Chapter 8
Oliver yanked the dust covers off the dining table with a grimace.
Gods, these antique pieces were fucking ugly. All that gilt and carving and the high backs on the chairs made them look like freaking thrones. Vampire style was just not his thing.
He’d gotten used to the clean, svelte, modern lines in Selig. But these pieces were his family’s heirlooms, all that he had left of them. So here they would stay.
He looked up at the paintings that hung on the walls all around him.
His ancestors stared back, a solemn bunch.
Austere. Aristocratic and used to dwelling in cold, dank castles in the mountains to the north, with stone walls and belfries to hang in for all he knew.
This elegant residence on Motham Hill, which his parents had built in the early years of Motham City, would probably not have been to their liking.
“Too bad, Grandpa Hale,” he muttered as he took a cloth and dusted the gilt frame around the grumpy looking vampire.
When his parents had travelled to the valley lands three centuries ago to escape the ogre tribes who were taking over the mountains, his grandparents had refused to move, and his uncles and aunts had scattered elsewhere.
His parents had set up home in the hills above Tween, bred cattle and formed working partnerships with humans.
Gold and silver, precious stones and a few head of cattle had been exchanged for pure, sweet human blood.
Oliver remembered his childhood as being full of warmth and happiness.
He recalled his mom softly crooning to his beloved baby sister, Effie, as they sat on the veranda that overlooked the verdant Avella Hills.
He had fond memories of playing in the grassy paddocks nearby and testing out his wings by jumping off a steep rocky outcrop.
But when the Great War broke out, his father had sided with the monsters, led by Athelrose Motham, their mothman leader, to fight against the humans.
They’d pared their diet down to blood from their own livestock.
Once the war finished, Abraham Hale had been knighted by Athelrose for his service to monster kind, and they’d built this grand home in the prosperous years that followed.
Over time, his father’s diplomacy had helped them to re-engage quietly with humans. Abraham had traded human blood for heirlooms and jewels. But they’d done it fairly. And with integrity.
Unlike the fucking Kominsky clan, who snuck into Tween and Twill and stole the blood of humans while they slept in their beds at night.
Sometimes they did worse, perpetrating dark acts against non-consenting young men and women.
Rumor had it that they harnessed the powers of vile demons called grimaalds to help them.
And then, a lie was spread that it was the Hale clan who had committed these heinous crimes.
Fear bred in the human towns, and trust disintegrated.
Until finally, one balmy summer night, while his family holidayed in their old farmhouse in the Avella Hills, the humans sought revenge.
Oliver shuddered, his gut clenching. That was the fucking problem with eternity. You were never gifted the peace of oblivion.
His eyes turned now to the paintings of his parents.
His mother Katharine had been a beautiful vampira.
He had her eyes, her mouth, her fuller lips, which offset the lean angular bone structure he’d inherited from his father.
Abraham was austere, fair, honorable, an attorney of law.
He’d taught his children that human blood was not just theirs for the taking.
That they had to work to forge relationships with humans, to gain their trust, and to not let greed cloud their judgment.
There was no picture of his sister, Effie. It was too painful to have her sweet, innocent face on display.
Oliver ran a finger over the lacquered table, took the ornate candlestick off the dresser and set it in the center, recalling when there’d been laughter and dinner parties in this room. He’d watched from the shadows as humans mingled with vampires.
And then his mother would tell him and his sister to go to bed.
And the dining room doors would close.
But over the next few weeks, his belly would be full, and his strength and happiness would increase. Meanwhile, the human guests had a stimulating evening and returned to their families with pieces of gold and clusters of rubies and diamonds in their pockets.
How had it all gone so horribly wrong?
Why did he still torment himself with that question?
He would never be able prove that it was the Kominsky clan who gave away his family’s location that night to a group of vengeful humans.
But he knew how much they’d envied the Hales’ closeness to the Motham elite, their decent values and integrity.
The Kominskys would stop at nothing to unseat the Hales from power.
And then… after that… Gods save him, in his despair Oliver had descended into dark depravity himself, a century-long feeding frenzy.
He had behaved as villainously as any of the Kominsky clan.
It had taken many years to climb out of that dark place, to finally live a productive life. And, if not to forgive himself, at least to lessen the burden of his guilt by giving back to society.
And maybe those horrors would have become a distant memory—if a certain human hadn’t come into his life to remind him of what he craved.
Oliver’s skin prickled with self-loathing, sharp and gut wrenching. He strode out of the dining room and went from one room to the next, ripping off the dust sheets throughout the whole house.
Tomorrow his driver/caretaker, Brian, who he’d kept on a retainer, would return.
But tonight, he was alone, and the very air of this place was bearing down heavily on him.
Damn it. He would take the fine malt whiskey bottle out of its case, call up Grayson Lightfoot and go drink with him on his rooftop.
And tomorrow he would go into work and try not to imagine Clare Doyle everywhere he looked.
Half an hour later, he stood outside Grayson’s mansion and gave three hard raps of the gargoyle head knocker. Grayson had a tongue-in-cheek sense of humor that Oliver enjoyed.
Footsteps could be heard, light and swift, and then Maisie opened the door. Her big blue eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Oliver, what are you doing here?”
His lips quirked. “Nice to see you too, Maisie.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just a surprise.” She shook her head of golden curls, laughing. He noticed her fully rounded pregnancy belly, and the look of flushed happiness in her cheeks.
“I believe congratulations are in order.”
She stroked a hand over her stomach. “Save your congratulations for when I’ve squeezed junior out into the world.”
“All going well so far?”
She nodded. “My diminutive size seems to be keeping bub at a manageable weight, which means I may not need a caesarean. But there’s still a few months to go.”
