Chapter 19
It takes several moments for Mallory’s eyes to adjust.
Victor’s office is bathed in darkness. The floor-to-ceiling windows are blacked out with heavy curtains, every lamp switched off.
Along the shadowed walls are a smattering of eerie gothic portraits framed in brass, beady eyes and solemn faces staring down at her.
A tall bookshelf looms on one side of the room, nestled against a black file cabinet.
Victor, thankfully, is nowhere in sight.
Mallory flips the lock and stands with her spine rigidly against the door. In the hall, the blond man’s footsteps slow to a crawl. The doorknob rattles only once before he retreats.
She’s safe. Temporarily, at least.
Mallory pushes a trembling hand through her hair, mussing her bangs.
Her forehead is slick, and her skin has an alarming chill to it.
Like she’s running a fever. She considers the headache that’s lingered for days with no relief, the relentless queasiness in her stomach.
Alone with a list of mounting symptoms and zero explanations, she has no choice but to confront a new reality.
She’s been feeling sick since Ezra bit her.
The realization snuffs out her fear, reigniting her determination.
Mallory flies across the room to Victor’s mahogany desk, yanking open drawers and rummaging through folders, not even sure what she’s looking for.
But she moves with hardening tenacity, with a hunger for answers, for a sign, for something—until she stills, wrapping sweaty hands around a framed photograph.
It’s a picture of a younger Ezra, standing next to his father and an older man in front of this very building.
Ezra looks no more than twelve, cheeks flushed under a mop of dark hair.
He’s wearing a black blazer and slacks, paired with a red tie, in almost identical dress to his father and the other man in the photo.
A red tie, she realizes with a shiver, like the employee at the front desk.
Mallory glances at the third man in the photograph, studying his face.
He’s slightly shorter than both Ezra and Victor, but with a similar bone structure.
Same angular jaw, identical sharp cheekbones.
Saskia’s voice echoes in her mind: Ezra once said his grandfather lived past a hundred.
Sliding the photo back into the desk, Mallory crosses to the file cabinet, tugging it open. She sifts through several documents—sale agreements, land deeds—and is about to close the drawer when she spots a thick, leather-bound folder.
One labeled Shoreview Historical Preservation Society.
Mallory cracks it open—
And her breath rushes out when she finds she’s staring at a stack of obituaries.
Lily Hubbard’s is on top, the same newspaper clipping as the library’s. Consumption. Shoreview Sanitarium, 1890. Survived by her daughter, Rose—
Rose, whose obituary is next.
The little hairs on the back of Mallory’s neck stand up. Lived a life filled with love. Her family respects her decision to die.
“ ‘Decision to die’?” she whispers, flipping to the next one—a woman named Charlotte, who died in 1928. Followed by Betty, deceased in 1943. Followed by—
Eleanor Webb in 1966.
Mallory’s grandmother.
Her entire body hums as she finally understands what, exactly, she’s holding. A stack of death notices for the women in her family. A treasure map for the historical preservation society to follow, the next X placed squarely over her heart.
Hands trembling, Mallory flips to the last page.
Jasmine Webb, 1985. Survived by her daughter, Mallory.
Unexpected tears prick her lashes. It shouldn’t hurt to see her own name, not when she already knew she was a target. But it underscores a truth she’s no longer able to avoid.
The next obituary will be hers.
Mallory Webb, deceased at nineteen. Survived by no one at all.
She shoves the obituaries into her bag and slams the cabinet shut, whirling for the door—but it unlocks instead.
Startled, Mallory stumbles. Her hands crash into the desk to catch herself before she falls, sending a jar of pens flying—
As Victor Pierce enters his office.
He stands in the doorway just as she remembers him from the chapel. Tall, in a black suit, with a coat that looks like a cape. A fedora atop his dark hair, cane bejeweled with a glittering stone. Hard lines in his jaw, handsome and menacing.
And emerald-colored eyes, just like Ezra’s.
