‘He’s not Josiah,’ I say with as much conviction as I can muster.
I almost believe it.
There’s a sharp knock on the door then a mumbled,‘Whatthehellyoudoinginthere?’which makes us both jump, suddenly aware that we’re on shift.
‘Shit,’ Cam says, trying fruitlessly to smooth his curls. ‘We’d better get out of here.’
He goes for the lock, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. ‘Just one thing,’ I say. ‘Let me tell him.’
Cam takes a deep breath then blows it out all at once. ‘Ok,’ he relents, but he doesn’t hide the warning in his voice. ‘Just don’t do anything stupid.’
And that’s the plan we leave with: tell him, and don’t do anything stupid.
I think I can handle that.
* * *
It’s sometime after midnight when the idea comes to me. I’m sitting in the window of the upstairs room I’m renting on East Terrace, looking out over the town. I can see the Whalebone Arch over to the left of me, the ruins of the abbey across in the near distance. Somewhere in between them lies Flowergate, and, presumably, Quinn.
I can’t actually see the bar from where I am, but I’d take any bet that I could point right to it. I know this town like the back of my hand. Over a hundred years has passed since I walked these streets with my mother, visiting people in almost every house, and surprisingly little has changed here since then. Not the bones of it, anyway.
I was a child when I first set foot in the building where Bitten is now. It was a police station, in those days, and later it was a solicitor’s office. The flat where Quinn lives wasn’t part of the building then, but I helped deliver every child the Whittaker family had in the tiny house that used to stand on that same spot.
The memories woven into every street of this town have never lessened, no matter how many years have passed, and it’s those memories that spur me into movement now, urging me to pull on my trainers and grab my coat from its peg by the door. I close the flat door as quietly as I can and then creep down the back stairs and out into the cool night air.
It’s been warm these past few days, but as it’s still only May, the temperature drops at night and the sea breeze nips at my cheeks as it hits me. The clifftop is deserted, but I pass a couple of people as I head down the steps past Bram Stoker’s bench and along the road that runs parallel to the shore. One of them, an elderly man out walking his even more elderly dog, looks at me with concern as I make brief, accidental eye contact with him.
It’s a look I’m very familiar with. I’ve looked twenty-six for the last 150 years of my life, so I’ve seen that expression of gentle worry more times than I can begin to count. He probably has a granddaughter around my forever age, and he’s well-versed in imagining all the ways in which she– and by extension, I– could come to harm. Maybe he’ll hear a story about a lone woman attacked in a few days’ time and wonder if it was me.
Don’t get me wrong, men do try it sometimes. I mean, I’ve looked like a young woman for a century and a half, so I’ve encountered my fair share of predators and creeps. But they get a little more than they bargained for these days. A few broken fingers usually does the trick. I haven’t had to bite anyone for decades.
But mercifully there are no malicious characters out tonight. A couple of drunk men wave at me as I turn onto Flowergate, but they’re content with a wave back. Before I know it, I’m in front of a very dark, closed-looking Bitten.
It’s ok, though. I have a plan B.
I duck through the alley that sits to the right of the bar and wind my way through the narrow passageway until I emerge in a small yard. If I’m right, the flat is the building straight ahead of me, which would make the first-floor window his bedroom.
Something clenches tight in the pit of my stomach. I can’t quite identify this feeling. It’s something between anxiety and excitement, but not exactly either. Whatever it is, it’s making my hands shake, just a little. I take a deep breath and burrow them into my coat pockets.
When my fingers close around smooth stone, I steel myself, looking up at the dark window. I need to do this now, before I can talk myself out of it.
ChapterSeven
QUINN
Tap.
I’m lying in bed when I hear it.
It’s an hour since I finished my shift, and I probably should be asleep, but instead I’m staring at my ceiling and pondering how I’m very much not asleep. It’s about as much help as it sounds.
Tap.
I’ve never been a great sleeper, to be honest. I don’t even know why I’m trying to force it. Maybe because I’m in my thirties now and with it has come a tiredness that feels bone-deep at times. My doctor suggested I try sleeping more.
Groundbreaking, I know.
Tap.