《A Taste for Mischief (Valkaria Mysteries #2)》
Prologue
December 23rd
The moon is not Henry¡¯s friend. It is hanging high in the sky, a pale waxing gibbous watching from the heavens. Yet it holds no warmth this evening. No grin, he thinks. Its coldness shines down on him, a mocking deity.
He runs across the slicked-wet planks of the boardwalk, the ferry bell clanging to the beat of his frantic heart. His lungs hurt from running, but he has to get to the ferry.
Tonight.
He can¡¯t wait any longer. He is losing time, just as the sky loses daylight.
The coins almost slip from his hand as he exchanges them for a ticket. He mumbles his thanks at the attendant and boards the boat, the same sleek dark teal as the ocean it sits upon. He taps his foot as he looks out at the view, the silhouettes of the twin islands, Ilton and Astra, looming closer.
As the trip stretches beyond the present into a murky nothingness of endless seconds, he is comforted only by his growing proximity to his destination: Ilton, his childhood home. The familiar shape breaking apart the horizon, like a pile of trinkets carelessly dumped at the bottom of a closet, beckons him.
The island feels like a forgotten sweater or a lost book. He¡¯s sure the landscape began as wild trees and feral flowers towering over its inhabitants, but it has since become a mass of hodgepodge manufactured structures. The shapes are currently made even more abstract by the blanket of snow that is settling over the island with surprising speed.
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Is it really Christmas already?
Because he grew up on the island, he knows about its eccentricities, such as the wayward weather spell that was cast more than a few decades ago. The spell, like clockwork, brings three days of snow to the island. He¡¯s sure there is someone who could dismantle it, but so far no one has bothered.
Besides, it was always quite a treat. Snowball fights with his cousins. Ice skating in the town square. Lining up along with the other children to sled down the hill in Mr. Prather¡¯s backyard.
His mother would bundle him in layers of wool, and somehow, in the miraculous carelessness of youth, he would lose the layers, one by one, until all he was wearing was a sweater and jeans.
¡°You¡¯ll catch your death,¡± his mother would say. It made him think of Death as a blackbird caught in a net, which was oddly comforting. Death was something to overcome, to hold onto until ready for its release upon which, presumably, it would turn on its captor and sink its claws into his shoulders to carry him away.
He thought he felt those claws once. He was seventeen. He had nightmares for weeks¡ªstill does from time to time¡ªwaking up in a cold sweat. Leo probably has worse nightmares, he thinks. Fitting that that harrowing experience should come to him now after the stoic Bureau agent told him¡well, he doesn¡¯t want to think about it yet.
After he sees Rowena.
He must ask Rowena.
Maybe after this is all done, he will stay for Christmas day. His parents have passed away, but his sister still lives on Ilton, in the split-level townhome on the south coast. He could pop around and say hello, see how the street has changed since his youth.
If Dante¡¯s Market is open, he should pick up a small gift for his niece. A box of chocolates or a snow globe, perhaps.
He fingers the edge of his ferry ticket in his jacket pocket, a bejeweled Ilton inching forward.
Yes, when this is over, perhaps he will stay a while.
Chapter 1
December 24th
Harvest Rosenbloom grumbles under her breath as her boots sink into the snow. Hazel doesn¡¯t even like yams, she thinks. ¡°No one likes yams,¡± she says to the stillness, which is perhaps a little unfair to the tuber. Truly, it¡¯s not the yams that are bothering her.
It¡¯s the fact that the lack of yams seemed to highlight the lack of other, supposedly essential, items: a pack of white candles, a roll of tape, dish sponges, and an extra bottle of seltzer water. More so, it was the almost immediate shuffling of responsibility that has Harvest crunching through the snow when she would much rather be at home, warm by the fireplace with a book in her lap.
Although the absence of yams was brought up by Hazel with the same tone and gravity as one would discuss the importance of air or clean drinking water, Hazel herself was far too busy to rectify this particular disgrace. ¡°I¡¯m helping Aunt Trixie with something for work,¡± she said, with a surprising amount of humility.
Hazel, like Harvest, works for the Bureau, an investigative organization whose authority oversees anyone with mischief in their blood¡ªancient magic passed down by birth, bite, or curse.
However, unlike Harvest, her sister¡¯s employment was not a choice. While Harvest is a trained agent for the Serious Crimes Division, Hazel is a Magi-Tech associate hired as a part of her Bureau-mandated service for her part in a string of high-profile thefts. While Hazel did not participate in the actual heists, she provided weapons and artifacts that allowed the heists to happen¡ªstumping Bureau agents for almost a year.
They could have put her in prison for a few years; instead, someone decided it would behoove them to retain her services for their benefit.
It was probably Aunt Trixie, she thinks. Aunt Trixie is on the Council, which is the governing body of the Bureau. Harvest doesn¡¯t know half of what Aunt Trixie¡¯s job responsibilities include. Her own security clearance is far below that of her aunt.
And her sister¡¯s, apparently, who absconded to the library with Aunt Trixie immediately after voicing her observation about the absence of yams.
Harvest¡¯s father, Theodore, was in his home brewing lab¡ªwhich is really just the garage¡ªand in the midst of a particularly delicate bottling process that he couldn¡¯t interrupt.
Aunt Bea, Aunt Trixie¡¯s wife, was prepping the turkey. She needed to get it in the oven as soon as possible if it were to be thoroughly cooked in time for dinner. Plus, there¡¯s the pumpkin and apple pies to make and the table still needs to be set and those potatoes won¡¯t scallop themselves.
And so, the responsibility fell onto the shoulders of the youngest Rosenbloom, Harvest. She dutifully bundled herself up and began to make her way to the town square, veering at the last second to take the long way through the pine forest at the heart of the island, hoping to at least savor a few minutes of brisk solitude.
But, of course, the cold soon soured her mood and a thin layer of sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip, adding a distinctive sense of inconvenience to it all.
Now, as she makes her way through the thick mounds of snow, her boots crunching loudly in the stillness of the early evening, she distracts herself from the trek by allowing her mind to wander where it has wandered a little too frequently as of late: her colleague, Julian Quinn.
Although she passed her agent exam with a high score, she knows she would not be where she¡¯s at in the Bureau without the Whitmore case under her belt¡ªand she is acutely aware that she was only allowed to work on that case because Quinn vouched for her.
Although they haven¡¯t worked together since October, he has become a bit of a landmark among the jumble of desks, computer screens, and whiteboards that fill the SCD office. She would never say so to him, but she has acquired the habit of searching for his tousled bronze hair, looking for the sharp line of his shoulders as he listens to his team talk about whatever murder they¡¯re investigating. Even with her attention being pulled by the email she is answering or something a coworker is saying, she knows when he arrives and when he leaves.
She passes in the shadow of a tall pine tree and glances up as the sharp call of a bird floats down from above as if cheering her on. In the distance, she can see the vague shadow of the hill that marks the very center of Ilton. She¡¯s sure that an island off the coast of Florida shouldn¡¯t have such a varied landscape, but, of course, Ilton is not a normal island. The fae legends say that the twin islands, Ilton and Astra, were brought up from the ocean floor by the High King for his daughters who wouldn¡¯t stop arguing. The islands were populated exclusively by the fae until, one day, they grew bored and moved on, returning to the Fae-Lands in what Harvest vaguely understands as some sort of alternate dimension.
