by Bree Wolf
“Really?” she said, looking at the stake more closely. “It doesn’t really look like much. Not really different from the one I had.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s a wood difficult to come by but not unusual in appearance. It’s from the Grove of the Titans.”
Quinn looked at him, confused. “Grove of the Titans? What is that?”
“Obviously, it’s a grove,” he grinned at her, “in California where the oldest redwoods grow, hence the name. And only their wood is deadly to us. Don’t ask me why. Don’t have a clue.”
“Okay, so then why didn’t you tell me this before?” Quinn asked, her eyes shifting from the stake to him.
Arnaud grinned. “Self-preservation, I guess.”
“Really?” she asked disbelievingly. “You thought I was going to kill you?”
“It’s not so far-fetched,” he accused. “In case you don’t remember, you’ve tried before. Quite successfully, I might add. And it is only due to a lack of research on your part that I’m still standing here.”
Feeling a bit flattered, Quinn said, “Maybe you just got a little careless. I mean, you definitely let your guard down, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to touch you.”
He nodded. “Probably. But I’d be stupid on top of careless, if I gave you a weapon, which can kill me, without first making sure I can trust you, wouldn’t I?”
Surprised, she looked up at him. “You trust me?”
A faint smile spread over his face. “Busted,” he whispered.
“Answer me,” she demanded.
His face became serious again. “I do, yes. What about you? Do you trust me?”
“I have certain doubts about your idea of right and wrong,” Quinn said mockingly, before her voice too became serious. “But I trust that you wouldn’t hurt me. I’m sure of that now.”
His eyes narrowed. “That is not the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.
Arnaud hesitated before saying, “You should go to bed. It’s been a long day and there is a lot ahead of us. Do you know at what time your parents will be back tomorrow?”
Quinn shrugged. “I guess, early afternoon. Why?”
“Because you need to talk to them.”
“What? Tomorrow?”
“Did you want to wait until the next assassin comes knocking?” he asked, that annoyingly superior expression back on his face. “I mean, it’s your call.”
“Fine, dim-wit,” she said, starting to feel irritated again. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Arnaud said. When she was halfway up the stairs, he added, “And if you change your mind about the sleeping arrangements, you know where to find me.”
Looking down at him, she shook her head in disbelief about his enormous ego. “Would you cut out the dumb innuendos?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? As long as you go for the bait, why would I?”
Chapter 28 – Before My Time
“How bad is it?” Tate asked, as Quinn came back into the kitchen.
“The dent in the roof looks about the same,” she said. “But thanks to last night’s storm, I now have a good explanation for how it happened. Maybe the gods are on our side after all.”
“Gotta be grateful for small mercies,” Tate said grinning. “I’ll drive you after breakfast, alright?”
“What about Arnaud?” she asked, glancing at his closed door. “Is he going to stay in there all day?”
“He is already at the town library,” Tate answered, gulping down the last of his pancakes with maple syrup. “Digging into old newspapers and the like. Trying to find out why someone would put a prize on your pretty head.”
Surprised, Quinn asked, “Why did he go this early? Do you think he’s avoiding me?”
Looking at her carefully, there was a hint of amusement in Tate’s eyes. “Why would you think he is avoiding you?”
Quinn shrugged, trying not to behave too suspiciously. “Don’t know. He’s just so weird sometimes that I really don’t know what to make of it. That’s all.”
“I see,” Tate said, smiling. “Well, to put your mind at ease, he went out early because of the sun.”
“The sun? But I thought he could go out during the day.”
Tate nodded. “He can. But only for a limited amount of time, then he has to …eh … how do I put this?”
“Recharge?” Quinn offered, remembering Arnaud’s explanations.
“So, he told you about it?” Tate asked.
She nodded.
“Well, then you know. It’s just that his next option to recharge is still more than a week away and he never likes getting is batteries on empty,” Tate explained, obviously having fun with the analogy. “He always plans ahead.”
“And when will that be?” Quinn asked. “His next option to recharge?”
“During a full moon, of course,” Tate said. “It provides the greatest energy boost.”
“So, the full moon is not a big deal with werewolves but with vampires instead?” Quinn asked, trying to straighten out commercial disinformation.
“I wouldn’t say that. Obviously, vampires get a very hand-on advantage out of the full moon but it’s important for werewolves too.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. We feel kind of drawn to it. Like it’s a beacon that lures us.”
“Lures you where?”
Again Tate shrugged. “That my dear, is the one-million-dollar question.”
***
“I called ahead,” Quinn said as they walked to their cars. “Mr. Blake said to bring in the jeep as soon as possible and he’ll squeeze it in. Apparently, the storm wreaked havoc all over town and many cars need patching up.”
Driving to Mr. Blake’s auto shop, with Tate following her in Arnaud’s car, Quinn found the streets littered with the remnants of last night’s storm. Here and there she saw broken windows, splintered fences, broken garden gnomes and even a few blown-off roofs.
