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A lie. Dalton hadn’t checked in on Beau since Patricia died.
He was here for a reason. And Beau was pretty sure he knew what. You didn’t take your dog to the vet for their final visit. You had them put down at home.
“Come on through,” he said, holding out his arm for Dalton to step inside.
He shut the door and led Dalton down to the living room.
“Well, well!” Dalton stopped and stared at the mounted heads on the wall. Two mature males. One adolescent.
Beau smiled. “You always admired my trophies.”
“I did. I’m pleased to see them back up on the wall where they belong.”
Patricia had made Beau keep them in his work shed. Said they “gave her the creeps.”
Dalton walked up to the trophies, reached out and stroked the cheek of the young male.
“Handsome devil.”
Beau supposed he was. Jet-black hair, slanted green eyes, alabaster skin. But “devil” was the right word.
“There was a time when every hunter’s lodge would have a dozen of these mounted on the walls,” Beau said. “We were proud of who we were. And it kept the colonies in their place. They knew what would happen if they stepped out of bounds. Now—” He shook his head in disgust. “If we kill them, we’re the criminals. What kind of crap is that?”
“True,” Doc Dalton said. “Those were easier times, Beau.” He was still staring at the heads. “They ever talk to you?”
Beau turned sharply. “What?”
“Some folks believe vampyrs can still communicate, even after they’re dead. Like the colonies have some kind of hive mind?”
“You hear that, old man? A hive mind. Maybe you’re not losing yours after all.”
“Pile of baloney,” Beau said, tone sharper than he meant it to be.
Dalton chuckled. “That’s what I think. Dead is dead, right?” He looked back at the heads. “You know, if you ever want to sell them…”
“I’ve told you before, they’re not for sale.”
“Some people would pay big bucks for heads like these.”
“I said no.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind…”
“I won’t.”
Beau walked away from the trophies, indicating their conversation was over. “Now, you have something to tell me?”
“Shall we sit?”
“Do I need to?”
Dalton smiled. Beau didn’t find it comforting. It was the smile he used to put on when he gave Patricia bad news.
“I think we’d be more comfortable,” he said.
Reluctantly, Beau settled in his worn armchair. Dalton took the other one.
“So, how have you been, Beau?”