But the lesson Harvest was given as a child from her mother was that it was the mischief in the sand that drew the island¡¯s first residents to the land. She can feel it now, too, as she walks: a familiar buzzing in the air¡ªlike tinnitus but a much more welcome affliction. She loves her life on the mainland, in Valkaria, but understands why magical families tend to stay on Ilton. She feels acutely connected to her own magic here.
Continuing through the cluster of trees, she wonders briefly where Quinn is spending Christmas. Doubtless, he won¡¯t be joining a rousing chorus of carols or happily donning a festive sweater. Surely being a centuries-old vampire takes the charm out of such earthly festivities.
Her thoughts return again to early October, when the Whitmore case led them here, to Ilton. They both took small allowances, testing the boundaries between work colleague and friend. Friend and maybe-lover. Really, it was so small, she doubts Quinn even remembers the kiss on his cheek or how he held her as she slept, worn down by anxiety and, unbeknownst to her at the time, the weight of the ethereal chain that linked her soul to their murder victim.
Pulling her thoughts away from Quinn, Harvest slips her phone out of her pocket to check the time, but actually she wants to read the text message she received last night, pondering its phrasing not for the first time since it arrived.
It¡¯s from Dominic, a vampire who owns a bar in a renovated lighthouse on the mainland with the refreshingly straightforward name of the Lighthouse. He is also, for all intents and purposes, Quinn¡¯s brother.
The text message sits between an ongoing conversation with Ronan, her best friend and roommate, and a message from a wrong number. It is brief, to the point, and worded politely enough to give her an out, if she so desires.
There¡¯s a new art exhibition opening at the museum next Friday. Let me know if you want to go. We could grab a drink after.
She would like to think that the message came out of the blue, but, truly, there have been hints for the past few weeks, subtle flirting that has only become more noticeable with every interaction. She started frequenting the Lighthouse after she discovered that they have fried pickles on the menu, but stuck around for the conversations with Dominic, who is friendly, incredibly attractive, and surprisingly funny. Conversations with him always begin authentically and flow seamlessly from topic to topic, no awkward pauses or post-interaction anxiety making her wonder if she said the right thing. Even though he is technically working during these interactions, Dominic doesn¡¯t seem to mind. The conversations are only ever interrupted by a disgruntled customer in need of a refill.
The attention is certainly not unwanted, but her last relationship ended fairly recently and quite acrimoniously. Ronan tells her that she needs to get back out there, but she insists that she¡¯s not ready to start dating again.
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Is that still true?
Maybe.
Of course, she knows why she is really hesitating, and she allows herself to think it now, in the silence of the snow and the stillness of the forest.
Quinn.
He had been interested in her before she started seeing her last boyfriend, and now that she is single again, she is waiting to see if he will make a move again.
Not that he¡¯s given her any indication that he would do such a thing. As far as she knows, Quinn is still casually dating Dr. Burrows, the medical examiner who has become somewhat of a friend in the past few months. She and Burrows met up for drinks a week ago and although their conversation stayed far away from Agent Julian Quinn, she also didn¡¯t mention anything to the contrary and Harvest didn¡¯t want to ask.
Before she can type out an answer to Dominic¡¯s message, just to delete it unsent as she has done several times since she received it, she trips on something heavy hiding in the snow. The phone slips out of her hand and, almost without thought, she presses her thumb and forefinger together, the word ¡°Stop¡± traveling on her breath.
All types of mischief-work require form: something to shape the raw power, like a ritual, a motion of the hand or wand, a glass or copper vessel, or something spoken. It can be as simple as a command or a string of phrases. A story, even. Sometimes it¡¯s something less specific, a memory, or an emotion.
Harvest doesn¡¯t use magic as casually as her family. She doesn¡¯t rely on mischief to do things like open doors or clean the dishes, and, even then, she prefers the more sophisticated arrangements of words she learned as a child¡ªvariations of Arabic, Latin, and French twisted together to form the language of witches.
However, the simple command comes to her before she realizes, spurned by the irrational fear of losing her phone. She feels the word burst like a bubble in the middle of her chest, the mischief in her voice burning at the back of her throat.
The phone obeys her command and stops its descent with a jerk.
With a deep breath, she pulls her arm back as if grasping onto an invisible string, and her phone gently floats back up to her hand. She slips it into her pocket as she glances down to see what she tripped over.
She freezes at the sight of a hand, turning white with frost and tinged with blue decay. Bending down, she gently brushes the snow to the side to confirm that it is, in fact, a dead body.
As troubling as this is, Harvest is even more alarmed by the fact that the hand she tripped over is not empty.
Inside the curled, frozen fingers, is a business card with a familiar crest and an even more familiar name.
Julian Quinn does not care for Christmas.
This is hardly surprising considering that he has lived through more than a thousand years of winter holidays, that, in one way or another, can be considered Christmas.
He remembers the festivals of his youth, days-long and filled with over-indulgence and very public displays of emotions. He remembers the Middle Ages, when Christmas was celebrated in much the same way. The Victorians certainly knew how to celebrate Christmas, as well, but even then, the day was just a normal day to him. There was just more greenery hung up about the place. He¡¯s glad, at least, that the cheerless view of the holiday forced by the Protestant Reformation has been tempered by time, if only because it made the day even more boring. He¡¯d take Christmas in the twenty-first century over that any day: at least now, it¡¯s once again acceptable to drink oneself senseless.
Of course, he can¡¯t get drunk in his state of interminable damnation, but it¡¯s the principle of the matter.
He is sitting at the bar at the Lighthouse, which is quickly filling up. Luckily everyone here seems to share Quinn¡¯s apathy to the winter holiday. He appreciates that there are no Christmas lights, no plastic Santa Clauses, no tinsel, and certainly no Christmas songs. The one concession to the holiday is the wassail which is on special today. Quinn declined a glass when he arrived with a shudder.
Instead, he opted for his standard Midori and Coke, which is a code word for blood. Not that the code is needed at the Lighthouse.
Valkaria may look like an average-sized, rural municipality on the map, insignificant due to its lack of notable landmarks or tourist-worthy attractions, but the reality is that there is an unspoken divide. A line splits the town in half: the north is all magic and mischief while the south is mundane. Normal. Mortal? The mischief-bound community has never settled on a word for those who are non-magical; at the end of the day, it doesn¡¯t matter the language used. The divide must be maintained and so it is, through the continued efforts of the Valkaria¡¯s northern residents. The welcoming symbols are just one of the ways to delineate which side of town is which.
Of course, it¡¯s not the symbol itself that matters, merely the presence of one. All welcoming signs are variations of the symbol for salt, the carved or painted lines denoting a circle of protection that is largely agreed upon more so than physical.
Although it exists in the sliver between magic and non-magic communities of Valkaria, there is a symbol on the door that marks the Lighthouse as a safe space for magical residents of the area. More importantly, the symbol ensures that the building looks derelict and closed to those who do not recognize it.
In other words, there is no need to keep one¡¯s mischief to oneself.
Quinn clinks his glass against Dominic¡¯s in a silent cheers and takes a long sip, savoring the thick liquid. It hits the back of his throat, and he feels his teeth sharpen in response. He knows if he were to smile now, he would look every bit of the vampire that he is: sharp canine teeth, chiseled cheekbones, smoldering amber eyes, slim physique.
When Quinn¡¯s glass is empty, Dominic refills it with Ferro-Kina. ¡°Have you heard from Harvest?¡± he asks, innocently, as he pours.
But Dominic is far from innocent.
