November 7, 2024. The old Rawl’s home next to Crescent Edge Cemetery—it’s all fun and antiques until you find a dead body…

Time froze like a deer in headlights as I stared, nose-to-nose, with the man’s mummified face. Everything shattered back to normal the moment my nerves rebelled.

“Gah—!”

I rolled off the body with a shriek, skittering backwards over rotten rugs to escape the corpse. Before I knew it, I’d crashed against the attic wall as the dark shape flying across the room found me. I jerked to one side as pale hands thrust out of the shadows, clawing at the air where my neck had been.

The dark shape hissed like a boiler’s dying breath.

I scrambled on all fours to anywhere but there. Then my right hand found an old fireplace poker. I rolled over, swinging the metal bar with a snarl, hitting something solid. A yelp and another hiss followed. We stumbled apart, both of us tripping over magazines and more in the dark. I fell one way; the thing went another, as a lantern with its candlelight-yellow glow clanked down between us.

The shadowy figure leaped up, but I was a second faster to my feet, shoving a stack of boxes into their face. That earned me another hiss before it rushed for the open attic entrance.

“Dorian! Cassidy!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, racing after the thing.

I was too slow. The dark shape flowed through the attic opening, dropping to the floor below like a forgotten sheet. In the dim light of the attic, I caught a quick glimpse of a pale hand—thin, with fingers a bit too long for normal.

“Cassidy!” I bellowed again. Tripping over more magazines, I managed a clumsy run for the attic opening, brandishing the fireplace poker.

I frantically climbed down the ladder, missing two steps before I dropped less than gracefully to the floor. Landing in a crouch, I spun around, gulping air, iron poker at the ready. At the same time, Cassidy and Dorian stampeded up the stairs from the first floor.

“Daniel!” Cassidy yelped, racing over with bat claws extended. “What is it? Where is it?” Protectively holding onto my arm, she scanned the hallway for anything to fight.

To my surprise, Dorian looked upset as well. He hadn’t melted into the full nightmare of a bloodleech’s natural appearance, but his eyes had taken on the solid obsidian orbs of one.

“Attic. Person,” I wheezed as I winced, feeling the bandaged cuts on my arms and shoulder sting like all hell. “Did you… did you see them?”

“No,” Dorian replied with the hint of a low snarl.

“They were tall, wearing like a black coat or something. They attacked me when I found a wall safe,” I said, standing up straight—which turned out to be a bad idea. Aches rippled along my shoulder and back.

The hallway and its vintage decor wanted to swirl around me like ice cream in a blender. Not that I have anything against frozen desserts, but ice cream and murder just didn’t seem to mix. I stumbled, but Cassidy caught me before I fell over.

“Hold still,” she whispered, immediately checking the back of my neck.

“What?” I breathed.

“Checking for bloodleech bites,” she replied with a brief side-eye at Dorian. “You’re a little pale and dizzy.”

Dorian either ignored the implication or was too focused on an invader in his new home.

“Where did they run to?” He frowned, voice predator-soft.

“Not sure,” I gasped. “I hit them with this fireplace poker and they dropped something before they jumped down out of the attic. If you didn’t see them on the stairs, where did they go?”

“Both of you stay here,” Dorian said quietly. “I’ll check the rooms here, then outside. It’ll just be a moment.”

Satisfied there wasn’t a telltale ring of bite marks on the back of my neck, Cassidy turned me around in a hard hug. Then she placed her still-furred hands on either side of my face, searching my eyes. I could feel the worry rolling off her in waves.

“If Dorian’s touched you…”

I reached up, putting my free hand on hers, shaking my head.

“He hasn’t. I just know he hasn’t,” I gently replied.

Worry laced her expression. “I’m not so sure. Ambushing someone in a dark attic sounds very bloodleech to me.”

I gave her a lopsided smile. “Yeah, but you once told me bloodleeches loved drama and performance. This felt more like cornering a feral cat in a bathtub. I don’t believe it was him.”

She snorted, touching her forehead to mine. “Okay, fine. That’s a good point. So if it wasn’t Dorian, who was it?”

“I don’t know… yet,” I whispered.

The aforementioned bloodleech returned a moment later, looking more human and twice as concerned.

“No one’s around. I saw where they came in, and where they left. But there’s no sign of them now.” His brow furrowed. “Daniel, are you hurt? Whatever you need, I’ll get it, or call for it.”

Cassidy scowled at the hallway, as if willing whoever attacked me to show their face. I lightly waved a hand at Dorian.

“No. Just a little winded from getting scared half to death.” I drew a long breath. “But that dead body in your attic is going to need the sheriff and a coroner.”

“What?” Cassidy blinked at me, then leveled a hard look at Dorian. “What did you do?”

To his credit, Dorian looked as horrified as I’d felt when I was practically kissing the corpse.

“Nothing,” he replied, pulling out his phone. “Though while I’ve enjoyed burying a body or two in the backyard during my time, this is something best left for the sheriff.” Dorian held up his phone, raising his eyebrows. “If you’ll excuse me. Please make yourselves at home in the kitchen downstairs.”

