Chapter 6
Six
Some hours later, I arrived at the village pub as Alex had instructed. Rye was smoking at the entrance, wrapped in an expensive-looking trench that flared like a capelet over her shoulders before tapering to her waist and legs.
“Are we off to solve a mystery this early, Miss Amato?” I couldn’t swallow the grin.
She rolled her eyes, blowing smoke in my direction. “I won’t correct you again. It’s Rye.”
Alex poked his head around the corner of the building, giving the uncanny appearance of a floating head. “You two are friendly, then?”
“Don’t answer that.” Rye pointed a warning finger at me before turning her attention to the fangling as the rest of him materialized before us. “Ready?”
Alex simply nodded, gesturing for us to follow as he sped off down the cobblestone street.
It was barely more than a breath for the two of us before he stopped outside one of the many identical, white-washed thatched cottages that lined either side.
A rusty horseshoe hung above the door, and a few attempted flower boxes were overrun with weeds, dried blooms drifting over the edges.
A bicycle leaned against one wall, cracked helmet resting on the seat.
“Before we go in,” Alex fixed Rye and me with a meaningful turn of his head, “you don’t tell anyone about this. What happens in the cottage stays there.”
Rye put a comforting hand on his arm and squeezed, the small gesture enough to affirm her agreement. The fangling dropped his shoulders from his ears, squared his chest, and guided us through the squeaky front gate, across the moss-covered flagstone walk, and through the tiny front door.
Inside, heat slammed over us at full force.
It was like stepping too close to a furnace with no exhaust outlet.
I choked against the thick air, trying my best to politely cough into my arm as if I were clearing my throat and not being throttled by the sudden extreme temperature.
Rye fared better, slipping easily from her coat and pushing the sleeves of her knit top to her elbows.
The room was cozier than the heat might have dictated, a well-loved sofa set next to the front windows, the walls and mantel absolutely covered in photos of children smiling, laughing, growing.
Just past the screaming hearth was a rough-hewn kitchen table and chairs, the former piled high with various detritus of a busy life—junk mail forgotten, a lunch pail half-emptied of its containers, a puzzle in progress, and a few empty pots awaiting dirt and seeds stacked in the paper bag next to them.
The kitchen counters were covered in similar clutter to the rest of the space, dishes piled high, ready meal containers strewn about, and a small icebox absolutely plastered with photos of the same smiling, freckled kid.
A stocky woman with stick-straight brown hair had her back to us as she fussed at the sink, the night outside pressed thick against the tiny window above. She hummed pleasantly to herself, a tune I thought I recognized from a life now too far gone to truly remember.
“Morning, Mum,” Alex called from the door. “I hope it’s okay, I brought my new mentors I was telling you about.”
The woman turned, and it was all I could do not to gasp out loud.
Marring the stunning warmth of her smile and the bright flash of her watery blue eyes, streaking red and angry through the field of freckles dotting her plump cheeks, were the clear scars of an attack by some wild creature.
The tight, healed skin tugged her smile at opposing angles and tilted her gaze, so it was as if she looked in several directions at once.
And there, flashing briefly in the soft roll of her neck, was an unmistakable feeding mark. Two, dark puncture wounds from fangs not unlike mine.
Rye didn’t so much as flinch, striding confidently across the room to greet Alex’s Mum with outstretched arms. The woman embraced her immediately—easily—tossing a small towel over her shoulder as if Rye were a far cousin and not a stranger.
“We’re so pleased to meet you,” Rye said, voice dripping warmth. “We’ve loved having Alex under our tutelage. You must be so proud to have raised such a bright, hard-working young man.”
The woman flushed at the compliments, squeezed Rye’s arm, jagged smile stretching hideously wide, eyes twinkling. “Ach, he does all the hard parts. I kinnae take credit.”
“Mum . . .” Alex whined bashfully, kicking his feet at the entrance in a now recognizable fidget.
“Well, love, don’t leave your guests standing.” She gestured to the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on and see what biscuits we have. I’m afraid Alex didnae tell me you were coming, or I would’ve run out for the good ones.”
“Nonsense, Miss Shepherd, we’re more than pleased to have time with you,” Rye practically cooed.
