him.
But when Horsham didn’t want to be found, he was nearly impossible to track. He’d find out where Bend was and hope Brosterhouse didn’t remember his curious questions about the town.
Chapter 10
Terrill waited in the car outside the Hardaway residence. The woman was cooking in the kitchen, the man had returned home in the last half hour, and there was a light on in a second-story window. Terrill saw the shadow of someone walking past that window. They were all home. What was keeping him rooted to the driver’s seat?
He got out and slammed the door. The neighborhood was quiet: everyone in their place. Once, he would have found it an ideal place to feed, would have picked a house at random and slaughtered the occupants. It still amazed him that for hundreds of years he had never questioned that humans were food and vampires ruled the night.
A cat ran across the sidewalk in front of him, giving him a startled glance, as if it had only seen him at the last second. Terrill could stand there, still and quiet, and most people would walk right by him without seeing him. It had once been one of his favorite techniques––letting his meal come to him.
He took a deep breath, then walked up the sidewalk and the three concrete steps to the door. Then he hesitated and almost turned around.
He was a murderer. He was the cause of their grief. He hadn’t wanted to do it, he was ashamed, but nonetheless, he was the reason their daughter would never come home. What right did he have to stand at their door, to enter their home, to talk to them, to offer them condolences?
The door opened before he could knock, and a young woman stood there staring at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
She looked like Jamie; but then again, she didn’t look like Jamie at all. In fact, she looked like no one he’d seen since ancient days. Her nose was too long; it could accurately be described as a Roman nose. Her eyes were wide set and large. Her chin was slightly pointed, and she had high cheekbones, a wide, tall forehead, and thick raven hair.
She looks like she came off a Greek urn , he thought. Each individual feature was a little off, but the whole was stunning.
“I… I…” he stammered.
“What does he want?” The old man’s voice was gruff. He appeared to be in his seventies, which meant he had already been near sixty when he’d fathered this girl. It was six in the evening, but Terrill could tell the man was already drunk. He pushed the girl out of the way. “What do you want, buddy?” he said belligerently.
Jamie and Sylvie’s mother followed, dishrag in hand, looking as though she hadn’t stopped crying in days. It was hard to see either daughter in this beaten-down woman, who was in her mid-fifties, with limp brown hair and heavy jowls.
“Is this the home of Jamie Lee Howe?” Terrill asked.
“Not anymore,” the man muttered. “The slut is dead.”
“Howard!” the woman pleaded. He turned and glared at her until she looked away.
“I’ll take care of this, Mom,” Sylvie said, and the woman moved away, drifting over to the sink and picking up a dish, taking a few swipes at it with the dishrag and then standing still, staring out the window.
Sylvie pushed her way to the door again, stopped next to Terrill and waved him down the steps. “We can talk out here,” she said. “Mom’s in no shape to talk about Jamie, and Howard doesn’t have anything to say.”
“Fuck you,” Howard said. “I’m watching a show…” He stumbled away.
“He actually does care, in his own way,” Sylvie said. “He did everything he could to keep Jamie in town, but she didn’t want to stay and she was old enough to make her own decisions.”
She didn’t say anything else, just stood staring at Terrill frankly.
“I…” Again, his voice faltered.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” Sylvie said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re sad.”
“Yes,” Terrill said, then realized he hadn’t
But when Horsham didn’t want to be found, he was nearly impossible to track. He’d find out where Bend was and hope Brosterhouse didn’t remember his curious questions about the town.
Chapter 10
Terrill waited in the car outside the Hardaway residence. The woman was cooking in the kitchen, the man had returned home in the last half hour, and there was a light on in a second-story window. Terrill saw the shadow of someone walking past that window. They were all home. What was keeping him rooted to the driver’s seat?
He got out and slammed the door. The neighborhood was quiet: everyone in their place. Once, he would have found it an ideal place to feed, would have picked a house at random and slaughtered the occupants. It still amazed him that for hundreds of years he had never questioned that humans were food and vampires ruled the night.
A cat ran across the sidewalk in front of him, giving him a startled glance, as if it had only seen him at the last second. Terrill could stand there, still and quiet, and most people would walk right by him without seeing him. It had once been one of his favorite techniques––letting his meal come to him.
He took a deep breath, then walked up the sidewalk and the three concrete steps to the door. Then he hesitated and almost turned around.
He was a murderer. He was the cause of their grief. He hadn’t wanted to do it, he was ashamed, but nonetheless, he was the reason their daughter would never come home. What right did he have to stand at their door, to enter their home, to talk to them, to offer them condolences?
The door opened before he could knock, and a young woman stood there staring at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
She looked like Jamie; but then again, she didn’t look like Jamie at all. In fact, she looked like no one he’d seen since ancient days. Her nose was too long; it could accurately be described as a Roman nose. Her eyes were wide set and large. Her chin was slightly pointed, and she had high cheekbones, a wide, tall forehead, and thick raven hair.
She looks like she came off a Greek urn , he thought. Each individual feature was a little off, but the whole was stunning.
“I… I…” he stammered.
“What does he want?” The old man’s voice was gruff. He appeared to be in his seventies, which meant he had already been near sixty when he’d fathered this girl. It was six in the evening, but Terrill could tell the man was already drunk. He pushed the girl out of the way. “What do you want, buddy?” he said belligerently.
Jamie and Sylvie’s mother followed, dishrag in hand, looking as though she hadn’t stopped crying in days. It was hard to see either daughter in this beaten-down woman, who was in her mid-fifties, with limp brown hair and heavy jowls.
“Is this the home of Jamie Lee Howe?” Terrill asked.
“Not anymore,” the man muttered. “The slut is dead.”
“Howard!” the woman pleaded. He turned and glared at her until she looked away.
“I’ll take care of this, Mom,” Sylvie said, and the woman moved away, drifting over to the sink and picking up a dish, taking a few swipes at it with the dishrag and then standing still, staring out the window.
Sylvie pushed her way to the door again, stopped next to Terrill and waved him down the steps. “We can talk out here,” she said. “Mom’s in no shape to talk about Jamie, and Howard doesn’t have anything to say.”
“Fuck you,” Howard said. “I’m watching a show…” He stumbled away.
“He actually does care, in his own way,” Sylvie said. “He did everything he could to keep Jamie in town, but she didn’t want to stay and she was old enough to make her own decisions.”
She didn’t say anything else, just stood staring at Terrill frankly.
“I…” Again, his voice faltered.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” Sylvie said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re sad.”
“Yes,” Terrill said, then realized he hadn’t
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