We headed down and settled into Dorian’s kitchen, helping ourselves to water and a delightful lack of dead bodies. Sadly, drama was still on the menu.

Dorian had no sooner called the sheriff, than they arrived in force a few minutes later. Three cars pulled up outside, escorting an ambulance, and a CSI truck. They descended on the house with lethal precision, invading the attic. Radio chatter hummed through the night air like evening bees out for that one last flower.

After that, they cornered Dorian in one room, Cassidy and I in the kitchen. Then came the questions—a lot of questions.

It took nearly an hour before that wound down.

The deputy taking our statements, and giving a barely veiled interrogation, studied her notebook carefully. Deputy Marla Keene was—if nothing else—professional.

I’d spoken with her a few times, such as at my uncle’s funeral. She was polite, straightforward, and deadly serious as a deputy. Brown hair pulled back in a bun, gray eyes level—the kind that didn’t blink first—she was the portrait of solid and unflappable.

“Shadowy figure in possibly a dark overcoat. Long, thin white fingers.” Deputy Keene read from her notes. “You’re sure you’ve never met the deceased before tonight?”

“No,” Cassidy replied. “Never.”

“Not until I nearly bumped noses with him,” I lightly quipped. The deputy didn’t look amused, so I nodded in a limp, sagely fashion, before drinking some water.

Deputy Keene hummed at me with a deadpan expression. “I see. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne. If we’ve more questions, we’ll follow up.”

The kitchen door opened with a casual creak, interrupting what else the deputy was about to say. Night air, rich with the earthy scent of damp grass, wandered in like a loitering ghost.

Sheriff Roy Branham stepped through the door with the unhurried calm of a man who’d seen more than most. Someone who’d spent thirty years walking into bad situations and rarely had to raise his voice. In less time than it took to cross the threshold, I noticed his eyes wander the room—memorizing it at a glance, before settling on us.

“If for no other reason than because attics don’t grow bodies on their own,” he said with the ghost of a wry smile.

The sheriff was a broad-shouldered, dusky-skinned man somewhere in his early fifties, with close-cut hair touched with gray at the temples. My Uncle Elias had spoken highly of the sheriff more than once. Despite the damp evening outside, Sheriff Branham’s uniform was still mostly immaculate.

I grinned a little. Sheriff Branham’s easygoing manner seemed to seep tension out of the air, deflating it like a balloon.

“No, I suppose not. What about the lantern that the person dropped?” I asked. “If you need it appraised, we could take a look?”

The sheriff frowned a little, rubbing his chin. “Might do that. But I’d rather my CSI boys look at it first to see if we can get a better handle on who was up there.”

Dorian appeared behind the sheriff, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered. I almost envied that calm the sheriff had—almost, but not quite.

“Well, I can say it didn’t belong to my contractor, best that I know,” Dorian casually admitted. “Fred brought plenty of flashlights and other tools, never a lantern.”

Deputy Keene went stone-faced, and I thought I saw Sheriff Branham swallow a tiny sigh. I got the impression Dorian wasn’t supposed to casually stroll in, talking about the dead man like that.

“Fred?” Cassidy asked carefully.

“Fred Spivey,” Dorian explained, either ignoring the sheriff and the deputy’s mild frustration or just didn’t care. “Remodeling contractor I hired from over in Craigbrook down the road.”

Deputy Keene cleared her throat, getting to her feet. She snapped her small notebook closed like a mousetrap.

“Well, thank you all. Like I said, we’ll be in touch with more questions.”

As the officers made their way out of the kitchen, Sheriff Branham paused with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Oh, by the way,” he asked. “Did Fred Spivey mention that safe in your attic, Mr. Callix?”

“No, not a word.” Dorian replied with a thin smile. “If he had, I’ve no doubt he’d have told me. Would’ve been a good reason to up his fee for remodeling.”

The sheriff lightly tapped the nearby counter, raising an eyebrow at Cassidy and myself.

We swapped a brief look. She gave me a tiny, resigned nod.

“We didn’t know, but suspected,” I said. “Uncle Elias had a set of antique fountain pens come through his shop a few years back. Mr. Callix hired us to track down where they went. This house used to belong to one of my uncle’s antique pickers.”

Sheriff Branham nodded slowly. “Meredith Rawls, I remember. So you came here to see if the pens were here?”

Cassidy clasped her hands around her glass of water. “That or see if there was a record left behind about them.”

The sheriff glanced around the room again, then at the ceiling.

“Mr. Callix, is all the work you wanted done on the first floor?”

“It is,” Dorian replied, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Doors and other things.”

Branham hummed at that.

“Odd, Spivey was upstairs in the attic when the work was down here.” The sheriff smiled at us and Dorian. “No matter. Mr. Callix? I’m sorry in advance, but my CSI boys will be tromping through your attic a good bit. Also, I’ll need you to stay in town in case we’ve more questions.”

“Well, of course,” Dorian replied, inclining his head.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, you’re at Elias’ old shop?” When we nodded, he gave us that warm smile again. “Good. I’ll be by tomorrow or the next, likely with more questions. All of you have a good night.”