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blood.  Makes you wonder how
he, it must have been a he, got around without traipsing through the blood and
leaving footprints all over.”  Out of the shadows of the wing chair the
Queen’s crimson eyes focused on her. 
     Arabella stood still, merely
reporting, just the facts, no editorial comment from her, thank you, and gazed
back.  Creepy Petru stood over against the wall watching as he had for
centuries, no longer a part of the conversation, only present in case a spot of
violence became necessary. 
     He stood, quiet and
cadaverous, watching every step she took as she resumed pacing past the windows
on the path of polished wood between the cream Aubusson rug and the silk
covered walls, turned left and walked by him as he stood at attention like a
retainer from the 15th century, which, in fact, he was.   “You smell
like a potato; still sleeping in the dirt?” she whispered as she went by,
traversing the path in front of him past the doorway. 
     “And that silly twit
Gunderson, what did he have to say at the Island, anything new to add, more
facts, more theories, any witnesses?” inquired the Queen politely, like she was
asking about the well being of distant relatives.  The wing chair was an
enormous thing, almost loveseat wide.  It was covered in what could
charitably be described as a paisley design of purples and violets with pink in
the pattern.  
     Stopping to answer, Arabella
got a clear view and was able to confirm her suspicion the old bat was wearing
a perfectly preserved pink 1950’s Chanel suit. A la Jackie Kennedy, she’d topped
it with the matching pillbox hat.
     “He was more interested in
why I was there, wanted to know what it was I thought I’d find since in his
eyes I’m a glorified lab tech. It’s only because Izanagi called and I work for
the Prosecuting attorney that he let me in.  Even then he followed me
around like I might steal the silver.” 
     “And what did you find in
your examination of the scene?” the Queen asked, as Arabella cut diagonally
across the room so as not to walk behind her and incite Petru to mayhem to
redress the insult to his mistress.
     “Was it a wolf, as Gunderson
thinks?” asked her Royal Highness, the complete and absolute ruler and arbiter
of all things concerning the happenings and business of the Northwest Clan of
Vampires.
    “No, it wasn’t a wolf,” replied
Arabella, “I believe it was one of us,” calmly, as if they were discussing
something besides home grown treason.  Now it’s in the open and we will
get to wherever she is going, thought Arabella, relieved that the finish line
was in sight.
    “How did you get to the island, did
you fly?”  Her changing course made Arabella nervous and Petru started
muffling about, sensing an uptick in the anxiety level. 
    “I chartered a boat,” she said,
remembering the dislocation when she chugged over the spot and reached down the
fifteen hundred feet to the bottom of the sea where a certain electricity
should have been, but wasn’t. 
     “You chartered a boat and
steered a course that wandered a bit from a straight line to the Island, a
course you hadn’t been on for a hundred and twenty years, to a spot that only
you and I and Petru know.  I wonder why, why would you do that?  Did
you already suspect something or were you visiting an old friend?” mused the
Queen, curious like a loving aunt asking about your recent vacation rather than
a paranoid tyrant snuffling about for plots in the pantry.
     “I only wonder because it
seems a leap for you to immediately go to that spot, that particular
place.  Don’t you agree, Petru?  Seems odd to us that you would go
there.” 
     If Petru thought it was odd
he didn’t say, standing still and staying quiet like the Queen preferred. 
     “He’s not there”, replied
Arabella, angling about to keep the fidgeting Petru visible in the corner of
her vision.  
     “Did you dive in, did you
swim down and find the vault, did