The gate to Mr. Blake’s auto shop stood open, several cars already parked in the yard at this relatively early hour on a Sunday morning. With all the damage, Mr. Blake had decided to work through the last day of the weekend, he told her as she handed him the keys.
“Goodness, that must have been a hell of a branch,” Mr. Blake said, eyeing the roof of her jeep curiously.
Quinn nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean I didn’t see it myself. Going outside this morning, I found it like this. Will it be very expensive?” Another concern adding to her list.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Mr. Blake said. “I’m sure your parents’ insurance will cover it. With last night’s storm, I guess many people will be putting in claims.”
And there it was, a small ray of hope. “I didn’t think of that,” Quinn said, feeling relieved.
“Wow, you weren’t in the car when it happened, were you?” came Andrew’s voice suddenly from behind her.
“Hey there,” she said, smiling at him a little uncomfortably. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping out,” he said, his smile one of pure joy, which made her feel even worse. “Haven’t seen you in a while?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, looking for a way out, without stepping on his toes. “With everything that’s happened, I’ve rarely gone out of the house, you know.”
“I understand,” he said. “But maybe you’ll like to go out again some time?”
“Well, I—” she stopped as she saw Tate walk around the corner.
“How bad does it look?” he asked, coming to stand next to her. He eyed the car as a doctor might a doomed patient.
“Mr. Blake said that the insurance might cover it,” she said, glancing at Andrew, whose face had taken on a displeased expression at their intimate interaction.
“That’s good,” Tate said. “And you were so worried.”
“Eh, Tate this is Andrew,” she introduced them. “He is Mr. Blake’s son. And Andrew, this is Tate.”
Tate’s friendly welco
me was greeted by an almost icy stare from Andrew’s side. His eyes shifted back and forth between her and Tate, clearly assessing their relationship.
“How do you know each other?” Andrew asked.
“He’s a friend,” Quinn said almost hastily, which earned her a wondering look from Tate. His forehead showed slight furrows as he now looked back and forth between her and Andrew, in turn assessing their relationship.
More than anything Quinn wanted to get out of there, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing second.
“Where’d you meet?” Andrew pressed, his voice hard.
Being the only one with a still friendly expression on his face, Tate said, “Actually, she’s a friend’s friend. We kind of … ran into each other at his place.” His eyes shifted to her and she could see a conspiratorial gleam in it. If not a downright lie, his answer was at the very least stretching the truth quite thin.
“What friend?” Andrew asked, his face getting darker. Obviously, he wasn’t happy with the answers he was getting.
“Arnaud de la Roche,” Tate said before Quinn could stop him. “Maybe you know him. He moved down here a couple of weeks ago.”
“He’s the one who saved your life,” Andrew said, now looking at Quinn. His words held an unspoken question.
Quinn nodded. “He is. We …eh …kind of got to talking. He doesn’t really know anyone here, so …” Her voice trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
“Speaking of the devil,” Tate cut in. “We should get going. He’s waiting for us at the library, probably already wondering where we are.”
Though glad about the excuse, Quinn felt bad for Andrew. “I got a report due next week and they’re giving me a hand,” she added quickly, recycling her earlier lie to her relatives.
Frowning, Tate shook his head at her in a barely noticeable manner.
“See you at school,” Quinn said, following Tate down the yard all the while feeling Andrew’s eyes on her until they walked around the corner.
“That sounded more like an excuse than anything else you could have said,” Tate criticized. “Whatever is going on, you should just tell him the truth.”
“Are you insane?” Quinn asked, staring at him open-mouthed.
“Not that truth,” Tate corrected. “I mean about whether or not you like the guy. And if that’s not the case, then just put his mind at ease.”
“What makes you think I don’t like him?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe you like him. But you don’t like him like him. You catch my drift?”
Raising her eyebrows in an annoyed way, Quinn said, “Yeah, it’s kind of obvious. Can we just change the topic?”
The rest of the way they walked in silence. Quinn was lost in her thoughts while Tate looked around curiously. A few people looked back at him the same way.
“You’re kind of sticking out,” Quinn said, grinning at him.
Tate frowned. “Because I’m black?”
Stopping in her tracks, she stared at him in open-mouthed fascination. “Get out! You’re black? And here I thought you were just really tanned.”
A good-natured smile on his face, he looked at her, shaking his head. “Funny.”
Quinn laughed. “They are looking at you, because this is a small town and you’re new here.” Heading up the steps to the library, Tate held the door open for her. “They’re giving you the look-over.”
Stopping in the foyer, Quinn looked around. Signs pointing into various directions told them where to find the library itself, the newspaper archive as well as what in Crescent Rock might constituted as the hall of records.
“Did he say where he was going?” she asked.
“No,” Tate answered, but he walked down the corridor to the newspaper archive without hesitation.
Following him, Quinn said, “Okay, I got what I think should be a fairly obvious question on my mind.”
“I can smell him,” Tate said.
“Really? Even as a human?”
“In this form my wolf senses are reduced but not as dull as that of a regular human,” he said, raising his brows at her.
Passing by a long row of stashed newspaper rolls, they finally found Arnaud sitting at a small desk in a windowless corner at the back wall of the building. He sat bent over, examining the articles before him.