“I’m sorry,” Mallory works out. “I got lost looking for the bathroom, I—”
“Well, well.” Victor shuts the door. The room seems to darken to a thick, ashy gray. “Of all the things to see in my office, I didn’t expect you.” He peers at her with amusement. “The bathroom, you say? Tell me, did you learn those flimsy lying skills from my foolish son? Or is it a natural gift?”
Mallory presses her back teeth together. “I just want to leave.”
“There’s no need to rush.” Victor quietly locks the door, and her heart pounds faster. “I’ve been looking forward to our official meeting.”
“Why?” Mallory asks. “I’m nobody.”
Victor takes a few steps closer. His smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t think so poorly of yourself, Lily Flower.”
She bristles. “What did you call me?”
“You’re right.” He waves his hand, letting out a small chuckle.
“You have your own name, of course. But you look so much like her; it’s just so satisfying.
The full circle of it all—it makes me giddy.
” He takes another step, causing her to back up, thighs connecting with his desk.
“The others will be equally enthralled with you.”
“The others,” Mallory echoes. “Members of your historical preservation society, you mean? Like the man at the front desk?”
“That’s correct,” Victor says, far too close now. Towering over her. “You’ll be attending the society’s gala soon, won’t you?”
“Yes. Ezra is bringing me. I-I’m looking forward to it,” she lies.
He smiles again, as if he doesn’t quite believe her.
“Can I ask you a question?” Mallory reaches back as she talks, grasping at his desk. Pens. A stapler. Scissors. She carefully closes her fingers around the handle. “The woman your group has been researching. Lily Hubbard. Why did someone dig her up?”
Victor’s dark eyebrows lift. “Mrs. Hubbard died of tuberculosis,” he says.
“They called it consumption back then. History tells us certain communities believed consumption was a supernatural illness. The townsfolk were fearful she would rise from her grave and drink the blood of her living family members, dooming them to a similar death. That is, unless her heart was inspected for signs of vampirism and subsequently destroyed.”
“That wasn’t the real reason, though,” Mallory says. “Isn’t that what you’ve been studying? The real reason?”
The serene smile never leaves his face. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Her heart…” Mallory swallows. “It was used for something else, wasn’t it?”
A small silence slips between them. “Perhaps you should join the historical society.”
She fights for a steady tone. “I just want to know about my family.”
“Yes,” Victor says, tipping his head patronizingly. “I suppose you do.”
“The man who led the exhumations,” Mallory continues. “His name was Jacob, right?”
“I can see why my son tired of you.” Victor’s gaze rakes over her in a way that turns her stomach even more. “Beautiful girls shouldn’t ask so many questions. Far better to be seen and not heard.”
Mallory’s face flames. She drops her gaze to the floor, suddenly feeling like every inch of her is on display. Her fist tightens around the scissors.
“I’d like to go now,” she says.
“You’re welcome to leave,” Victor replies, “but you won’t make it far.”
Mallory lifts her head just as he brings a large hand to the choker at her throat. A strange expression crosses his face as he tugs at the fabric, exposing the puncture wounds.
Her breath stutters, fingers slipping along the scissors.
For one terrible moment she thinks Victor is going to bite her just like Ezra did, but he only inspects the marks on her sweat-laced skin, thumbing them with a gloved finger.
Pain shoots through her with every stroke, white-hot and swift, and she whimpers.
“Fascinating,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Yes. You’re as good as done for, I’d say.”
“What?” she manages. The room spins, little white lights clinging to her lashes. Her mouth is suddenly dry. That confusing, sharp hunger stirs in her belly again.
Victor makes a tsk sound like she’s a child. “I know it hurts,” he says, replacing the choker. “But isn’t it a little comforting to know you’re right where you belong?”
His words circle in her brain like dots refusing to connect.
Something about the obituaries in her bag, the name Jacob, the bite marks on her neck.
Lily. Saskia. Her mother. Pieces that don’t fit, yet must cinch together.
But she can’t begin to arrange them now, not when Victor’s leathery fingers are pressed to the place where his son drank from her.
Mallory grips the scissors tighter, prepared to raise them like a dagger—
Just as a key turns in the door.
Mallory drops the scissors with a gasp. Victor whirls, and the door opens.
The blood drains from her face.
“Ezra…?”