Page 8

For a moment, I stare at it blankly. Then I set it down and massage my temples, as if that might stave off the headache that is certain to settle in my skull in the morning. The last few hours are a blur of grief and old memories, and I curse myself for my foolishness. I can’t allow myself to drown in the past, not when the vengeance I’ve been craving might finally be within reach.

I move across to the dresser and pull out the top drawer. A small bundle of silks lies in the corner, and I carefully peel back the top layer to reveal the shining barrel of Henry’s revolver.

The sight of the gun brings a rush of blood to my cheeks. I lift it from the drawer, holding the weight of its polished ivory handle against my palm. Its barrel is short and stocky, its trigger guard barely large enough to slip a single digit through. But though Henry’s initials are engraved in the steel, mine are the only fingers to have held it in the last six years. Mine are the only fingers to have squeezed the trigger.

I flick open the casing with my thumb, peering at the glint of silver inside. The cylinder holds five rounds. The first, I spent on a man I met on the road whose hands became too familiar with my skirts. It was only a few months after Henry’s death, and when it was done, I rolled the man’s corpse into the undergrowth with my bloodstained shoes and continued as if nothing had happened.

My only regret about the matter is the silver I wasted on the wretch. A swift thrust of my rapier between his ribs would have ensured the same outcome, but I was younger then, and so much more afraid. I hadn’t yet learned what it was to survive on my own, or how difficult silver bullets were to come by.

The next two rounds I buried in the chest of a barghest I encountered near Durham. The beast’s snapping jaws were inches from my throat, its foul breath suffocating me. My rapier lay trapped under one of its huge paws, and the only thing I could do to save myself was spend more of my precious bullets.

Two might have been overkill. But I couldn’t take any chances, not with that kind of creature.

Now, as I stare into the depths of the cylinder, only two bullets remain. I cannot afford to waste them on redcaps or wild dogs. These bullets are waiting for the monster I’ve been hunting for six years, the monster I’ve been hunting ever since Henry was taken from me.

These bullets are waiting for a vampire.

I pull out Lord Iestyn’s missive and lay it on the dresser. The ink still looks wet. A tang of copper wafts from each crimson letter. It’s an invitation impossible to resist.

I don’t know if he’s the one who killed Henry, but when I squeeze the trigger and put a bullet into his cold, dead heart, I don’t think I’ll care.

All that’s left for me to do is pen my reply. There is no need for pleasantries or propriety. Two words will suffice.

I accept.

5

Lottie seems unperturbed when I hand her a sealed missive the next day, asking her to keep it safe for me. Her eyebrows quirk slightly as she reads my own name scrawled across the front of the envelope, but she makes no remark on it when I press a small pouch of coins into her hand.

“You’re off to Wreymoor Hall, then?” she asks, light and airy.

Her words stir a sense of unease. “How do you know?”

She gestures towards my other hand. In it, I am clutching Lord Iestyn’s letter. The parchment is creased from all my crumpling, but the sharp carmine strokes stand out as ominously as ever.

I slip the letter inside my coat pocket. “I thought it would do no harm to see what he wants.”

“Well, I can’t say I wouldn’t be curious either.” Lottie shrugs, but she wears a guarded look. “Just you be careful, Miss Alderose. The roads around these parts aren’t as safe as they used to be, even for a hunter as esteemed as yourself.”

I accept her warning with a nod and a tight smile, but it’s not the roads that concern me. It’s what’s waiting at the end of them.

The morning sky is pale and bright as I leave behind Caelfeld’s cobbled streets and quaint painted shops. It’s quieter than usual, like something is keeping the townspeople in their beds. They might not know the shadow is there, but they must be able to feel it like a breath at the back of the neck when nobody else is around.

That’s what a vampire does. Its darkness, its horror, settles in on a place like a shroud. It draws out evil like sap oozing from a tree. The rot won’t lift, not until the heart of it is cut out.

What rot? Henry whispers. Whose heart?

His voice is a ghost’s, so faint I almost convince myself I’m imagining it.

By chance, I hitch the first part of the journey on the back of a coach carrying men north to the mines. The rhythmic clop of horses’ hooves fills my ears as the bench judders beneath me, and I try to ignore the incessant pounding in my skull. My tongue is like cotton, and every time I swallow, my throat scratches and burns.

I should have stopped drinking before I finished the bottle. I should have taken an extra day to prepare. But something is drawing me to Wreymoor Hall, and now that I’m on the road, no part of me wants to turn back.

I slip my hand under the folds of my lambswool cloak and find the hilt of my rapier. The blade is tucked in its scabbard, but I sense the thrum of silver at my fingertips. It’s hungry for the taste of fiendblood, and the creature I’m hunting might have the most potent blood of them all.

On the other side of my waist, Henry’s revolver waits patiently in my pocket. I brush my fingers over the ivory handle, squeezing until the gun is warm in my hand. I’ve had no reason to pull the trigger in years.

Today, that will change.