Quinn is aware that his friend is interested in his colleague. On the surface, he supposes this is a good thing. Harvest may not be perfect, but she does generally try to be a good person (the one notable exception being her affair with her sister¡¯s fiance, Ezra, which sounds more torrid than it is). She¡¯s intelligent, empathetic, and¡ªsomething Quinn holds above all else¡ªa good agent. She deserves a functional, loving relationship, especially considering that her last relationship was the opposite of functional.
Her last boyfriend, Ezra (the aforementioned fiance), had been Quinn¡¯s friend, too, though they haven¡¯t spoken since Ezra was brought in for questioning related to the possible murder of Hazel Rosenbloom.
The murder was a false alarm: it was a murder, but not of Hazel. However, Ezra showed his true colors during the dissolution of his relationship with Harvest, his words harsh and abusive, hinting at something far more controlling than Quinn had realized. Not that Quinn hasn¡¯t said something along the same lines at some point in his existence. For a very brief moment, he held Aristotle¡¯s belief that women are a sort-of defective version of men. He has long since re-examined his position on this matter, acknowledging, irrevocably, the error of his logic.
He isn¡¯t sure when Dominic set his eyes on Harvest. Was it when Dominic saved her from a vampire attack while she was working on the Whitmore case? Was it when he later killed the vampire with a fae-forged dagger? Dominic does like to save people.
¡°Not lately,¡± Quinn says, taking a sip of his drink.
¡°No cases?¡±
¡°Not together. She¡¯s been working with Fitz. They just closed a big one.¡±
Agent Olivia Fitzgerald is the head of the Serious Crimes Division, the largest department within the Bureau. She is technically Quinn¡¯s boss, too. Thankfully, the Bureau has yet to succumb to the overdeveloped departmental structure from which other similar organizations seem to suffer. Quinn¡¯s team exists within SCD, but focuses solely on suspicious deaths while enjoying a fair amount of autonomy. Other teams within the department, like the one Harvest joined, tend to focus more on things like robbery, illegal drugs, kidnapping, and fraud.
He isn¡¯t familiar with the details of the case Harvest had been working on, but he would often see her hunched over her desk, rifling through files or, sometimes, just staring at the photographs and evidence pinned on the bulletin board that housed the components of her case, like mixed-up puzzle pieces waiting for a steady hand.
Her dedication is admirable, but worries him. He doesn¡¯t want her to burn out before her first full year as an agent. He thought about telling her as much, but there never seemed to be an appropriate moment.
If anything, Dominic might help her loosen up, he thinks.
¡°She¡¯s spending Christmas on Ilton, though.¡± He absentmindedly twists the ring on his pinky finger, the mischief in the metal a familiar buzz against his skin. ¡°Why?¡±
Dominic shrugs. ¡°Just curious. How¡¯s Burrows?¡±
¡°With her new boyfriend.¡±
¡°Ah. And how do you feel about that?¡±
¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he says. His tone is casual and, for once, it¡¯s not hiding anything underneath. When Burrows broke things off between them a few days ago, he was somewhat relieved to know it was because she found someone else. He cared about her, but he had always viewed their relationship as casual. Although she never said as much, he knows she considered it as more than casual.
He takes a sip of his drink, pausing to savor the immediate hit of floral flavor. He tries not to let it remind him of Harvest¡ªwhite flowers in the moonlight¡ªand focuses on the bitter, coppery bite at the end.
As if on cue, his phone buzzes, and they both look down to see Harvest¡¯s name. He answers, noting that Dominic has respectfully stepped away. Not that it matters. As a vampire, Dominic has exceptionally sharp hearing, just like Quinn, who has no trouble hearing Harvest over the sounds of the crowd around him.
¡°I¡¯ve found a body,¡± she begins. ¡°Male, mid-to-late-fifties maybe, wearing a blue sweater and a gray jacket. He¡¯s clutching your business card.¡±
He curses under his breath.
Chapter 2
¡°Henry Faulkner. I questioned him yesterday,¡± says Quinn.
The area where Henry Faulkner was found is right on the trail through the pine forest. The trail has completely disappeared under the snow, but the trees are lined up along the edge, forming an obvious pathway. They¡¯ve cleared the area around the body, but the sense of urgency is palpable, as the crushed pine needles on the forest floor are becoming powdery with snow again.
The fifty-nine year old retired architect lies on his back, his eyes staring unseeing at the tree limbs above. Besides the fact that he is deceased, there seems to be nothing wrong. He looks frozen in time, a still photograph stuck to the forest floor.
Henry must have rushed out of his home almost as soon as Quinn left him. He didn¡¯t even have time to change into more appropriate clothing, still donning the blue sweater Quinn had seen him wearing yesterday. The lightweight sweater and jacket may have been sufficient for the fifty-degree weather in Valkaria, but not for the freezing temperatures of Ilton.
Quinn had done much the same, rushing to catch the last ferry of the evening. Luckily, he has no such considerations when it comes to his own wardrobe. He can still feel extreme cold but he is not as bothered by it as he was when he was human. He wears a simple wool coat over his suit.
Unlike Harvest, who, as they walked from the docks, continued to rub her hands together in an effort to warm herself up. He could hear her teeth chattering as they walked, and he silently handed her a pair of leather gloves he keeps in his coat pocket. They¡¯re too big for her, but she took them gratefully.
She adjusts the gloves and looks up at him. ¡°Why were you questioning him?¡±
¡°He was listed as next-of-kin for Sunny Blackwood,¡± he says, tearing his gaze away from the lifeless form of Henry Faulkner to look at Harvest and Lottie.
Due to Ilton¡¯s size and population, the island doesn¡¯t have a proper Bureau office. Instead, there is a loose arrangement of contract employees that act as liaisons until Bureau agents from the mainland can make their way over. Lottie Nobel is one such liaison, and both Quinn and Harvest know her from the Whitmore case.
¡°Blackwood was a werewolf who was found deceased in her living room two days ago,¡± he adds.
Sunny Blackwood¡¯s cause of death was not what one would classify as suspicious¡ªat least not immediately so¡ªbut Quinn took on the investigation because everyone else was out-of-office for the holiday.
Plus, he was bored.
He met with Henry Faulkner, who was listed as Blackwood¡¯s next-of-kin, more to inform him of the passing of his friend than to question him. Faulkner¡¯s response began as something quite predictable¡ªgrief wrapped in disbelief and confusion¡ªbut as Quinn talked to him, Faulkner¡¯s mood shifted into something darker, something skittish, like an animal cornered.
¡°I had the sense that he knew something, but I didn¡¯t want to push him.¡± His tone is matter-of-fact, but Harvest softens her look. Despite his dispassionate professionalism, she always seems to hear the small hint of regret¡ªa feat considering he is quite good at hiding it.
There is a pause, filled by the sound of a camera shutter. Since there is no Magi-Tech team, they¡¯ve recruited a local photographer to document the scene.
The photographer is actually Lottie¡¯s son, a high school student named Milo. Milo is the editor of the school newspaper and owns a surprisingly expensive camera. He is far calmer than Quinn would expect, but, as Lottie tells him, this is not Milo¡¯s first case. ¡°Takes after his mom,¡± she says with a small shrug.
The island also lacks a pathologist, Quinn learned when he met Harvest at the ferry. She informed him that her Aunt Bea agreed to perform the autopsy, if needed. As the singular doctor on the island, she is really the only one qualified. Harvest also warned Quinn that Aunt Bea would expect him to come back to the house afterwards and was prepared to make him stay for the night.
