“Henry Faulkner. I questioned him yesterday,” says Quinn.

The area where Henry Faulkner was found is right on the trail through the pine forest. The trail has completely disappeared under the snow, but the trees are lined up along the edge, forming an obvious pathway. They’ve cleared the area around the body, but the sense of urgency is palpable, as the crushed pine needles on the forest floor are becoming powdery with snow again.

The fifty-nine year old retired architect lies on his back, his eyes staring unseeing at the tree limbs above. Besides the fact that he is deceased, there seems to be nothing wrong. He looks frozen in time, a still photograph stuck to the forest floor.

Henry must have rushed out of his home almost as soon as Quinn left him. He didn’t even have time to change into more appropriate clothing, still donning the blue sweater Quinn had seen him wearing yesterday. The lightweight sweater and jacket may have been sufficient for the fifty-degree weather in Valkaria, but not for the freezing temperatures of Ilton.

Quinn had done much the same, rushing to catch the last ferry of the evening. Luckily, he has no such considerations when it comes to his own wardrobe. He can still feel extreme cold but he is not as bothered by it as he was when he was human. He wears a simple wool coat over his suit.

Unlike Harvest, who, as they walked from the docks, continued to rub her hands together in an effort to warm herself up. He could hear her teeth chattering as they walked, and he silently handed her a pair of leather gloves he keeps in his coat pocket. They’re too big for her, but she took them gratefully.

She adjusts the gloves and looks up at him. “Why were you questioning him?”

“He was listed as next-of-kin for Sunny Blackwood,” he says, tearing his gaze away from the lifeless form of Henry Faulkner to look at Harvest and Lottie.

Due to Ilton’s size and population, the island doesn’t have a proper Bureau office. Instead, there is a loose arrangement of contract employees that act as liaisons until Bureau agents from the mainland can make their way over. Lottie Nobel is one such liaison, and both Quinn and Harvest know her from the Whitmore case.

“Blackwood was a werewolf who was found deceased in her living room two days ago,” he adds.

Sunny Blackwood’s cause of death was not what one would classify as suspicious—at least not immediately so—but Quinn took on the investigation because everyone else was out-of-office for the holiday.

Plus, he was bored.

He met with Henry Faulkner, who was listed as Blackwood’s next-of-kin, more to inform him of the passing of his friend than to question him. Faulkner’s response began as something quite predictable—grief wrapped in disbelief and confusion—but as Quinn talked to him, Faulkner’s mood shifted into something darker, something skittish, like an animal cornered.

“I had the sense that he knew something, but I didn’t want to push him.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but Harvest softens her look. Despite his dispassionate professionalism, she always seems to hear the small hint of regret—a feat considering he is quite good at hiding it.

There is a pause, filled by the sound of a camera shutter. Since there is no Magi-Tech team, they’ve recruited a local photographer to document the scene.

The photographer is actually Lottie’s son, a high school student named Milo. Milo is the editor of the school newspaper and owns a surprisingly expensive camera. He is far calmer than Quinn would expect, but, as Lottie tells him, this is not Milo’s first case. “Takes after his mom,” she says with a small shrug.

The island also lacks a pathologist, Quinn learned when he met Harvest at the ferry. She informed him that her Aunt Bea agreed to perform the autopsy, if needed. As the singular doctor on the island, she is really the only one qualified. Harvest also warned Quinn that Aunt Bea would expect him to come back to the house afterwards and was prepared to make him stay for the night.

“I’m just here to confirm Henry Faulkner’s identity. Maybe oversee the transportation of his body back to the mainland,” he said as they walked side-by-side to through the forest.

“I know that,” Harvest replied, stepping over a fallen tree. He instinctively held out his hand to guide her, and she squeezed his fingers briefly before once again shoving her gloved hands in her pockets to continue warming them up. “But she doesn’t. Besides, Dad has a new batch of wine he wants you to taste test. He’s calling it spiced blood-mead, so apologies in advance.”

