About five minutes away from the diner, the highway ends, and Quinn merges his car onto a residential street with rows of hotels sandwiched between gated estates. He follows the signs for Valkaria Bay Boardwalk, a few miles away.
The hotels are fading pink, chipped blue, or yellowing white, with names like Sunset Vistas and Crystal Palms. Fake metal sculptures of palm trees sit in the shade of their likeness, bright green fronds tall and swaying in the breeze. In between the buildings are glimpses of the ocean, now a mazarine blue in the late-morning sun. Harvest rolls the window down and smiles at the warmth. October has been unseasonably warm, but there is still a vague hint of winter in the breeze.
Quinn grimaces and leans back into his seat, shifting out of the sunlight that is slanting through the window. The sun won’t hurt him, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.
The talk show on the radio has ended, and the sound of tepid jazz filters through the speakers. He makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and switches off the radio.
“So how does this work? The aura thing?” he asks.
“Everyone has some sort of energy. An aura, a vibe. Whatever you want to call it, I can see it, and if they’ve been somewhere recently, I can tell.”
He switches lanes again, but when she looks over at him, he is looking at her and not at the road ahead. “So you’re like a sniffer dog?” he asks.
“I would hope I’m more sophisticated than a dog.”
“Can you tell if the aura belongs to someone with magic?”
“Yes, but it’s not an exact science. Sometimes, I’m only guessing based on people I’ve met before,” she answers truthfully. “Except for vampires, they never have auras.” She glances over at him, but his attention is back on the road.
“When we get there,” he says, “I need you to do your sniffer dog thing—”
“It’s called a second-sight.”
“You do the thing, and we’ll see if we can find her. Maybe she’s staying nearby. I’m sure she just misses her sister and wants to chat.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” she says, more to herself than anything else.
Quinn leans forward to switch on the radio again, turning the dial while he talks. “So the engagement is off?”
He lands on another talk show, but the host is talking about rising crime rates in Valkaria Bay, and he turns it off with an annoyed grunt.
She looks down at her hand to remind herself of the absence of her ring. She looks mildly surprised as if she has already forgotten the weight of it. “You were with him last night. I’m sure you already know the story.” She pauses, looking out of the window at the blurry trees as they pass. “Was Ezra okay?”
“No,” he says frankly, thinking about the rambling, heartbroken Ezra, who oscillated between maudlin musings on love and indignant outcry. “It’s nothing a few shots of whiskey didn’t numb, though.”
Quinn had been surprised to get a phone call from Ezra, as they hadn’t talked in a few months. They met up at a bar downtown, and Ezra ranted about a postcard and Hazel screwing things up. What Quinn doesn’t tell Harvest is that, at some point, Ezra’s anger turned, with focus and precision, on both Rosenbloom sisters, who, as he tells it, are narcissistic, conniving, and manipulative.
There were a few other choice words that Quinn refuses to repeat in Harvest’s presence. Or in the presence of any woman, for that matter.
The turn signal clicks as he follows the sign for the parking lot at Valkaria Bay Boardwalk. The lot isn’t full, but Quinn still parks in a loading zone, slapping an “Agent on Duty” sticker on the windshield to avoid a parking ticket. The boardwalk is flanked on one side by rows of mismatched storefronts, shoved together and towering over the wooden plank thoroughfare as if the buildings tumbled down from the sky and took root wherever they landed. The storefronts look out onto the wide expanse of the ocean, stretching into a faded gold.
In the distance, breaking up the monotony of the horizon, are the twin silhouettes of Astra and Ilton. Both islands are home to thriving magic communities, though Astra, being far less receptive to outsiders and tourists, is the only one that shimmers with a protective shield.
Quinn scowls at the view, blocking his eyes from the sun. Harvest trails behind him, pointing out the blue post office box a few storefronts down from the entrance. Although it is sunny, it is also a Monday, and the boardwalk is quiet, save for a group of locals huddled together at the very end of a pier that juts out into the ocean, where fishing is best.
