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Which meant McKenna may have trusted a vampyr.
The sun dipped below the hilltops, and evening shadows fell over the table. Evelyn’s magic pulled her toward the items sitting there, a tug that beckoned and said, look here.
The items were stacked neatly compared to the rest of the house. A bouquet of dried buttercups tied with white lace sat atop a water canteen with the initials M.M. on it, a cloth-covered notebook underneath it all.
Evelyn’s magic tugged at her again. “Are these McKenna’s things?”
Brenna nodded.
“May I take a look?”
“Of course.”
Evelyn grabbed the book, flipping it open as Cyrus rose from the table.
“Can I get you anything, Mrs. McCarthy? A pot of tea, perhaps?”
“Doubt there’s any left. Barely been able to get out of bed the last two days. Water will do fine.”
Cyrus obliged. Evelyn admitted she’d misjudged him as a brute. The huntsman was strong, sure, but he was evidently kind. It was real, too. In his eyes. In his tone. Evelyn’s magic sensed the authenticity.
Grateful to have learned more about her partner, she turned her attention back to the book. It was a diary or journal of some sort. Some entries were about McKenna’s day-to-day, nothing mentioning a vampyr. Others appeared to be notes, but Evelyn froze, roaming the script over and over. She recognized it. Olde Witch. How in the Goddess had McKenna known the ancient language of witches?
As Cyrus talked with Brenna, Evelyn searched the cottage for signs the family were witches. There were none. No dried herbs above the door for good grace when one left home. No grimoire displayed over the fireplace. Not even the simple black candles that even descendants used.
Though if they had been witches, it still would have been unlikely that McKenna would know Olde Witch. Evelyn couldn’t even read it. True, Olde Witch was from the Old World, but witches who had fled to the New World had left the language behind and those who’d stayed had lost it to keep hidden. The script was ancient, not even used in grimoires anymore. It had been her sister’s role to learn the ancient script as a scholar, not Evelyn’s.
Evelyn continued flipping through the pages. McKenna’s handwriting had been neat, studious. Evelyn found herself at the last page, and then the air in her lungs whooshed out.
Flame.
Evelyn didn’t need to know Olde Witch to understand the drawings McKenna had depicted. The last five pages were drawings of flame, black ink swirling, smudged ink to show smoke.
To be sure, Evelyn reached her magic out to Brenna. She was human, not a hint of magic. But maybe McKenna had magic in her blood? It was not impossible. Rare indeed, but sometimes magic reemerged in faded bloodlines. But had her parents known?
Evelyn couldn’t ask. If she did, she revealed knowing the language in the journal. Not many humans recognized the script, and it would be suspicious if she did. Her knowledge of vampyr was already suspicious enough.
“Could I take this with me?” Evelyn asked.
Brenna gave her a hurried nod while Cyrus stared at the book but said nothing.
When they left, they took the somber mood with them. The visit only gave Evelyn more questions. More things to discover. She tried to consider it a win. They had something.
But it wasn’t enough.
As they walked toward Bleu, all she could think about was Jack’s heartache, Brenna’s tears, Daniel’s loss. Guilt riddled Evelyn to her core. She couldn’t ignore that their daughter had been killed by a vampyr. What if the creatures had crossed the Sapphire Sea because she’d left? What if they’d grown stronger in her absence? The questions nagged at her.
But Evelyn was here. Helping. She had to. She needed to.
“What is it?” Cyrus asked.
Evelyn didn’t meet his questioning gaze. Instead, she focused on the McCarthy cottage as dusk swallowed it whole.
“There’s something I’d like to do.”
“Tell me,” he said.
So she did.
