Page 66 of The Gathering

He continued to hold the cross up with trembling hands. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.” She thudded her fist against the window and a spider’s-web crack spread out across the glass. “I want them back, old man.”

“Go to hell!”

Beau turned and staggered back into the living room, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned against the wall, struggling to get his breath. He needed his damn crossbow. And now he could hear something—a strange rustling, fluttering noise. Coming from his trophies. No, coming from behind the trophies. The chimney stack. Like the sound a bird made when it was falling down toward the grate. But this was louder. Far louder. Like a whole flock of birds.

The realization struck just as the room billowed with smoke and the bats burst out of the fireplace.

23

Tucker stared at himself in the mirror. His face looked odd and unbalanced.

Taking the heavy beard off had left the area beneath his nose looking strangely soft and pale, like baby skin, or a corpse left in the water for too long. In stark contrast, the skin above looked even more weathered and lined. Like tanned leather. The discrepancy wasn’t helped by the numerous bits of tissue paper stuck to his chin where it was bleeding from more than a dozen tiny razor nicks. Death by a thousand cuts, he thought grimly.

He was out of practice at shaving. Hell, he was out of practice at a lot of things. He wondered why he was even doing this. When Detective Atkins called, he had told her there was no way he was coming back to town as a temporary deputy. He had retired. He had nothing to offer. He couldn’t help her. He had messed up before. He didn’t intend to mess up again.

And yet he found himself thinking about the case. The ring. The jacket. Who had left them? What message were they trying to send? Could the same killer be responsible for two murders, twenty-five years apart?

Aaron had been adamant that Todd was alive when he left him all those years ago. But all the evidence had suggested he was lying or mistaken. They had DNA, they had the boy’s own confession that he had been with Todd that night. Tucker had been under pressure to charge Aaron with murder and request a cull.

“You were the last one to see him alive. You admit you had engaged in underage turning.”

“We loved each other. I wouldn’t kill him.”

“Maybe you didn’t intend to kill him.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“You didn’t mean to do it.”

“I’m not going to lie.”

“I don’t want you to lie. I want you to think of the Colony, Aaron. I want you to think of going to trial and the possibility of a full cull if you’re found guilty of murder…”

Tucker had seen the boy’s face falter. People think it must be hard to persuade someone to change their story. That police officers must have to intimidate and torture people out of the truth. The fact was, it didn’t take much to make someone doubt themself. Their recollection, their own actions. In a small police cell, when you’re tired, alone and scared, you start to doubt everything.

Aaron had admitted to manslaughter. A turning gone wrong. The courts would be more sympathetic, Tucker had told him. He would stand a far higher chance of getting a custodial sentence rather than the death sentence (“stun, stake and decapitate,” as some officers—the assholes—called it). Most importantly, a manslaughter charge meant that there would be no need to enforce a colony cull.

The boy had signed the confession with a shaking hand.

Tucker had told himself he did it with Aaron’s and the Colony’s best interests at heart. To save them. But was that true? Had he, subconsciously, wanted a vampyr to be responsible because to accept anything else would mean he had missed something?

It’s not that hard to convince yourself of a lie, either.

And now another boy was dead. Another cull looming. What if Tucker had got it wrong back then? What if the real killer was still out there?

“Fuck it.”

He needed a drink. He chucked the razor into the sink, walked into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. There was no food or soda inside. Just several bottles lined up on the shelves. He reached for one, took it out and pulled out the stopper. Saliva flooded his mouth. He lifted the bottle to his lips, feeling the usual mixture of desire and disgust.

“Sometimes, I think I should have left you in the forest.”

“Maybe you should.”

“No, I think I like you better like this.”

Tucker closed his eyes and tipped up the bottle.

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