¡°I¡¯m just here to confirm Henry Faulkner¡¯s identity. Maybe oversee the transportation of his body back to the mainland,¡± he said as they walked side-by-side to through the forest.
¡°I know that,¡± Harvest replied, stepping over a fallen tree. He instinctively held out his hand to guide her, and she squeezed his fingers briefly before once again shoving her gloved hands in her pockets to continue warming them up. ¡°But she doesn¡¯t. Besides, Dad has a new batch of wine he wants you to taste test. He¡¯s calling it spiced blood-mead, so apologies in advance.¡±
He grumbled a bit about his distaste for the holiday, but only for show. He likes Harvest¡¯s family and was impressed with Theodore¡¯s homemade wine, a shared interest that did wonders to diffuse the ¡°what are your intentions toward my daughter¡± talk that was poised on Theodore¡¯s lips when they first met. He doesn¡¯t know her sister well, but she is friendly and interesting enough. Quinn has even gotten in the habit of referring to Harvest¡¯s fae aunt as Aunt Bea, instead of the more appropriate Dr. Rosenbloom. Though he would probably have his pay docked if he deigned to call Commissioner Rosenbloom Aunt Trixie, they, too, get along well enough, having attended the same Bureau functions over the years.
In all, the only member of the Rosenbloom household he could do without is the flirtatious ghost, Francine. Harvest assured him that Francine will be on her best behavior (¡°I told her you¡¯re seeing someone¡±).
¡°Henry grew up here,¡± Lottie says. ¡°Before your time,¡± she adds, glancing at Harvest. ¡°His parents passed away a few years back, but he still has a sister here. Alice. Lives off of Ashton Road.¡±
¡°Could he have been visiting her?¡± asks Quinn.
Harvest frowns. ¡°Why is he in Inger Park then? Ashton Road is on the opposite side of the island, back toward the docks.¡±
¡°Going for a walk?¡± he suggests.
¡°In this weather? He¡¯s not dressed for a walk.¡±
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He arches an eyebrow at her. Neither are you.
She narrows her gaze and readjusts the gloves. ¡°Cause of death?¡± she asks Aunt Bea.
Aunt Bea is looking at the body through a stone with a hole in the middle. Although she is older than her niece, she looks younger, her fae heritage responsible for both her tapered ears and youthful appearance.
Henry Faulkner¡¯s death is eerily similar to Sunny Blackwood¡¯s: eyes open but no sign of foul play otherwise. No injuries or wounds. No signs of suffocation or poison. He expects Aunt Bea¡¯s conclusion to be something similar to what the pathologist for Blackwood concluded at the time: heart attack.
Aunt Bea surprises him by saying, ¡°Something not natural.¡±
¡°Why do you say that?¡± he asks, wondering how likely it is for a Bureau pathologist to miss something that a small-town doctor could see immediately. Honestly, he wouldn¡¯t be surprised. The pathologist yesterday was new to Quinn, a fae-shifter named Hudson. Quinn found him clumsy and unnecessarily glib. He is still waiting on the full autopsy report, which should have been in his inbox an hour ago.
¡°The look on his face,¡± says Aunt Bea casually.
It¡¯s not what Quinn is expecting, but it¡¯s much better than Hudson¡¯s response, which was ¡°Don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°Right, well, can you prove that?¡± he asks.
¡°Maybe.¡± She stands up and strips off her cotton gloves, slipping the stone into her coat pocket. ¡°I¡¯ll run some diagnostic tests when we transport the body back to my lab.¡±
¡°Time of death?¡±
¡°I can answer that,¡± says Harvest, blinking. Her eyes turn white, glowing in the dusky evening light, as she examines the bright blooms of colors that only she can see¡ªphysical manifestations of the energies people give off and unknowingly leave behind. Harvest¡¯s second-sight developed when she was still quite young, exploding into her vision at the most inopportune times and causing quite a few scraped knees and even a broken wrist, as she once told him. Luckily, she has since developed the ability to access it only when needed, and it¡¯s become a valuable asset to the work she does for the Bureau.
Better than a sniffer dog any day, he thinks.
¡°His aura is almost gone.¡± She tilts her head to the side. ¡°I would say he¡¯s been here for ten hours at least.¡±
He nods. ¡°Do you know his sister?¡±
Harvest shakes her head.
¡°I do,¡± says Lottie. ¡°Well, a little. Her daughter and Milo were in band together.¡±
¡°Do you feel comfortable informing her of her brother¡¯s death?¡± Lottie has a background in bereavement counseling which makes her an ideal candidate to deliver the bad news. Quinn is probably just as skilled as Lottie when it comes to talking to grieving families, but there is something sour about delivering news of a deceased family member on Christmas Eve. Even Lottie¡¯s tenuous connection to Alice might soften the blow to come.
Lottie nods. ¡°I¡¯ll head over right now. Are we treating it as suspicious?¡±
¡°Yes, but don¡¯t tell the sister that yet.¡±
The Faulkner townhome on Ashton Road is decorated with the bare minimum of holiday cheer. One string of multicolored lights frame the front door which is adorned with a simple balsam fir wreath.
Still, the house has become festive simply by its environment.
Like the rest of the island, the robin¡¯s-egg blue house with white trim is covered in a fine dusting of snow, awash in gold as the sun settles closer toward the horizon. The downstairs lights are on, and Harvest can see a Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, decorated in blues and silvers that match the facade.
Harvest blinks, expecting to see a grayish fug of grief blocking the house¡ªand while it is there, it is not as gray or as thick as she expects.
¡°Their grief isn¡¯t very strong,¡± she mumbles, when Quinn arches an eyebrow at her. ¡°I don¡¯t think they were very close.¡±
Lottie answers the door and gives them a shrug, confirming Harvest¡¯s suspicions in a hushed voice. ¡°They hadn¡¯t spoken for at least a year,¡± she says, ushering them inside. ¡°Alice and her wife already said that they¡¯re okay with speaking to you, but seem a little lost as to how they can help.¡±
Lottie leads them into the kitchen, where a tea set is arranged on the table. Alice is sitting by the window, a mug of tea already in her hands. Alice¡¯s wife, Carmen, introduces herself and offers them tea. Harvest accepts. Quinn politely declines.
Harvest knows that it¡¯s not because he can¡¯t drink tea¡ªbut that he doesn¡¯t like tea. As a centuries-old vampire, Quinn¡¯s body can only derive nutrition through blood, but he does enjoy the occasional alcoholic beverage. If pressed, he can consume other liquids and even a little bit of solid food, though the latter is reserved particularly for special occasions, and, as Dominic once hinted, it¡¯s not ideal.
Alice is the youngest Faulkner, though it¡¯s obvious that she and Henry came from the same gene pool. They both have the same shade of mousy brown hair, and the same unassuming, straight noses. But Alice¡¯s green eyes are a little closer-set, and her face is round compared to Henry¡¯s sharp jawline.
As she talks, Alice shifts her body to face them, but her gaze keeps straying to the window, which looks north, toward Inger Park and the copse of trees where her brother¡¯s body was found three hours ago.
