware of. The craving. The burning in sunlight. No pores. Really shiny hair.”
No pores? “That’s very specific.”
He gives me a smile that makes my heart flutter uncomfortably. Rubbing my chest absently, I return to my computer. “Other than your opinion on my eating habits, did you need something?”
He leans over, careful not to touch my bare shoulder, and glances over my screen. The spreadsheet won’t make any sense to him. Even if he did, Roger’s secrets aren’t my responsibility to keep. “What are you doing?” Matthew asks again, like he’s forgotten he’s already asked me.
“Working,” I reply patiently.
He rests his cheek on my shoulder and… settles against me. I freeze, an unpleasant, cold shiver running down my spine. It turns into something warmer once the initial rejection passes. His skin is warm, soft. Still smooth-shaven despite the late hour.
“What, specifically, are you working on?” he says through a yawn.
I shouldn’t answer. He’s already in too deep and holds enough information for him to be a liability to us and a boon to others.
He won’t be safer knowing less, but if he were caught, it would be over quicker once they realise he has nothing useful to give.
We would never allow anyone to take him, or for him to get into that situation, but facts are facts, regardless.
I answer truthfully anyway. “Looking for the location of Roger’s pet dog. ”
“I assume you don’t mean an actual dog,” he murmurs sleepily.
“Roger would never allow a creature near him that sheds.”
“He sends actual real severed fingers to people, but he draws the line at dog hair?”
“Everyone has a limit.”
Matthew furrows his brows, like he’s trying to figure it out.
He won’t. He doesn’t have anywhere close to the right mindset to understand a man like Roger Vickers.
To understand any of us at that level. There’s something almost special about it.
Something precious to put in a glass box and on a high shelf where no one can reach it.
“Do you know who it belongs to?”
I stop typing and turn to look at him properly. “Do you really want to know?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
He chews on his bottom lip. “Did—did they deserve it?”
Such an innocent, na?ve question. “And would that make you feel better? What’s your criteria for ‘deserving’ it?”
He deflates, and I find myself sliding an arm around his waist, my bare hand teasing at the skin above his waistband.
It tingles, bordering on uncomfortable. A closeness I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get used to.
Exploring his chest, and touching him, was the closest I’ve ever been to another person.
I’m not sure how I feel about it. I enjoyed the moment with him, but vulnerability isn’t something I enjoy.
I’d still like to repeat the experience. And more.
“I don’t know,” he eventually says.
“We haven’t found the owner, no.” It’s not an answer that gives any relief, and I won’t elaborate further. It’s unclear whether they’re dead or alive. If it was taken from a corpse, it was still fresh, but a person can survive without a finger.
“Are you still looking?”
“We have people on it.”
“Can’t you just use their fingerprint?”
I can’t help the chuckle at that question. “Life isn’t like all the cop shows you watch.”
“I don’t watch any—”
“Whoever it is has no criminal record, and they haven’t worked for the government, military, or any plan that has high-level security that would require fingerprint input.” Without any of those things, a single finger isn’t much to go on when looking for a person.
“Oh. What about—”
“None of the finger-related injuries in hospitals are from foul play, and there are no police reports.”
He visibly swallows, looking ill. “Oh.”
“Nothing stays hidden forever; we’ll find them.” The condition we’ll find them in is the only unknown in this scenario. Not something that Matthew needs to concern himself with.
That seems to satisfy him. “So the… um, the pet, who are they?” His fingers dig into my shoulder, and he tenses. “Lester. The one who killed that person at the hotel. Is that—is that—?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I’ve thought more about death in the last three days than I have my entire life,” he says weakly.
“In a more real sense. Not in a ‘movie’ way. Not in a ‘someone grieving the death of a loved one’ way either. This is just… murder and people toying with lives like they’re—like they’re money in a cash register.
” He closes his eyes briefly. “Or something. I don’t have an analogy for this. ”
“Probably for the best.” Though I can admit to some curiosity about what he’d compare it to next.
“Lester does all the dirty work for Roger. He’s likely to be one of the only people that knows where Roger is hiding.
Possibly the only person. I have no use for going through others only to get to Lester anyway. ”
“Start with the most likely source.”
“Exactly.”