He grumbled a bit about his distaste for the holiday, but only for show. He likes Harvest’s family and was impressed with Theodore’s homemade wine, a shared interest that did wonders to diffuse the “what are your intentions toward my daughter” talk that was poised on Theodore’s lips when they first met. He doesn’t know her sister well, but she is friendly and interesting enough. Quinn has even gotten in the habit of referring to Harvest’s fae aunt as Aunt Bea, instead of the more appropriate Dr. Rosenbloom. Though he would probably have his pay docked if he deigned to call Commissioner Rosenbloom Aunt Trixie, they, too, get along well enough, having attended the same Bureau functions over the years.

In all, the only member of the Rosenbloom household he could do without is the flirtatious ghost, Francine. Harvest assured him that Francine will be on her best behavior (“I told her you’re seeing someone”).

“Henry grew up here,” Lottie says. “Before your time,” she adds, glancing at Harvest. “His parents passed away a few years back, but he still has a sister here. Alice. Lives off of Ashton Road.”

“Could he have been visiting her?” asks Quinn.

Harvest frowns. “Why is he in Inger Park then? Ashton Road is on the opposite side of the island, back toward the docks.”

“Going for a walk?” he suggests.

“In this weather? He’s not dressed for a walk.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

He arches an eyebrow at her. Neither are you.

She narrows her gaze and readjusts the gloves. “Cause of death?” she asks Aunt Bea.

Aunt Bea is looking at the body through a stone with a hole in the middle. Although she is older than her niece, she looks younger, her fae heritage responsible for both her tapered ears and youthful appearance.

Henry Faulkner’s death is eerily similar to Sunny Blackwood’s: eyes open but no sign of foul play otherwise. No injuries or wounds. No signs of suffocation or poison. He expects Aunt Bea’s conclusion to be something similar to what the pathologist for Blackwood concluded at the time: heart attack.

Aunt Bea surprises him by saying, “Something not natural.”

“Why do you say that?” he asks, wondering how likely it is for a Bureau pathologist to miss something that a small-town doctor could see immediately. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised. The pathologist yesterday was new to Quinn, a fae-shifter named Hudson. Quinn found him clumsy and unnecessarily glib. He is still waiting on the full autopsy report, which should have been in his inbox an hour ago.

“The look on his face,” says Aunt Bea casually.

It’s not what Quinn is expecting, but it’s much better than Hudson’s response, which was “Don’t know.”

“Right, well, can you prove that?” he asks.

“Maybe.” She stands up and strips off her cotton gloves, slipping the stone into her coat pocket. “I’ll run some diagnostic tests when we transport the body back to my lab.”

“Time of death?”

“I can answer that,” says Harvest, blinking. Her eyes turn white, glowing in the dusky evening light, as she examines the bright blooms of colors that only she can see—physical manifestations of the energies people give off and unknowingly leave behind. Harvest’s second-sight developed when she was still quite young, exploding into her vision at the most inopportune times and causing quite a few scraped knees and even a broken wrist, as she once told him. Luckily, she has since developed the ability to access it only when needed, and it’s become a valuable asset to the work she does for the Bureau.

Better than a sniffer dog any day, he thinks.

“His aura is almost gone.” She tilts her head to the side. “I would say he’s been here for ten hours at least.”

He nods. “Do you know his sister?”

Harvest shakes her head.

“I do,” says Lottie. “Well, a little. Her daughter and Milo were in band together.”

“Do you feel comfortable informing her of her brother’s death?” Lottie has a background in bereavement counseling which makes her an ideal candidate to deliver the bad news. Quinn is probably just as skilled as Lottie when it comes to talking to grieving families, but there is something sour about delivering news of a deceased family member on Christmas Eve. Even Lottie’s tenuous connection to Alice might soften the blow to come.

Lottie nods. “I’ll head over right now. Are we treating it as suspicious?”

“Yes, but don’t tell the sister that yet.”

----------------------------------------

The Faulkner townhome on Ashton Road is decorated with the bare minimum of holiday cheer. One string of multicolored lights frame the front door which is adorned with a simple balsam fir wreath.

Still, the house has become festive simply by its environment.

Like the rest of the island, the robin’s-egg blue house with white trim is covered in a fine dusting of snow, awash in gold as the sun settles closer toward the horizon. The downstairs lights are on, and Harvest can see a Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, decorated in blues and silvers that match the facade.

