acquaintances at the EA?” Oh, how Will hated saying the next part. “If… if a Special Threats team came upon a vampire last night, somebody there will have heard about it.”
A single rivulet crept down Simon’s cheek. He cleared his throat, turned, and tried surreptitiously to wipe away the moisture.
Without thinking, Will held him from behind, his chin resting on Simon’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be worried. Please don’t cut off your cobs over it. They’re quite nice ones.”
Bentcross made a sound that was a laugh, a cough, and a sob rolled together.
A S HE steamed around Taintwell’s back roads in Fan’s one-man transport (for Fan had ridden Cloudburst to give the horse some exercise and fresh air), Will finally spied a property where Fan might be working. Undulating toward a thick stand of bare trees, a largely completed wall rose and fell between two pastures.
Just before heading out, Will had remembered Fan telling him the job was in the country, not within the village limits. There was only one area of farmland immediately adjacent to Taintwell, and that was to the north. Thick forest lay to the west, on both sides of Old Post Road, and Purinton sprawled to the south and east beyond Whitesbain Plank Road and Division Highway, its clamorous hodgepodge of humanity stretching all the way to the sea.
Sheep bleated in the distance as Will pulled up to the covered porch of a farmhouse. He bounded up the steps and knocked on the door. A faint odor of cinnamon threaded through the pervasive scents of dewy grass and fresh manure.
The Pinshins, read a carved and painted wood plaque above the doorframe.
Yes, this was the place.
Will smiled and tipped his hat as soon as the lady of the house opened the door. “Good morning, ma’am. I understand Fanule Perfidor is working here. Where might I find him?”
“He just left.” Mrs. Pinshins, who was quite tall and thin, eyed Will but not unkindly. “Rode into the city to pick up something he needed.”
Will almost cursed but caught himself at the last second. “Do you have a voxbox?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr.—” She raised the ridge of flesh where her eyebrows should’ve been.
“Marchman. Will Marchman.” How could he have forgotten to introduce himself? Simon’s discomposure had obviously rattled him.
“We’re too far out of Taintwell with too few neighbors for the company to run a connection.”
“I see.” Will had difficulty keeping his eyes on the woman’s face. The ratio tattooed at the base of her throat was 30:70, so she had a hefty measure of nonhuman blood. How, he wondered, did it manifest? She had rather odd-looking skin on her forearms. Suffused with a duotone pattern, it seemed to be covered with delicate, overlapping scales. “No sense in my staying, then.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Perfidor you came by looking for him,” Mrs. Pinshins said pleasantly.
“Thank you. Much obliged.” Will inclined his head and returned to the OMT.
Chugging back toward Taintwell, he decided he should’ve told the woman not to say anything. Fan might just rush home and, in so doing, lose nearly an entire day’s work.
“Damn it,” Will muttered. “Idiot.” Of course Fan wouldn’t be angry with him; Fan never got angry with him. But Will nevertheless blamed himself for his lack of foresight.
He hoped Clancy was tucked within his sleeping nook, wherever it was, hale and oblivious. He hoped that tonight Simon would greet Clancy with a fanfare of fury—the purgative kind that springs from inexpressible relief. He hoped there’d be no more hand-wringing or hidden tears, no more gray undercurrents of collective anxiety undermining everybody’s peace of mind.
Will adored Fan and cared deeply about their friends. The four of them had become family. Simon was like a sometimes-annoying, sometimes-amusing older brother. Clancy was the eccentric uncle, the dark side of the moon while dear, departed Penrose had been the
A single rivulet crept down Simon’s cheek. He cleared his throat, turned, and tried surreptitiously to wipe away the moisture.
Without thinking, Will held him from behind, his chin resting on Simon’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be worried. Please don’t cut off your cobs over it. They’re quite nice ones.”
Bentcross made a sound that was a laugh, a cough, and a sob rolled together.
A S HE steamed around Taintwell’s back roads in Fan’s one-man transport (for Fan had ridden Cloudburst to give the horse some exercise and fresh air), Will finally spied a property where Fan might be working. Undulating toward a thick stand of bare trees, a largely completed wall rose and fell between two pastures.
Just before heading out, Will had remembered Fan telling him the job was in the country, not within the village limits. There was only one area of farmland immediately adjacent to Taintwell, and that was to the north. Thick forest lay to the west, on both sides of Old Post Road, and Purinton sprawled to the south and east beyond Whitesbain Plank Road and Division Highway, its clamorous hodgepodge of humanity stretching all the way to the sea.
Sheep bleated in the distance as Will pulled up to the covered porch of a farmhouse. He bounded up the steps and knocked on the door. A faint odor of cinnamon threaded through the pervasive scents of dewy grass and fresh manure.
The Pinshins, read a carved and painted wood plaque above the doorframe.
Yes, this was the place.
Will smiled and tipped his hat as soon as the lady of the house opened the door. “Good morning, ma’am. I understand Fanule Perfidor is working here. Where might I find him?”
“He just left.” Mrs. Pinshins, who was quite tall and thin, eyed Will but not unkindly. “Rode into the city to pick up something he needed.”
Will almost cursed but caught himself at the last second. “Do you have a voxbox?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr.—” She raised the ridge of flesh where her eyebrows should’ve been.
“Marchman. Will Marchman.” How could he have forgotten to introduce himself? Simon’s discomposure had obviously rattled him.
“We’re too far out of Taintwell with too few neighbors for the company to run a connection.”
“I see.” Will had difficulty keeping his eyes on the woman’s face. The ratio tattooed at the base of her throat was 30:70, so she had a hefty measure of nonhuman blood. How, he wondered, did it manifest? She had rather odd-looking skin on her forearms. Suffused with a duotone pattern, it seemed to be covered with delicate, overlapping scales. “No sense in my staying, then.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Perfidor you came by looking for him,” Mrs. Pinshins said pleasantly.
“Thank you. Much obliged.” Will inclined his head and returned to the OMT.
Chugging back toward Taintwell, he decided he should’ve told the woman not to say anything. Fan might just rush home and, in so doing, lose nearly an entire day’s work.
“Damn it,” Will muttered. “Idiot.” Of course Fan wouldn’t be angry with him; Fan never got angry with him. But Will nevertheless blamed himself for his lack of foresight.
He hoped Clancy was tucked within his sleeping nook, wherever it was, hale and oblivious. He hoped that tonight Simon would greet Clancy with a fanfare of fury—the purgative kind that springs from inexpressible relief. He hoped there’d be no more hand-wringing or hidden tears, no more gray undercurrents of collective anxiety undermining everybody’s peace of mind.
Will adored Fan and cared deeply about their friends. The four of them had become family. Simon was like a sometimes-annoying, sometimes-amusing older brother. Clancy was the eccentric uncle, the dark side of the moon while dear, departed Penrose had been the
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