¡°Alice and Henry barely knew each other,¡± interjects Carmen, when it becomes clear that Alice¡¯s answers aren¡¯t as detailed as Quinn wants them to be. ¡°I¡¯ve only met him twice since I married Alice.¡±
¡°Once at the wedding,¡± supplies Alice, pouring herself another cup of tea. ¡°And again at Serena¡¯s graduation. There was an age gap. Between me and him. He was much older and moved out as soon as he could. I barely saw him when I was younger and it became even more infrequent after our parents passed away.¡±
¡°So the last time you saw him was at Serena¡¯s graduation?¡±
¡°Yes,¡± she replies, sipping her tea. ¡°That was a year ago.¡±
¡°Serena¡¯s your daughter?¡±
¡°She¡¯s nineteen now. Home for the holidays from her first semester at Yale,¡± says Alice, a flicker of pride in her eyes. ¡°She¡¯s upstairs if you¡¡±
¡°That¡¯s not necessary,¡± says Quinn. ¡°So, your brother¡¯s visit to Ilton wasn¡¯t planned?¡±
¡°No, I had no clue he was on the island until Lottie¡¡± There is a small hiccup in her voice, a hint of grief.
¡°Do you know why he would be here? Maybe visiting someone?¡±
¡°I wouldn¡¯t know,¡± she says. ¡°He really didn¡¯t keep up with anyone on the island as far as I knew, not since the accident.¡±
¡°Accident?¡±
¡°When he was in high school. There was a party and a girl drowned. He got community service for underage drinking. He left the island almost as soon as he graduated.¡±
¡°Can you tell us more about the accident? It sounds like it was quite traumatizing,¡± says Harvest.
¡°I don¡¯t remember a lot of the details. I must have been five or six. I wouldn¡¯t remember at all if it wasn¡¯t for him telling me something weird after it happened.¡± She pauses and looks out of the window again, wrinkles forming at the corner of her eyes as she squints into the distance, as if she can see her memories fogged in the glass.
When she turns back, her face is pale, worry lining her brow. ¡°He said that the bird almost got him that day, that he could feel Death¡¯s claws on his shoulders.¡±
It¡¯s all their fault¡ªthe blood, the death.
The darkness.
The flames that reach to the sky.
The roar of the waves has been a constant since birth. It¡¯s strange not to hear them now. Almost as strange as it is to hear the pulse of blood or words unformed by lips.
This place that they¡¯ve created, filled only with ragged breathing. It¡¯s all their mistake. They share the weight equally.
It bears witness to their lies, calls out to them like a bird.
She shouldn¡¯t have come here. She can feel that now, in her heart, against her sternum. The night haunts her, hanging over her like a bird of prey, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and carry her away. Just like Henry once said.
She reaches out into the nothingness and touches cold stone. Someone will come, won¡¯t they? Someone will realize what¡¯s happening and come looking? She should wait here, so they can find her.
Yes, she¡¯ll wait here.
Someone will come looking.
Someone will come soon.
Chapter 3
Lottie Nobel watches the sun set through the kitchen window, her mug of coffee quickly turning cold. The dark seems to be chasing her thoughts, and she struggles to hold onto them, to refocus on what she has begun to think of as the Familiar Worries.
The Worries started when Milo was born. She held him in her arms, and she felt a stab in her chest at the thought that her precious boy would soon be subjected to the whims and dangers of the world. The Worries have since spread from their original inspiration and attach themselves to all sorts of things. They are as innocuous as ¡°What if I purchased the store brand window cleaner?¡± to ¡°What if a semi-truck crashes through our living room?¡±
The latter is particularly ridiculous, because there are no semi-trucks on Ilton.
Tonight, the Worries are not so familiar. They are about Henry Faulkner. More so, it¡¯s his sister¡¯s face as she relayed the anecdote about Death¡¯s claws: a sort of distant, haunted look by association. The phrase seems to be circling in her mind, too.
Death¡¯s claws.
Perhaps Death has its claws in her, she thinks, taking a sip of coffee.
She has been thinking about the accident mentioned by Alice since she left Ashton Road and a small inkling has begun to grow, a dim memory growing brighter even as the sky in front of her grows darker. She was just a child when the accident happened, a little younger than Alice would have been.
Lottie¡¯s face is now reflected back at her in the kitchen window, but instead, she¡¯s seeing her father, the school principal, standing anxious on the beach.
She¡¯s remembering herself, dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because there was no one to watch her, the constant symptom of single-parenthood.
It felt like the whole island was gathered on the beach, searching for a sign of her. She remembers her name, suddenly, a memory unlatched.
Maisie Myer.
Lottie recalls a grim shake of a head. Who was he? The Bureau liaison at the time, most likely. She can hear the words, ¡°We can¡¯t find her,¡± so harsh and final, like a door slamming shut.
Even at four she knew what this meant. Felt the gravity of loss in the eyes and shoulders of the adults around her.
She takes a sip of her coffee, and her reflection in the window is momentarily joined by the dark blur of Milo shuffling into the kitchen. She feels an almost painful burst of love in her chest. She knows the beach parties are still popular among the island¡¯s dwindling population of teenagers, despite the fact that the public beaches are closed after nine o¡¯clock. As far as she knows, Milo has never attended one, for which she is grateful. The Familiar Worries would have a lot to say about it if he did.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he asks.
Lottie realizes that she¡¯s staring at her son, and she shrugs. ¡°Just grateful to have you as a son,¡± she says, ruffling his hair.
He brushes her away, but can¡¯t hide the smile. ¡°Whatever. I finished uploading those photos by the way.¡±
She hadn¡¯t been surprised when Milo agreed to take photos for the Bureau. The part-time job comes with a fair chunk of cash, and he¡¯s saving up for university. But she was surprised by how readily he accepted being around a dead body. Most of the cases Lottie deals with on the island involve theft and usually Milo is documenting break-ins: broken windows, knocked over tables, footprints left in the mud.
She knows he has dreams of being a journalist, but she wonders if he would consider working in Magi-Tech. If he worked for the Bureau in Valkaria, he would be only a ferry ride away from home.
¡°What¡¯s your assessment?¡± she asks. ¡°Anything stand out about them?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe. I mean, the guy didn¡¯t look injured. It could have been something like a heart attack or an aneurysm, right? But his eyes¡¡± Milo pauses and quirks his lips to the side in thought, just like his father. She struggles to hide the overly sentimental look before Milo notices and gives her his trademark eyeroll.
¡°I thought he looked scared,¡± he says, finally, almost sheepishly.
¡°Well, his sister said he avoided the island as much as possible after an accident when he was younger. A friend of his drowned. Maybe there¡¯s something about the island that scared him? Maybe it was fear from being here, on Ilton?¡±
¡°People don¡¯t die from fear.¡±
¡°We live on a magical island and come from a long line of water-workers and healers. Stranger things have happened.¡± She shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s a silly theory, but all investigations have to start somewhere.
The sound of Angel Fernandez¡¯s boots against the tile floor are harsh compared to the silence pressing in around them.
Angel wouldn¡¯t have it any other way. Angel takes a deep, freeing breath as they wait for the elevator to bring them to the floor that houses the Serious Crimes Division and its various workgroups. When Angel¡¯s boss, Agent Quinn, called, Angel was more than ready to leave the incredibly awkward family dinner which seemed to be a thinly veiled attempt to set them up with the neighbor¡¯s son, a lawyer named Blake. Angel has nothing against Blake, who was perfectly polite and equally embarrassed, and everything against being set-up, particularly by their parents.
It didn¡¯t help that the phrase ¡°you¡¯ve lost some weight¡± had been uttered at least three times within the first hour, which is never an appropriate statement, even if said with a cheery, encouraging tone.
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It¡¯s not that Angel doesn¡¯t love their family.