Harvest blinks, expecting to see a grayish fug of grief blocking the house—and while it is there, it is not as gray or as thick as she expects.

“Their grief isn’t very strong,” she mumbles, when Quinn arches an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think they were very close.”

Lottie answers the door and gives them a shrug, confirming Harvest’s suspicions in a hushed voice. “They hadn’t spoken for at least a year,” she says, ushering them inside. “Alice and her wife already said that they’re okay with speaking to you, but seem a little lost as to how they can help.”

Lottie leads them into the kitchen, where a tea set is arranged on the table. Alice is sitting by the window, a mug of tea already in her hands. Alice’s wife, Carmen, introduces herself and offers them tea. Harvest accepts. Quinn politely declines.

Harvest knows that it’s not because he can’t drink tea—but that he doesn’t like tea. As a centuries-old vampire, Quinn’s body can only derive nutrition through blood, but he does enjoy the occasional alcoholic beverage. If pressed, he can consume other liquids and even a little bit of solid food, though the latter is reserved particularly for special occasions, and, as Dominic once hinted, it’s not ideal.

Alice is the youngest Faulkner, though it’s obvious that she and Henry came from the same gene pool. They both have the same shade of mousy brown hair, and the same unassuming, straight noses. But Alice’s green eyes are a little closer-set, and her face is round compared to Henry’s sharp jawline.

As she talks, Alice shifts her body to face them, but her gaze keeps straying to the window, which looks north, toward Inger Park and the copse of trees where her brother’s body was found three hours ago.

“Alice and Henry barely knew each other,” interjects Carmen, when it becomes clear that Alice’s answers aren’t as detailed as Quinn wants them to be. “I’ve only met him twice since I married Alice.”

“Once at the wedding,” supplies Alice, pouring herself another cup of tea. “And again at Serena’s graduation. There was an age gap. Between me and him. He was much older and moved out as soon as he could. I barely saw him when I was younger and it became even more infrequent after our parents passed away.”

“So the last time you saw him was at Serena’s graduation?”

“Yes,” she replies, sipping her tea. “That was a year ago.”

“Serena’s your daughter?”

“She’s nineteen now. Home for the holidays from her first semester at Yale,” says Alice, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “She’s upstairs if you…”

“That’s not necessary,” says Quinn. “So, your brother’s visit to Ilton wasn’t planned?”

“No, I had no clue he was on the island until Lottie…” There is a small hiccup in her voice, a hint of grief.

“Do you know why he would be here? Maybe visiting someone?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “He really didn’t keep up with anyone on the island as far as I knew, not since the accident.”

“Accident?”

“When he was in high school. There was a party and a girl drowned. He got community service for underage drinking. He left the island almost as soon as he graduated.”

“Can you tell us more about the accident? It sounds like it was quite traumatizing,” says Harvest.

“I don’t remember a lot of the details. I must have been five or six. I wouldn’t remember at all if it wasn’t for him telling me something weird after it happened.” She pauses and looks out of the window again, wrinkles forming at the corner of her eyes as she squints into the distance, as if she can see her memories fogged in the glass.

When she turns back, her face is pale, worry lining her brow. “He said that the bird almost got him that day, that he could feel Death’s claws on his shoulders.”

----------------------------------------

It’s all their fault—the blood, the death.

The darkness.

The flames that reach to the sky.

The roar of the waves has been a constant since birth. It’s strange not to hear them now. Almost as strange as it is to hear the pulse of blood or words unformed by lips.

This place that they’ve created, filled only with ragged breathing. It’s all their mistake. They share the weight equally.

It bears witness to their lies, calls out to them like a bird.

She shouldn’t have come here. She can feel that now, in her heart, against her sternum. The night haunts her, hanging over her like a bird of prey, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and carry her away. Just like Henry once said.

She reaches out into the nothingness and touches cold stone. Someone will come, won’t they? Someone will realize what’s happening and come looking? She should wait here, so they can find her.

Yes, she’ll wait here.

Someone will come looking.

Someone will come soon.