18. An Invitation Accepted
18
An Invitation Accepted
Calliope
N ight has truly descended by the time she finds Kane in the library. Officer Burton is buried deeper this time, and she presses a hand to her chest in hopes that it stays that way.
Kane is sitting in a pool of light cast by the reading lamp, an open book in front of him. “He didn’t mean it, you know,” he says, turning the page with his beak. “You are not a killer. And I think you’ve proven well enough that you are unlike any other vampires out there. He’s a natural born worrier, so to speak.” He turns another page. “And anyway, I would say his actions are more important than his words.”
She tries to take Kane’s words to heart, but even with the memory buried, there is still a lingering sense of it, like an echo of a thought. She fingers the corner of a book, a ruby-red cotton cover with a silver symbol pressed into the spine. The iron manacles slide against the table, leaving a thin white scuff mark.
“Why did he Turn me?” she asks quietly—so quietly that she’s worried, and yet half-hopeful, that Kane might not have heard her.
Kane turns another page. “He thought you were pretty.”
It’s not the answer she is expecting, and she looks up at the bird, startled. “And he goes around turning every pretty girl that crosses his path, I suppose.”
“I should say not,” replies the bird. “As far as I know, he hasn’t turned anyone in centuries.” Kane looks up, head cocked to the side. “I don’t know that he’s Turned anyone since…well, I’ll let him tell that particular story.”
She narrows her eyes. “And you know all this…how, exactly?”
“There are a handful of mentions of him in various histories of the Blood Wars and at least one unauthorized biography.”
“Does he ever talk about them? The Blood Wars?”
“No,” admits Kane sadly. “But I’m sure he would tell you, if you asked.”
“Why? Because I’m pretty?”
“Yes,” Kane replies, simply.
She scoffs, realizing that she won’t get much else out of Kane. She changes the topic.
“How can I help you? ”
Kane clicks his beak in the direction of the red book. “Start reading.”
“Do we have a list of possible suspects for our lake dweller?” She pulls the book closer and opens it up, scanning the title page. Grimoire of Griselda Jones - 1890-1891.
“I have a list,” begins the bird. “After reading through all of the grimoires from the coven who lived here before us, I’ve been able to rule out water sprites, including kappas and nixies. And it’s definitely not a merrow, as they prefer deeper water. One of the grimoires did mention an infestation of grindylows in 1973, but they’re small and I don’t think a herd could coordinate to move as one like the shadow in the lake does.” Kane clicks his beak toward the stack of books. “So, I’m looking through some older texts, like our friend Griselda here, who I think lived in a small cabin not too far away, though how her writings ended up here, I’m not sure.”
Calliope takes in the stack of books, each of varying size and color, though all with worn edges, clearly well-loved. “All these belong to her?”
Kane squawks an affirmative. “As far as I can tell, anyway.”
“I’ll get to reading then.” But she’s barely made it through the first page when the phone rings. She and Kane share a look before she reaches for the handset that has suddenly appeared on the table.
“Hello?” she answers, hesitantly, tangling her fingers in the cord as she listens.
“Oh, hello. Calliope, isn’t it? It’s Martha. Martha Clayton. I was hoping to catch Rory before he left for work.”
“I’m sorry. You missed him. Can I take a message?” She scans the table, looking for a scrap of paper and a writing utensil.
“Oh, no that’s alright. Actually, I’m glad I caught you instead. Do you prefer chicken or beef?”
“Oh, um…” she begins, wondering how much Martha Clayton knows about Rory and his—their—particular diet. Do vampires need to keep their existence secret? She can’t remember. Witches, in general, do not try to hide their true nature, but neither do they shout it from the rooftops. It’s perfectly reasonable to find a witch living among non-magical communities, as long as their magic use is kept to a minimum and away from prying eyes.
Calliope has always thought that sounds a bit lonely though. Who wants to hide such an important part of themselves from so many people? This is one of the reasons so many witches tend to congregate together, building entire townships where frequent use of magic is encouraged and even expected. Hiding in plain sight, her grandma used to say.
Martha must know something of vampires, if she supplies their blood though, right?
“For dinner,” Martha clarifies, after a few beats of silence. “Bill and I would just love it if you and Rory came over Saturday night.”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“Now, I won’t take no for an answer—”
“I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. You know, I’ll prepare a couple of options. See you Saturday at seven!”
The call disconnects and Calliope is left with the dial tone and a sinking suspicion that she’s been manipulated by someone she has never even met.
“Did you just do what I think you did?” asks Kane, golden eyes trained on her.
“If you think I accepted a dinner invitation on behalf of Rory, then, yes? I think, maybe?”
“He won’t be pleased.”
She feigns indifference with a casual flip of her hair over her shoulder. “Well, he’ll just have to deal with it, won’t he?”
Kane ruffles his feathers indifferently and returns to his reading. She watches him idly as she twirls a strand of hair in thought. The worry she feels grows more acute as she replays the conversation with Martha in her head. Kane looks up after a few minutes later, noticing her vacant expression and he nips at the tips of her fingers. “I thought you were going to help me.”
She tuts. “Don’t be a bossy-boots.”
Still, she returns her focus to the book in front of her and they settle into a companionable silence, broken only by the click of Kane’s talons and the shuffle of pages being turned. The conversation with Martha fades, momentarily, while she absorbs the words in front of her, finding a rhythm in Griselda’s inner workings. Her grimoire—at least, the one Calliope is reading—is a combination of spells broken up into three main categories: incantations, rituals, or potions. Within these, Griselda has gone even further, labeling the corner of each page with a subcategory, such as medicinal, or a classification defined by colors. There’s no key, but it’s not really a stretch of the imagination to link white with good, black with dark. The other colors are a bit more subjective, she thinks. Surely finding a lost object is more of a yellow than a purple?