“Did everything go alright?” he asked without turning around.
“Vampire hearing,” Tate explained, still grinning.
Quinn nodded. “Yeah, got as much. You know, I can’t help but feel a bit inadequate around you guys with all your nifty skills.”
“We’ll try to keep it to a minimum,” Tate said.
“Once you’re done with all your joking around, would you come here?” Arnaud asked, his voice not sounding amused at all.
“Wow, who spit in your coffee?” Quinn wondered, but as he looked at her, every last bit of the smile vanished from her face. “That bad?” she whispered.
“You could say so,” he said, stepping aside to allow them to inspect the newspapers spread out over the table. “I’ve been going through these all morning. They only date back to the 1920s, but even so they report five so-called ‘accidents’,” although his face remained serious, he made air quotes, “and even one murder in your family over the last …say, four generations, including your uncle’s accident.”
Feeling completely overwhelmed, Quinn had to sit down. “I don’t believe it! How is it possible that I don’t know about this?”
Arnaud shrugged. “Well, you knew about your uncle’s car accident. The other deaths just lie further back. How much do any of us really know about the generations before us? Only someone really interested in genealogy would dig deeper.”
“You said there was a murder?” Tate asked.
“Yes,” Arnaud said, flipping through the articles until he had the right one. “It says here, thirty-two-year-old Mabel Garner, nee McPherson, …eh…your great-aunt if I’m not horribly mistaken … was killed on her way home from some kind of charity event. That was in 1948. She was stabbed in the back and bled to death, not thirty yards from her house. They never found out who did it.”
Remembering her own terrifying experiences, Quinn felt a certain connection to the woman she had never met. No one had been there to protect her.
“And what about the accidents?” Tate asked, putting a hand on Quinn’s shoulder.
Again Arnaud rummaged through the articles. “Besides your uncle’s car accident, we got a fire in 1925 when the old McPherson home burned down, killing Julius McPherson, age 29. Then there was a drowning in 1928. That was Sean McPherson, age 27. From what I understand these two were cousins.” Again he flipped through the pages. “Oh here, this was Jasper McPherson, age 42. He…,” Arnaud hesitated, looking at them. “Apparently, he hacked off his own foot while chopping wood. Bled to death. That was in …let me check, in 1939. And last but not least, there is Caroline McPherson, age 19, found dead in the woods. Broken neck. Apparently, she was a passionate rider and often went out by herself. Her horse Sunshine was found grazing not twenty yards from her body. That was in 1982.”
“And you think all those accidents,” Quinn said, starting to feel a lump in her throat, “weren’t really accidents? You think these people were murdered and someone made it look like accidents?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Arnaud said, sitting down next to her. “But I think it’s very possible under the circumstances.” He waited, giving her time to accept what he had told her. “There is something else,” he continued after a while.
Quinn’s shoulders slumped. “More dead relatives?”
“Not necessarily,” Arnaud said. “At first glance, it’s just a disappearance.”
“A disappearance?” Tate asked. “And you think that is related?”
Arnaud nodded, reaching for an article he had clearly put aside. “It says here that Denise McPherson, age 21, disappeared after some kind of dance in 1962. She and her boyfriend had a huge fight and she left wi
thout him. For a while the police thought he might have had something to do with her disappearance, but they were never able to prove anything. As far as I can see, her body was never found. She is still missing.”
Looking at the black-and-white photograph of the young woman next to the headline reading UNSOLVED DISAPPEARANCE, Quinn wondered once again what kind of life her relative had had and what had happened to her. Dark curls falling in her face, Denise had a shy smile on her lips. Her eyes were cast downward as though the world was too intimidating to look at. Had she been scared? Had she seen it coming? Whatever it was that had happened to her.
“And why do you think it has something to do with …?” Quinn asked, unable to finish the question, her mind suddenly feeling heavy.
“Well, again I’m not sure,” Arnaud said. “But very few people really disappear. Usually they turn up eventually, either dead or alive. Of course, it is possible that dear Denise here is alive and well and has been living some place else, maybe under a new name, all this time. But it is also possible that her disappearance is somehow related. At this point, we can’t be sure of anything.”
Putting down the articles, Tate had been sifting through, he said, “Is it only the McPherson side of her family?”
“What do you mean?” Quinn asked, her mind having trouble catching on.
“Seems to be,” Arnaud answered. “I couldn’t find anything on her father’s side.”
Tate looked at her, surprised. “Your mother is a McPherson?”
“Yeah, why?”
“It’s just a little unusual that a couple would keep the woman’s last name, that’s all.”
Quinn smiled. “Yeah, well, for one, my mother has always been proud of her heritage. You know, family goes above everything for her. But what really made the difference was that my dad’s last name was really awful. To her ears at least.”
“What was it?” Tate asked.
“Minskin,” Arnaud answered, grinning.
Quinn frowned at him. “How do you know that?”
He just shrugged. “We’re in the house of knowledge. What’d you think? I looked it up.”