They do. Immensely.
They even feel supported, despite their father¡¯s persistent confusion around their pronouns. The real annoyance stems from a lack of shared interests. Angel always had the feeling they would have much rather preferred a Blake in the family. Instead, they have an archivist-turned-agent with a terrible work-life balance. Angel briefly considers life as a family-approved profession and suppresses a shudder.
The elevator doors open and Angel makes their way to the desk, noting without a hint of surprise, the hunched over, winged silhouette of their colleague, Agent Wild Neverbee.
¡°Quinn called you too?¡± Angel asks, sliding into their rolling chair and tapping their keyboard.
Wild looks up, more startled by Angel¡¯s words than their presence. ¡°No. Why, what¡¯s happened?¡±
¡°You¡¯re just here on Christmas Eve to do some filing?¡±
Wild shrugs, his wings fluttering slightly. He closes the file folder in front of him and places it on the stack on his desk. ¡°It¡¯s easier to do when there¡¯s no one else here.¡±
¡°Well, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here,¡± replies Angel, typing something into their computer. ¡°There¡¯s been a development. Well, maybe.¡±
They tell Wild about Henry Faulkner¡¯s death and how similar it looked to Sunny Blackwood.
¡°So, we think they¡¯re connected?¡±
¡°That¡¯s the line of inquiry we¡¯re taking.¡±
¡°Which means, we¡¯re looking at Blackwood¡¯s death as a murder,¡± says Wild.
Angel nods. ¡°I came in to get a bit of background on both of them. Faulkner¡¯s sister mentioned an accident. It¡¯s the reason he stayed away from the island as much as he could.¡±
¡°So what could make him visit now?¡± wonders Wild. Angel inclines their head in agreement. ¡°Sunny Blackwood¡¯s death? Did she ever live on Ilton?¡± Even as he asks the question, Wild is searching through the files on his desk until he locates the one marked Blackwood, the one that neither of them have had time to fully review yet. ¡°Sunny Blackwood grew up on Ilton.¡± He types Faulkner¡¯s full name into the Bureau database, which is already pulled up on his computer screen. ¡°A few streets down from Faulkner, actually.¡±
¡°So, they probably knew each other growing up. And stayed in close enough contact that Blackwood listed Faulkner as her emergency contact.¡±
¡°We have the security footage from Blackwood¡¯s apartment building. We should check with the ferry company. I¡¯d be curious to see if there was anyone following Faulkner, who may have also been to see Blackwood before she died.¡±
Angel makes a note. ¡°I can call, but with the holiday, who knows if anyone will answer.¡±
¡°What about this accident?¡±
¡°Quinn didn¡¯t have much, besides a possible year. The sister said she was five or six, so we¡¯re looking for something about a girl drowning on Ilton sometime in 1982.¡±
Wild types a few keywords into the Bureau database while Angel waits patiently. Wild shakes his head. ¡°Nothing. If it was a proper accident, the Bureau might not have investigated.¡±
¡°Local paper might have something,¡± says Angel, getting up from their desk. They begin walking toward the elevators.
¡°Where are you going?¡±
¡°The Archives. You coming?¡±
The elevator doors almost close on Wild¡¯s wings.
The Archives are in the basement levels of the Bureau Headquarters in Valkaria. Angel flips the light switch and, one by one, the fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker on, revealing a seemingly endless hallway of shelving units.
The first few rows house archival boxes with neatly stamped labels and inactive case files, but the shelves in the back are occupied by far older texts used mostly for research by agents and Magi-Tech associates. Even from the doorway, Angel can see the crumbling spines of grimoires, can feel the tingle of mischief in the bound manuscripts as they cry out to be freed.
Or read, they think, which is much the same thing when it comes to magical texts. Angel knows that, in some cases, the more classified materials are stored in a vault at the back of the room to keep the world safe from their contents. They feel the protection spell of the vault like a low-pitched drone at the back of their mind.
Angel motions for Wild to follow them as they enter a room just to the right. It¡¯s a small office with a desk and a computer. Angel moves the mouse to wake up the display, as they settle into the chair.
¡°They¡¯ve been working on digitizing a lot of the collection, including newspaper clippings from local publications who may not have the funding themselves. It¡¯s all a part of a cultural initiative sponsored by the Council to preserve the history of magical communities. Let¡¯s see if any newspapers from Ilton are listed.¡± Angel types a keyword into the search bar and scans the results, as Wild pulls up a chair from the corner, leaning forward to see the computer screen.
¡°So,¡± Angel says casually, eyes still trained on the list of results on the screen, ¡°no Christmas plans?¡±
Wild shrugs but the movement is a forced sort of casual. Angel appreciates Wild¡¯s unfathomably large capacity for friendliness. He does everything with care, patience, and a smile. The downside to that, of course, is when he is anything less than the previous listed qualities, it becomes quite obvious. Angel arches an eyebrow at him. ¡°Is everything okay with you and Ivo?¡± they ask, thinking about Wild¡¯s sort-of boyfriend, a cat-s¨¬th who works for the Bureau. Strictly speaking, it is frowned upon for agents to be in romantic relationships, but Ivo is a technician in the Magi-Tech lab and not technically an agent.
¡°Yes, actually. It¡¯s going really well,¡± he says with a surprisingly shy smile. But then he sighs. ¡°Ivo is visiting his family in the Fae-Lands, but I¡¯m not exactly welcome there.¡±
¡°Oh, sorry,¡± they say. ¡°You don¡¯t have to¡ª¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s okay. I don¡¯t mind talking about it. It¡¯s just¡¡±
¡°Complicated?¡±
¡°To say the least,¡± he says with a laugh. ¡°I was exiled.¡±
¡°Excuse me?¡±
He laughs again. ¡°It¡¯s a long story. And one that should be accompanied by a strong drink. What about you? Family must be missing you tonight.¡±
¡°Yeah. Mom wasn¡¯t happy I had to rush off, but it¡¯s far better being here than trying to make small talk with Blake-the-lawyer,¡± they say, rolling their eyes.
¡°Set-up?¡±
¡°Yep. The neighbor¡¯s son.¡±
¡°Boring?¡±
¡°Dreadfully.¡± Angel shakes their head. ¡°I love my family, and I know they love me. But it¡¯s¡¡±
¡°Complicated?¡±
Angel smiles, eyes still focused on the screen. ¡°To say the least.¡± They click on a promising result. ¡°Think I found it. Local Teen Drowns at Deadman¡¯s Point.¡±
¡°Well, that¡¯s not a creepy name at all,¡± Wild mumbles, leaning closer to the screen.
The article explains that Maisie Myer attended a party with some friends at the small outcropping of rocks known locally as Deadman¡¯s Point to celebrate graduating high school. Maisie was supposed to leave the next day for a summer abroad before continuing her studies at a state university. The party was interrupted when someone noticed they hadn¡¯t seen Maisie in a while. Someone even ran to her house to see if she had left early, waking up her parents who then notified the local authorities.
As Wild reads, Angel looks at the photo next to the article, showing Maisie smiling widely. Angel can¡¯t help but consider what Maisie would be like now, if she hadn¡¯t died so young. What was she going to study? English or art? Political science or medicine? Would she own a restaurant or be a stay-at-home-parent?
Can death be fated, Angel wonders. Maybe Maisie would have died anyway, at university or walking down the sidewalk?
Life is either full of meaning or completely senseless, after all.
¡°Her body was never found,¡± says Wild.