Slipped in between these are illustrated pages of bestiary and herbarium glossaries, and idle musings. She finds a reference to Graeme Lake, though it is referred to as the Unnamed Lake. A few pages further, she finds a vague reference to the sanguivores who have moved into the recently constructed house. The word is written in red ink, and she traces her fingers over the letters as if she can discern some hidden detail in the fibers of the page. Surely, Rory is one of the sanguivores . But who is the other? Irina, perhaps, she thinks. Was this their home?
She continues, hungry for more about Rory and the mysterious co-owner of Graeme House but finds no other mention of the sanguivores .
* * *
The moon is high in the sky when Calliope sits back, rubbing the back of her neck. She moves to stand by the window, looking at the silvery orb behind the spindly tendrils of the trees.
She hugs her arms closer to herself and leans forward until her forehead is resting on the window. From this angle, she can just see the front porch steps and the corner of the door, along with the squat terracotta pot that houses the remains of a rosemary shrub. Should do something about that, she thinks.
Hun, sensing her change in position, raises herself up with a reminder that Rory had left her a glass of blood in the refrigerator. Alright , she tells Hun, I’m going . She leaves the library and makes her way down the stairs, feeling her way instead of turning on the hallway light—which she regrets when she trips over the dark bulk of something at the foot of the stairs.
The house takes pity on her and a light flickers on. As Calliope rubs her shoulder, which took the brunt of her fall, she looks at the pile of freshly chopped planks of wood that she tripped over.
Actions, indeed, she thinks, marveling at the precision of the cuts.
* * *
When she hears the crunch of tires coming down the driveway, she quickly pours a glass of blood, and she carries it to the front hall to welcome Rory home.
She’s pinned her hair up and changed into a white linen dress that her grandmother would have approved of as a “good Church frock.” She smooths out an invisible wrinkle as she hears the car door close and Rory’s soft, light steps approach the front porch.
When he opens the door, he stops, looking at her warily. “What’s happened?”
“Why do you think something’s happened?”
“Are you hurt?” He’s clutching a brown paper bag, and it crinkles as he takes a step forward, eyes roving over her for signs of an injury. “Where’s Kane?”
“Everything’s fine.” She holds out the glass. “This is for you.”
He accepts the glass with a furrowed brow, inspecting the dark liquid as he holds it up to the light. He gives her a sidelong look. “Why?”
“Just…” She lifts a shoulder. “Just wanted to.”
He considers her for a moment and then shoves the paper bag in her direction. “I got these for you. To make up for yesterday.” A deep sigh. “And for what I said. You’re right, it wasn’t fair to you.”
She peers into the bag, finding a small notepad and a pack of finely sharpened pencils. Something soft and tender blooms within her. She tucks the feeling in a moonflower to examine later and before she fully realizes what she’s doing, she leans up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. When she pulls back, she bites her lip, a movement that is both nervousness regarding what she’s about to say and an attempt to quell the tingling from his cold, stubbled skin.
“There is something that’s happened,” she begins, clutching the bag to her chest.
A muscle in his jaw feathers as he arches an eyebrow.
“I might have—” she continues, “—accidentally, agreed to have dinner with the Claytons tomorrow night.” She says it quickly, words jumbling together and then braces for the impact. When his expression remains unchanged, she continues cautiously. “I know I’m a liability, but maybe I can try using some of my psychoshielding to…” Her words fade away as his jaw clenches and unclenches. His eyes seem to darken. She takes a step backward.
“No,” he says simply. “I’ll call and cancel.”
He really is afraid of me, she thinks numbly. “Why? It’s just dinner. Maybe a pot roast and a glass of wine, some small talk and—”
“You can’t eat pot roast.” He shoulders past her and pushes the kitchen door open with so much force, it bangs against the stove loudly.
She follows him, setting the paper bag on the kitchen table. “How do we know—”
He wrenches open the pantry door and tosses her a dusty jar of peach preserves, which she barely catches. “Go on.” He leans against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. “Try it.”
“What is this proving? ”
“You can’t eat pot roast. You can’t eat food, Calliope.”
“Fine. Let’s see, shall we?” She opens the jar and scoops some out with her fingers, stuffing the jam in her mouth spitefully. She swallows and gives him an icy smile. “See?”
He continues to look at her sternly, facial expression unmoved. And then, she feels the muscles in her stomach clench painfully. She barely makes it to the sink before the jam comes back, acrid and burning the back of her throat. She chokes, hands gripping the edge of the sink as the floor seems to swirl, her legs shaking. Another wrench, and more comes up, the sweet smell of peaches mingling with the coppery scent of blood. She hears the rustle of Rory’s shirt as he unfolds his arms, and then his cool hands are pulling her hair from her face, pressing against the back of her neck.
“This is why we don’t eat pot roast,” he mumbles, not unkindly.
She nods, head still bent over the sink. “I just thought it’d be nice to do something different. Get out of the house for a minute. Practice my control.” She straightens gingerly, hand covering her mouth. “Also, Martha steamrolled over me when I tried to decline.”
A light huff of amusement. “That sounds like her.”
She steadies herself against the counter, free hand pressed to her stomach, muscles still clenched in protest. Hun’s tail swishes back and forth smugly. Alright, I get it. You don’t like food, she tells the creature. She glances at Rory. “Why do you have peach jam anyway?”
“Boss’s wife made it. Didn’t have the heart to throw it away.”
“Well, you made your point. I can call—”
He lets loose a deep sigh and shakes his head. “It’s okay. We can go. Just…don’t eat any food.”