Hunting Memories by Barb Hendee

killing spree in the nineteenth century, and Philip was worried about his hair?
    “It’s your fault,” he went on. “All your talk of new music and new movies, and I did not know until now that my hair makes me look like some shabby eighties rock star.”
    Eighties rock stars did not run around wearing shirts by Hugo Boss. . . . Well, maybe some of them did.
    “Oh, Philip.” Eleisha sank down beside him, realizing there was more going on here than vanity. The world at large kept moving faster and faster, and living alone for so long, he hadn’t been able to keep up, and he’d never seen himself through any eyes but his own. He was becoming more self-aware due to his newfound companionship. “What if you get it cut, and you don’t like it?” she asked. “It might not grow back.”
    She’d discovered this fact within a year of being turned. Although any flesh wound she’d received healed quickly, other aspects of her body worked differently. At first, her hair and fingernails had continued to grow, but then they stopped.
    “Here,” he answered, digging through the stack of actors’ photos, holding up a head shot of Viggo Mortensen from A Perfect Murder . “What about this? It’s still down below his ears.”
    “Where did you get all these pictures?”
    “From other magazines. Wade took me to a bookstore called Powell’s last night. It is very big.”
    A part of her still could not believe he’d been laboring over anything so trivial, but if he was this concerned, she wanted to help. Philip had fought Julian for her, protected her, stayed with her when she needed him—when he could have left and gone anywhere in the world.
    “Well . . . I’ve never been to a hair salon,” she said, “but Wade has. He might be able to suggest one.”
    “Wade!” Philip was aghast. “He goes to Supercuts. No, I’ve read articles, and I know something of this. I should not pay less than two hundred dollars, and I should only see a gay stylist. I can risk no mistakes.”
    His expression was so troubled.
    Torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to hit him across the face with a loose floorboard, Eleisha said. “Okay, we’ll get a phonebook, and we’ll start calling, and we’ll find you an overpriced gay stylist.”
    He rocked back on his heels, clearly relieved. “ Bien .”
    She could hardly believe this was the same man who’d recently kicked Julian out a window.
     
    Julian paced the filthy study at Cliffbracken, dragging a sword over the Indian carpet.
    Mary had not returned to him, and every few hours, he was gripped by an almost overwhelming impulse to call her back. But he feared pulling her away too soon—in case she was close to locating Eleisha.
    What could be taking so long?
    He hated anything outside his own control.
    The only way he could gain an advantage over Eleisha was by catching her unaware, before she could invade his mind. If she was coming after him and he had no idea where she was, catching her off guard was impossible. His only option was to stay locked inside the manor—where he knew every inch and every sound—until Mary brought him a report.
    But he was hungry . . . starving.
    Walking to the door, he cracked it. Even from here, he could feel warm life force drifting down the halls from the kitchen.
    One of the servants was still working.
    Back in the days when Lord William and Lady Katherine ran the estate, they employed a small army of servants. But at present, Julian retained only three people: a handyman, whose job was to repair anything visibly falling apart, and two cleaning women, who could hardly handle a manor this size but managed to keep the main floor in fairly good order. All three of them lived “in house,” but he never saw any of them. They had been sent out here by an agency in Cardiff and knew how to remain invisible.
    Still gripping the sword, he stumbled from the library, down through the dining hall, into the corridor, turning right before he reached the