“Pregnancy suits you, Maisie.”
“Thank you, Oliver. Do come in, he’s up on the roof.”
“Still on duty?”
“No, not officially, but since this missing humans case, he’s been extra vigilant.”
“I understand his concern.”
“Yes, it’s a worry. Nothing like this has ever happened before, has it? Will you take the stairs, or fly up?”
He frowned. “Maybe you don’t recall, but I choose not to shift, Maisie.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now, it’s just, you know, been a while since I’ve seen you. How long now? Must be three years?”
“About that.”
As she accompanied him through the cozy interior, his nostrils quivered to the smell of a roast cooking. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” she said.
“No, no, just here to give Grayson this.” He held up the bottle of whiskey.
“Nice. So are you here in Motham for long?”
He hesitated. “I’m back with the Motham PD, I’ve taken leave for three months from Selig, maybe longer, to help solve this case.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic.” She beamed at him. “Saul must be over the moon to have you back.”
“Hmmm, well, I’m glad to be back, even if the circumstances are grave.”
“Well, now you’re here, you absolutely must stay for dinner, to celebrate your return.”
He made to refuse again, but the thought of going back to that still, quiet house on the other side of Motham Hill, with its ghosts and memories, made him say, “That actually would be very nice, thank you Maisie.”
She clapped her hands together and made to show him up the stairs.
“I know where it is, I’ll make my own way up.”
“Then I will go and finish off the trimmings for the roast,” she said, and waddled happily off to the kitchen.
When Oliver pushed open the door to the roof, he saw the gargoyle silhouetted against the sunset sky. Swift and silent, he was by his side in less than a second. Grayson was staring so intently at the Motham cityscape, it took a moment for him to notice Oliver.
When he did, his big brows shot up. “Well, fuck me, what are you doing here, Hale?”
“Your wife said much the same thing,” Oliver responded drily, holding out the whiskey bottle.
Grayson chuckled. “What’s this for?”
“For us both to imbibe over the next week or so.”
Grayson’s brows climbed higher. “Didn’t expect you’d be here the very next day.”
“Yep, seems so.”
“Here’s to whiskey on the roof. And solving this mystery.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Grayson produced two glasses from a shelf under the parapet wall. Oliver poured and handed one to Grayson then leaned his elbows on the balustrade and Grayson did the same. They both stared over the hotchpotch of rooftops.
“Somewhere out there we have to hope they’re still alive.” Grayson sighed after a moment’s silence. “It makes me nervous, to be honest. I don’t even like Maisie going out anymore.”
“You can’t wrap her in cotton wool.”
“With our youngling inside her and how much I love her, I damn well would if she’d let me.”
Oliver thinned his lips. What would it feel like to have someone to protect? Someone who lit up your world and made life feel worth living?
A hollowness filled his belly. Face it, the intimacy of a close relationship would never be his.
It was proving harder than he’d thought, being back in Motham, and when he went into the department tomorrow, it would be harder still with Clare’s memory mocking him at every turn.
Reminding him of his despicable behavior.
Not just with her, but with young humans before her.
Long before her. His misspent youth had ruined his chances of ever having what Grayson and Maisie had.
Taking a gulp of his whiskey, his gaze strayed toward The Hole In The Wall District with its modern buildings, seeing the dip in the city wall where the literal hole had come about, a breaking of the city boundary that meant humans and monsters mixed more freely these days.
But clearly, it was not without its problems.
And this situation with the missing humans wasn’t going to help matters.
There had, of course, been a knee-jerk reaction from the human Council of Towns, saying monsters should no longer be allowed to work in Tween.
They wanted to shut down the satellite town of Be-Tween and bring the humans home.
After the last few years of less restrictive policies, this was all Motham needed.
Oliver wondered if Clare would enjoy enforcing all that nonsense, if it became law.
She had always said she believed in free borders; he’d heard her espouse that fact enough times in the past. She was a pro-monster human, an enlightened gen Z-er. So woke and perfect and… gods damn it, there he was, ruminating about her again.
He slugged back another mouthful of whiskey.
“So when do you start? Grayson asked.
“Tomorrow. I’ve asked Saul to have all the case notes on my desk and to find his best staff to work on it.”
“Good luck.” Grayson grimaced. “The PD is chronically short-staffed.”
“Nothing new there,” Oliver grumbled.
“Saul would love to poach some of my guys,” Grayson said, “but Tower Security pays better.”
Oliver cocked an eyebrow. “Are you implying I should work for you?”
Grayson chuckled. “You couldn’t. Being subordinate to me would stick in your craw.”
“You’re right there.”
“If it didn’t offend you, I’d say you’re a typical lone wolf.”
Oliver laughed. “Comparing me to a wolf is testing the bounds of friendship.”
Grayson gave his arm a light punch. “Very glad to have you back. Though I wish I had more intel for you.”
“What have you got so far?”
“Very little.” Grayson’s brows pulled down.
“Admittedly, I didn’t have staff on the ground when most of the humans disappeared.
Too busy sorting out feral gang fights. But Tom was near Bellamy’s when the last woman disappeared.
He said there was nothing to show for it, not even a scrap of material or a drop of blood.
Seems like we might have to fight to get background from the Council of Towns, too. ”
Oliver found himself almost relishing the idea of locking horns with the humans. There wasn’t anything he liked or respected about the Tween elite. There was only one human in Tween who he had any respect for—and she certainly wouldn’t have any for him.
Would he get to communicate with Clare, he wondered? Maybe he’d be obliged to call her to discuss the case? And then, maybe he’d have to meet with her, to hear what Tween PD had on the case, if anything.
The idea thrilled him.
For all the wrong reasons.