“Please, it’s Moira.” She fluttered her hands at Rye, flashing yet more scars across their backs and up her wrists—as if she’d tried and failed to protect herself against her attacker. “Have a seat, Miss . . .” She waited expectantly.
“I’m Rye. I’m the hospitality history expert on staff at the Clotswold.” The lie slipped easily from her, breezing by as if it were weighted down with no more than the truth.
“And American!” Moira beamed. “How lucky we are.”
“And this is our resident operations liaison, Patrick. He’s helping tighten up the ship—although there’s little for him to do with your Alex around.
” Rye gave Moira a wink that had the woman fluttering her hands again before following Moira’s instructions to join me on the sofa.
Alex sat in one of the matching chairs, ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Moira put the kettle on the scorching wood stove with a telltale hiss as the water immediately began to heat. Sweat slid down my spine beneath my sweater, and I regretted not wearing more proper underclothes so I could shed a layer.
“My Alex is so excited to have you at the hotel,” Moira buzzed, flitting back and forth across the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, checking tins, and looking disappointedly in the icebox.
“He was just telling me yesterday how good it is to have mentors around after a long year of having to drive in the dark. Isn’t that right, love? ”
Alex nodded. “Yes, Mum. Too right.”
“Although we do love that Mr. Barlow. Such a love and so handsome!” Moira put a girlish hand over her giggle, and it was almost as if the scars weren’t there.
For a moment, I could see what Rye seemed to—a joyful, loving Scottish mum bursting with pride for her son, and not the victim of a horrific attack.
“Alex is an excellent attendant and has transformed our horse-drawn buggy offering,” I offered, throat hoarse from the thick air. I coughed again, trying for a softer tone. “The mares seem to listen to him like no one else.”
“Ach, that’s my Alex. Always had a knack for his animal friends.
” Sooner than expected, the kettle screamed.
Moira’s fluttering search turned to cups and tea bags, expertly navigating the debris until she had four mismatched vessels and matching fresh bags.
Alex stood without being asked and helped Moira fill each cup before carrying them over in slightly shaking hands to the coffee table.
I’d been so focused on his mum’s scars, I hadn’t even noticed the army of porcelain cat knickknacks piled six deep on the table.
“Sorry, you’ll have to hold it if you don’t mind.
I’m afraid I’m weak to the kitties,” Moira said, handing me a sloshing cup.
I accepted it, holding in the wince at the scalding touch and thanking her.
She settled easily in the other chair across from Alex, Rye joining me on the sofa, balancing her own overflowing cup.
“Now, tell me, how are you finding Ashbourne?” Moira asked, as if we were joining her for tea in her garden and not crammed in her sweltering living room at 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.
“This is my second visit, and I must say, I’m thoroughly charmed.” Rye sipped her tea politely, beaming over the rim at Moira. “So much history here, and everyone has been so helpful and welcoming.”
“We’re ready for proper tourists.” Moira nodded sagely.
“With the old Huxley Manor almost restored, and the grounds done by our own famous landscaper—you know Leslee was almost gardener to the queen?” She leaned forward as if she were telling us a well-kept bit of gossip and not a PR factoid.
“Our Leslee! The odd duck that sings to her aspen. Ach well, if it works, there’s something to it.
Good for her, I say. And to have that Mr. Barlow on her arm!
Jesus.” She said the religious figure’s name with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable, drawing the vowels down hard so it sounded more like “JAY-zuhs.” This time, I flinched, unable to hold back the physical impact of the holy invocation.
“Ach, forgive me.” She made the sign of the cross, and I felt a different kind of heat sear across my skin. “I get a little too excited.”
“Mum, Patrick is helping us manage the hotel more efficiently. More like seasoned hoteliers,” Alex chimed in, saving me from further invocation—perhaps he also felt the heat, although he hadn’t so much as sweat since we walked in. “When those tourists come, we’ll be ready.”
“Do you think so?” Moira put a gentle hand to her heart. “I can only imagine how beautiful the manor will be in the spring, never mind our own Ashbourne. It would do a heart good to see the streets bustling.”
Alex nodded, hair swinging in a thick curtain. “I’m sure of it.”