¡°That¡¯s not necessarily suspicious,¡± says Angel. ¡°It¡¯s certainly not unheard of in a drowning, especially if the current was strong.¡±
Wild nods. ¡°There were witnesses, too. The article mentions a few specific names. Sunny Blackwood and Henry Faulkner. And two others: Leon Cruz and Rowena Little.¡±
Chapter 4
The last time Quinn was at the Rosenbloom Estate, the air was hot and stuffy, and he was worried about Harvest, a heavy feeling in his chest which only served to increase the greenhouse effect of the Rosenbloom land, rife with verdant, lush plant life.
This evening, the air is brisk and light, his worries far more subdued and work-related than his previous visit. He glances at Harvest, who looks flushed from the walk, her caramel eyes bright with something that, if not happiness, is at least close to contentment. Her hair seems brighter, too, as if the stress she carried before had slowly been draining her of color.
They are standing on the front porch of the pink Queen Anne, which is covered in a thick blanket of snow. The red door is adorned with handmade wreaths of pine branches, seashells and bright gold ribbons. When they first approached, Quinn couldn¡¯t help but be reminded of a snowglobe, an entire microcosm of life content in its isolation, and for a brief moment, he felt like an intruder, a dark shadow against the snowy white softness of the estate.
He brushed the feeling away when Harvest¡¯s father clapped a hand on his shoulder and welcomed him inside. Hazel even gave him a loose hug as she handed him a mug of eggnog, which is currently sitting on the porch railing, untouched.
Quinn slips his phone into his pocket, having just disconnected from a call with Angel and Wild. He ducks away from a bobbing lightbulb as he leans against the porch railing. The house is filled with them, floating and bouncing around like pixies. Harvest told him they normally decorate with candles, but she never did make it to Dante¡¯s Market for that pack of white candles.
¡°I know Rowena,¡± says Harvest. ¡°Well, I know of her. I went to school with her cousin. I don¡¯t think there are any other Littles on the island.¡±
¡°And what about the other one? Leon Cruz?¡±
Harvest shakes her head. ¡°Aunt Bea or my dad might know though.¡± She pauses, watching Quinn¡¯s furrowed brow in thought. ¡°So, we¡¯re treating it as a murder, then?¡±
He nods. ¡°For now. Unless the autopsy says something else.¡±
¡°And you think the accident has something to do with it?¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you?¡±
¡°Is this a test?¡±
He arches an eyebrow. ¡°Do you want it to be?¡±
She rolls her eyes. ¡°I think the accident is involved. It ties him to Sunny Blackwood and it¡¯s the reason he stayed away from Ilton for so long. Whatever happened to Sunny Blackwood made him come back to the island.¡±
Quinn nods. ¡°People don¡¯t change the habit of a lifetime on a whim.¡±
¡°You said it looked like Henry knew something when you talked to him. Maybe whatever he knew put a target on his back? Maybe someone followed him here, after killing Sunny?¡±
¡°Angel put in a call to the ferry company for a passenger list, hoping to compare it with the camera footage from Blackwood¡¯s apartment building. But with the holiday, who knows when they¡¯ll get back to us.¡±
¡°Do we have Sunny¡¯s post-mortem yet? We could compare it with whatever Aunt Bea has from Henry.¡±
Quinn pulls his phone out again to refresh his email. He shakes his head. ¡°Not yet.¡±
There is a pause in the conversation, but it is a comfortable lull. Harvest reaches out from under the roof of the porch to catch a few snowflakes in her palm, watching them land against the leather gloves. Then she smiles at him and bumps her shoulder against his. ¡°I¡¯m glad we get to spend Christmas together at least,¡± she says.
¡°All it took was a murder,¡± he replies, dryly.
Still, he smiles gently at her and for a moment, recalls the sensation of her lips on his cheek. It was the last time they were on the island, and they were standing outside of a hotel room. Her lips were soft and warm¡ªtoo warm. She was feverish and collapsed as soon as she pulled back.
Now, she is far from warm, and Quinn sees a shiver travel through her body. ¡°Let¡¯s get you inside before you freeze to death, little witch.¡±
She rolls her eyes at the nickname but quickly follows him inside. The house is warm and welcoming, smelling of baked apples and frost. Harvest begins to remove her winter layers, hanging her scarf and coat up on the rack by the door. Quinn does the same, taking back his gloves, smoothing them out before returning them to the inside pocket of his coat.
¡°Thanks,¡± she says, motioning toward the gloves.
¡°Anytime.¡± He reaches out to sweep away a few remaining snowflakes from Harvest¡¯s hair. His hand brushes against her cheek, an accident turned intentional by the second of pause, but encouraged by the slight tilt of her head as she leans into his touch.
She opens her mouth to say something, her cheeks rosy pink with cold and maybe something else¡ªsomething curious and hesitant¡ªwhen Theodore walks into the hallway. Harvest almost jumps away, startled, like a teenager caught out past curfew.
If Quinn were an ordinary man, he would probably be intimidated by Theodore Rosenbloom, who is taller than Quinn and more muscular too. He specializes in earth magic and according to Harvest, is responsible for the plant life thriving on the Rosenbloom land: he¡¯s the reason the fruit turns ripe despite the wrong weather or season. Just like the earth, there is something strong and unyielding within him, a core of protectiveness and strength. It¡¯s a wonder Ezra seemed indifferent when it came to the Rosenbloom patriarch. He should have been scared out of his mind.
Still, there is a kindness in the man, a steady gentle hand. He can see the same kindness in Harvest, just as he sees Theodore¡¯s brown eyes and heart-shaped face.
¡°All done with work?¡± Theodore asks excitedly.
¡°Not quite, Mr. Rosenbloom,¡± replies Quinn smoothly. ¡°Though I¡¯m hoping it won¡¯t take too much longer. Harvest told me about your blood-mead, and I¡¯m looking forward to sampling some.¡±
¡°Have you heard from Aunt Bea?¡± asks Harvest, her arms folded across her chest. Her cheeks are still burning with embarrassment.
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It¡¯s Commissioner Rosenbloom who answers, as she walks down the stairs. ¡°She¡¯s on her way.¡±
Quinn knows Commissioner Rosenbloom well enough to know her backstory. He¡¯s heard her tell it often enough at Bureau functions, primarily to explain why her business card does not have an email address and only, reluctantly, a phone number.
In fact, Harvest told him it applies to both of her aunts. Commissioner Rosenbloom, Harvest¡¯s aunt by blood, grew up in the Fae-Lands, where technology isn¡¯t necessary. Aunt Bea, the changeling left in her stead, left the mortal realms when she was sixteen in order to find her human counterpart and restore her to her rightful family. They both missed out on almost all of the 90s and the wealth of gadgets the decade brought about, resulting in a mutual distaste for modern-day technology.
Love has a habit of blooming in the most unlikely of places, he thinks, glancing back at Harvest as Aunt Bea opens the front door, bringing in flurries of snow from outside.
¡°You won¡¯t like it,¡± she says, in answer to Harvest¡¯s hopeful look.
The Rosenbloom Library began as a measly room on the second floor of the Rosenbloom house, but has since spread to encase the entire second floor¡ªand yet seems to stretch beyond even that when they enter.
Quinn remembers that Harvest told him this is due to her Aunt Bea¡¯s fae magic. Witch magic, as she explained, is tied to the earth. It¡¯s ruled by nature and can only stretch the rules so far¡ªthough in the wrong, or perhaps right hands, witch magic can break the earth in half, can call up lost spirits, and can just as easily put lives to rest in the soil.
