House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,27

and Rose on the couch, curled together in their grief.

My grandfather looked around the room. “Why don’t I make some coffee, or perhaps tea?” He smiled gently at Rose and Elena. “Would either of you young ladies like that?”

“Tea would be great,” Elena said gratefully, and my grandfather nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

“We’ll be back,” I assured Elena. “Noah knows how to reach us if necessary.”

“Find something,” she said, and I truly hoped we would.

* * *

Catcher volunteered to drive to the address Noah had given us, which was also in Little Italy. Unfortunately, it made a grim kind of sense that the killer would do the killing not far from the registration center where Oliver and Eve were taken.

On the way, I took a moment to update the House. I called Ethan, but didn’t get an answer, and opted not to leave a grim voice mail. This was news I’d deliver in person.

“Two dead vampires,” Catcher said when I tucked the phone away again. “And by all accounts, decent, innocent vampires.”

Two vampires who’d lain down together, hands intertwined, and wouldn’t awaken again. I wasn’t sure why I kept coming back to that detail. Perhaps it was the former grad student in me. I’d studied medieval literature, and there was something about the image that evoked Romeo and Juliet.

Had that been the killer’s purpose? Not just to kill vampires—or to kill these two vampires—but to paint an image of sweet and sad and bitter death?

There was something terrifyingly foreign about the idea. I understood killing in the heat of battle. I could understand killing for anger or revenge; the motivation was clear. But killing for poignancy? Killing to shock or offend? That was something much stranger, and I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it.

“The killer was setting a scene,” I said. “Arranging them just so. They couldn’t have held hands through . . . what happened to them.”

“And he knew how to take out a vampire. He knew decapitation would do it, or he got really lucky on the first try.”

I nodded. “Staking would have been easier. Aspen is so fast—a second and they’d have been gone. But if they’d been staked, ash would be the only thing left.”

“Sunlight also would have been faster,” Catcher said. “If he’d wanted them really, truly gone, there are lots of ways to hide that evidence, and we’d never have found them. So that’s the first question—what’s he trying to tell us? And second, why these vampires in particular? Why Oliver and Eve? Did he mean to kill them . . . ?”

“Or did he just mean to kill?” I wondered.

Not exactly the most comforting thought.

* * *

The rain fell in a whispery mist, adding another layer of bleakness to the evening. We parked the car on an empty side street and stared up at our destination—a white brick warehouse with WILKINS painted across the side in peeling blue paint. The windows were mostly boarded now, and the site was wrapped in torn plastic fencing to keep out visitors. Unfortunately, the warehouse’s condition was similar to that of the other nearby buildings. They were old or dilapidated, in serious need of paint and rehab.

Catcher lifted the collar of his jacket and buttoned it up against the irritatingly constant rain and chill in the air. “Into the deep?” he asked.

I nodded and prepared to take the lead when a figure emerged through the darkness on the other end of the block. I put a hand on the pommel of my sword.

“Merit,” Catcher whispered, a warning.

“He’s a vampire,” I quietly said when the familiar magic reached me. “No hostility that I can sense.”

He was tall and angularly thin, with long arms and legs tucked into an old-fashioned black suit complete with vest beneath his trim jacket. His dark hair was short, a striking contrast to his muttonchop sideburns.

The light of a passing car reflected in his eyes, which were completely silver.

Vampires’ eyes silvered when they were in the throes of strong emotions. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell which emotion he was feeling; his magic, although nervous, was otherwise neutral. Was he so adept at hiding his feelings, or was his reaction merely biological?

“You’re Merit?” he asked.

I nodded, but kept a hand on my sword, a warning that I was prepared for action, and funny business wouldn’t be tolerated. (Although in stressful times like this, I rarely said no to a good bit of sarcasm.)

Catcher watched him warily. “I’m Catcher, and you have us at a