“That’s my boy.” Moira reached across the porcelain cat army, taking Alex’s ready hand and squeezing. “Always thinking of the good of others and the hope of our home.”
“He is a thoughtful one,” Rye chimed in, beaming with no false pride. It struck me that she truly cared for the fanglings. And although she claimed only two visits, I wondered what had happened that first stay to have bonded her to them—Alex especially.
“You know, he’s had to be the man of the house after his da got us run out of Renfrew.
He was no good, that one, and our town was too small to accept we were any different, never mind how hard we tried to make that much clear.
When we came to Ashbourne, it was just us two, like a wee tribe of strangers in a strange land.
” Moira’s eyes misted as she released Alex’s hand, settling back into her seat, tea forgotten on the arm of the chair as she put both hands over her heart.
“But my Alex said, ‘Don’t you worry, Mum, I willnae let anyone scare us away ever again.’ And even after my accident, he’s been nothing but a helpful, upstanding, good-hearted—” Her voice cracked, and she sniffed, swiping quickly at her eyes.
“You’ll have to excuse me; I can go on.”
“How could you not?” Rye somehow located a crochet-covered tissue box and offered it to Moira, reaching across me so I inhaled her sweat and perfume in a heady breath.
My fangs lengthened on impulse, and my head swam—with the heat of the room, want, and everything Moira was letting pour from her mouth.
My accident.
I glanced at Alex, but he was frozen in his stick-straight position, his own tea untouched and sloshing over onto the chair arm. Several things were beginning to coalesce, kept from truly sticking together by the heavy air, as if they couldn’t solidify at such a temperature.
As if the heavens themselves blew a cooling breath across the room, I noted the slightest touch of pink beginning to peer through the kitchen window. This was our cue.
“Well, Miss Moira, I must say I greatly look forward to continuing to work with your Alex, and I hope you rest well knowing what an extraordinary young man you’ve brought to Ashbourne.
” I set my half-drank tea in a barely there nook among the cat army.
“But we have a very early all-staff call this morning, and I’m afraid it won’t do for someone in my position to arrive late.
” I took Moira’s outstretched hand in both of mine, clasping it meaningfully before pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.
I grinned back at her infectious giggle.
“Thank you for having us at such an hour. I hope to return soon.”
“Ach, charmers, the lot of ya. Anytime, love, my home is open.”
We said our goodbyes, complete with choking, teary-eyed hugs from Moira, and stepped into the cool dawn air with a collective groan of relief.
“So—” Alex started, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture, nodding to the rapidly lightening sky.
I squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you. The understanding you’ve given me is invaluable.” Turning to Rye, I took her hand in mine, kissing the back as I had so few hours ago. “I can’t go at your pace, I’m afraid. But I would also like to see you tonight, if you’d have me.”
“You two are friendly now,” Alex teased, disappearing at his lightning pace before I could swat at him.
“We’ll see.” Rye gave me a half smile, squeezing my hand back and jutting her chin at the dawn. My last image before I took off was the easy flick of her cigarette.
At the hotel, I caught Alex at the entry, staring at the stretch of pink along the horizon.
I couldn’t see his face, but the stance of him told me he was lost in the same revered ennui I had been only a few days prior.
I touched his shoulder lightly, jolting him from his thoughts.
When he turned, bloody tears were streaking past the fringe of his hair—an unsightly quirk of our kind, crying blood.
“Do you see, now?” he asked, voice thick with an unshed sob. “I could never risk it again. I lost control once, and I nearly destroyed my only family. I know you say we have to feed, but—”
I cut him off, pulling him fiercely to my chest in a firm hug, letting him release with a terrified choke.
“To be so lost to hunger is a curse no young man should have to endure,” I said, voice thick with my own tortured memories—heavy regrets my long life would never allow me to forget.
We carried these mistakes, these horrors, for the entirety of our immortal existence.
And not even the gentle press of time against their edges was enough to dull their aches.
“I will give you every tool, skill, and method in my arsenal so that you are never in that position again.”
Alex pulled back, his curtain slightly parting to reveal one bloodied, hopeful, red eye. “You promise?” He sniffed.
“I promise.”