Fae magic, on the other hand, is tied to the Fae-Lands, which work by an entirely different set of rules. Fae magic can physically alter something, can transform space and matter, can even charm the most reticent of creatures into false feelings.
Wherever it¡¯s from, it¡¯s all mischief to Quinn.
¡°My lab isn¡¯t really set up to deal with things like this,¡± admits Aunt Bea. She is still in her bright purple coat that matches her eyes, flecks of snow melting quickly on the collar. ¡°I can send some samples off, but until then, I¡¯m ruling Henry Faulkner¡¯s cause of death as inconclusive.¡±
Harvest glances at Commissioner Rosenbloom, whose lips are pursed in thought, though she remains silent.
Quinn nods. ¡°I assumed as much. Is there anything on the body that might point toward what happened?¡±
¡°There were some old injuries, a few scars, and his stomach contents were uninteresting. He barely ate anything before he died, actually.¡±
¡°You think he took the last ferry,¡± says Commissioner Rosenbloom.
It¡¯s a statement, not a question, but still, Quinn says, ¡°Yes. I met with him yesterday, late-afternoon. Harvest confirmed the time of death.¡±
¡°The last ferry is just after seven,¡± she says. ¡°I put in a call with the ferry company earlier, who sent over their security camera footage and passenger list for the last ride of that day. I¡¯ll forward it to you. Henry¡¯s name is there, along with two other names, but they¡¯re residents on the island. I personally vouch for them.¡±
Quinn raises an eyebrow, but doesn¡¯t comment. It¡¯s a reminder that Commissioner Rosenbloom out-ranks all of them.
¡°The sister didn¡¯t even know he was on the island,¡± says Harvest. ¡°Is there anywhere else he would have gone?¡±
¡°Maybe Dante¡¯s Market?¡± suggests Hazel, who really shouldn¡¯t be there, but has inserted herself with an annoying amount of ease. At least she is a Bureau employee, he thinks.
Aunt Bea shakes her head. ¡°Dante¡¯s been closing up earlier. The store was closed at seven every night this week. I know because I tried to buy some yams and candles last night around seven-thirty.¡± She shoots a pointed look at Harvest.
¡°It¡¯s not my fault I literally stumbled onto a case,¡± she mumbles.
¡°So, Henry probably started walking toward Inger Park as soon as he arrived,¡± says Hazel.
¡°What¡¯s in Inger Park?¡± asks Quinn.
¡°Nothin¡¯ much,¡± says Theodore, eyes trained on a book. He is also not supposed to be there, much like Hazel, and seems to have slipped into the library without notice. ¡°There¡¯s the cabin and some caves.¡±
¡°Yes, but the cabin has been derelict for almost as long as we¡¯ve been here. I don¡¯t even know who owns it these days,¡± says Aunt Bea. ¡°And the caves are off limits. Very dangerous.¡±
Commissioner Rosenbloom smirks. ¡°Also, people tend to go missing around there. Might have something to do with a ghost.¡±
¡°The ghost is a myth used to scare children,¡± says Theodore, looking pointedly at his sister. ¡°It¡¯s just a dangerous bit of land. Lots of places to get lost. Caves are dangerous whether magic is involved or not.¡±
¡°Yes, but that also means it¡¯s a good place to hide,¡± says Quinn. ¡°So was Henry searching for something that was lost? Or was he trying to hide something?¡±
When Francine Rosenbloom died, she knew, with a profound sense of certainty, that she would spend her eternal days on the Rosenbloom Estate.
She¡¯s fairly certain she was supposed to travel into a different realm entirely, but why would she do that when the Rosenbloom Estate is her favorite place in the whole of the universe?
She has seen many Rosenblooms pass through the house, and she has seen nearly as many Christmases. The season never fails to bring a smile to her nearly translucent face.
Francine floats up through the floorboards and into the wall of Hazel¡¯s room. Hazel is staring out her window, and Francine can see the heartbreak as clear as day. It¡¯s written in Hazel¡¯s eyes and in her sigh as she reaches up to twist her necklace around her finger.
Francine is worried about Hazel, the poor girl. There is a dark mark on her heart, a pinprick of black that may never heal.
She just hopes it doesn¡¯t grow larger.
Francine decides not to interrupt Hazel¡¯s clearly maudlin musings and, instead, follows the thin, glowing strand of mischief that binds Hazel to her sister, Harvest. The thread snakes its way downstairs, and Francine finds Harvest in the kitchen, counting out spoons to set the table. Francine likes when Harvest sets the table because she always sets a place for her, even though she can¡¯t eat the food.
Francine watches from inside the wall as Harvest pauses to look down at her phone. She considers something on the screen with a curious frown and then turns back to the spoons. Perhaps the message is from a new beau? Francine will ask Harvest about it later.
Francine floats up to the library, where Trixie and Bea are whispering. At first, she thinks it¡¯s Important Living Business, but Francine leans closer, hiding behind the bookshelf and hears Aunt Bea say something about yams.
Francine continues on, floating toward the garage, as she follows the trail of purple that Agent Quinn unknowingly leaves in his wake. Francine enjoys watching him as he holds a glass of Theodore¡¯s wine up to the light, to peer into the depths of the golden-pink liquid.
Pity he¡¯s taken, she thinks watching him take a sip.
Theodore looks proud of his concoction, which makes Francine happy. She¡¯s known Theodore since he was a baby and was even his nanny for a brief moment before the new baby arrived.
Not new, she thinks. Just not a Rosenbloom.
She knew it at the time, but the patriarch of the family refused to listen. Not that it matters, really. It all worked out in the end, with Little Bea and Trixie. Francine can see their souls and they are so entwined, it¡¯s no wonder they fell in love.
Francine watches as Theodore¡¯s face turns stern and serious. Francine¡¯s interest is piqued.
¡°Can I ask you something?¡± he asks the vampire.
Agent Quinn gives him a curt nod.
¡°How is Harv doing? At work?¡±
¡°She¡¯s doing fine,¡± he says. ¡°She¡¯s still learning but she¡¯s doing good work.¡±
Theodore frowns. ¡°Does she ever talk about Ezra?¡±
¡°Not in front of me,¡± he says, his purple aura temporarily sharpened with an emotion Francine remembers well. Anger.
¡°Good. I never liked him,¡± Theodore says.
Neither does Agent Quinn, thinks Francine.
Theodore continues. ¡°I¡¯m glad he¡¯s out of her life. And Hazel¡¯s too, for that matter.¡±
Francine agrees wholeheartedly.
Theodore pauses. ¡°You know, I spent two years worrying about Hazel, I started to forget about Harvest. She always seemed so¡unfazed. Like she could handle anything. Never needed anyone. Even after her mother¡¡± Then he levels his gaze at Agent Quinn, and Francine sees a bit of the Rosenbloom fight in his stance. We¡¯re a tough bunch, she thinks proudly. ¡°You watching out for her?¡±
¡°I am,¡± he says.
¡°Good man,¡± says Theodore, clapping a hand on Agent Quinn¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Now, I¡¯ve got a braggot I think you might like. Maybe you could tell me how it compares to the medieval brews.¡±
Francine grows bored and floats back up the attic, which also serves as her room, a cramped space filled with the remnants of Rosenbloom past. She converses with Alfred, the ellyll who lives in the corner, until she hears Theodore¡¯s voice yell, ¡°Dinner!¡±