Murhder left the attic out of the window, dematerializing onto the snow dusted lawn. Huddling against the chill, he walked off down the allée of live oaks, imagining the fruit trees in the side garden blooming, the grass green, the sky twinkling with stars and a fat summer moon.
He wondered if Sarah would have liked the house. The bustle of humans. The people who worked on the estate. Maybe she could have found work at a university close by. There were some good ones in the state that had all kinds of …
The thought drifted and disintegrated, like his breath over his shoulder.
Paring off from the two rows of ancient trees, he crossed the thin layer of snow, heading for the thicket of trees that grew next to the rushing stream. As he closed in on the little river, the burble of the water was soft, barely audible. Off to the left, two deer were startled by his presence, kicking up their white tails and loping away through the brush.
Murhder stopped on the shores and stood over the water.
After a period of time—it could have been a minute or an hour—he unsheathed the black dagger from where he’d tucked it into his belt at the small of his back. Putting it in his dominant hand, he regarded the weapon, tracing the blade with his eyes, remembering how many times he’d used it. Vishous had made the dagger just for Murhder, its hilt custom-fit to his palm, the weight just as he preferred, the razor-sharp cutting edge maintained by the other Brother.
Previously maintained, that was.
He thought about what Kraiten had done to himself, courtesy of Xhex’s very wise suggestions. And he had to wonder if losing Sarah had been some kind of existential punishment for that human’s death. But that didn’t make sense. The Scribe Virgin had been all about balance when she had watched over the race. Good with the evil. Price and payment. Alpha and Omega.
Just like her and her brother in the world, the pair of them established by the Creator to keep things level.
Kraiten had been pure evil. He had gotten what he deserved.
Glancing over his shoulder, Murhder could see the lights of the main house in the distance. It was too cold for anyone to be out tonight. And tomorrow? He’d checked the forecast. Cold and clear.
Even though winter sunlight was not as strong as the rays in summer, it had enough firepower to disappear his body.
No one would be any the wiser. And he’d left a directive on that trestle table as to what to do with his money and the B&B.
All was in order.
He put the blade to his throat. One advantage to being a vampire was that he knew neck anatomy like the back of his hand.
It was helpful when you were looking for the big fat vein that fed your brain.
One streak was all it was going to take. A pull of his arm. A left-to-right with that viciously sharp, Vishous-ly honed blade. And then his blood would empty sure as water from a tub.
Just a quick move with his dagger hand.
Something he’d done countless times as a fighter to lessers.
Gritting his teeth, closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. “Do it … just do it …”
His whole body started to shake and sweat bloomed over his brow in spite of the cold breeze. A hoarse moan rose up and breached his lips.
“Fuck!” he yelled into the woods. “Fuck …!”
Dropping his arm, he breathed hard and cursed some more. It was so goddamn simple. All he had to do was kill himself right here, in this hidden glen. Sun comes out in the morning. His body is gone.
Suffering done.
He put the blade back where it had been.
This time, he was going to fucking do it.
Throe walked around the dining room table, putting the place cards down in their proper arrangement. Twenty-four place settings of the very best: Royal Crown Derby’s Old Imari plates, Tiffany’s Chrysanthemum sterling flatware, Baccarat wine and water glasses. And down the center of the table, sterling candelabra were set every four feet with spaces left for the flowers. There were also plenty of blue glass salt holders sitting next to sterling pepper shakers.
When he was done assigning seats, he stepped back and regarded the entire room with a jaundiced eye, searching for faults and imperfections. The oil paintings in gilt frames depicted aristocrats who were not part of his