Unlike Tabitha’s Diner and its housemates, Valkaria Bay Boardwalk exists in a wedge between two the north and the south sides of Valkaria. Despite the seemingly large divide between two segmented populations of Valkaria, the boardwalk is a rare mix of the two. If Valkaria Bay were a Venn diagram, the boardwalk would be the sliver in the middle.
But only just a sliver.
This overlapping is seen most visually in the small, inconspicuous plaques of welcoming marks affixed to roughly half of the doors on the boardwalk, such as the shimmering circle bisected horizontally with a line in front of Tina’s Treasures. To anyone who doesn’t recognize the symbol, the storefront will appear to be closed for the off-season.
Others, like the pirate-themed bar Crab Shack Joe’s, noticeable due to the fact that it is made out of a reclaimed ship’s bow, have no such mark—a stark reminder to keep one’s mischief to oneself.
Harvest doesn’t look around, the mailbox remaining her singular focus. It sits outside of an ice cream shop, which, despite the welcoming symbol painted in the corner of the window, is actually closed for the off-season. Quinn motions toward the mailbox, giving Harvest a cue to get to work. It’s an unnecessary request as she has already taken a deep breath and let her eyelids flutter closed. When they open again, her eyes are milky white.
----------------------------------------
Harvest can feel Quinn’s gaze on the back of her neck, but she doesn’t turn to tell him that she can’t see Hazel’s viridian. She ignores his scrutiny and looks around, trying to imagine why Hazel was here and what she was doing. Was Hazel just visiting the boardwalk? Passing through town? Stopping for an ice cream cone?
Not likely, she thinks. Hazel is allergic to dairy.
And besides, the ice cream shop is closed until summer, according to the sign hanging around the neck of the cow sculpture sitting in the window. The souvenir shop to the left is open though, and Harvest moves to look at the spinner rack sitting next to the propped-open door.
Quinn follows impatiently. “You can see her aura?”
“No, I see the postcard on that spinner rack. She must have bought it from this store.”
Sandy Shores Souvenirs smells of coconuts and sun, and, in tribute to its name, the floor feels gritty as if the sand tracked in from customers has been permanently pressed into the tile over the years. The sales clerk looks up from her book, twisting her long blonde hair around her finger, and smiles at Harvest.
She smiles wider at Quinn, though.
Luckily, the store is otherwise empty, and Harvest turns away from the sales clerk and Quinn, who is already leaning an elbow on the counter and flashing his badge. Harvest blinks and begins sorting through the colors. They are organized here, with separate tendrils weaving their way through the aisles.
She hears Quinn introduce himself, mentioning that he works for the Bureau, which sounds official enough but does little to suggest its purpose. Harvest can see the employee’s powdery pink aura, which is mundane and single-colored.
Not a spark of mischief in sight.
She probably doesn’t even know that magic is real, which is reason enough not to explain just what the Bureau does. And of course, Quinn’s badge is intimidating enough on its own—although Harvest has the distinct feeling that Quinn is the type of man who could get by on just his smile if he really wanted to.
But he doesn’t just use his smile or flash his badge. He is also a vampire, with the unique ability to influence the minds of others, and apparently has no qualms using it on innocent sales clerks.
Harvest feels it as a change in air pressure as if she is ascending too quickly up a mountain. She is so startled that she turns around to stare at them, shocked to see that the soft pink aura is now floating around him as if he has stolen a part of her.
“What’s wrong with your friend’s eyes?” asks the clerk.
“Nothing to worry about, Amy. Just a trick of the light,” Quinn murmurs, his voice a little deeper and smoother than normal. There is a slight hint of an accent, something old and forgotten, his tongue twisting around the vowels as if his voice is smoke, his lips sun-warmed stone. He caresses the inside of Amy’s wrist, and she seems to shiver slightly. “What were you saying about the woman who came in here yesterday?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Amy’s eyelids flutter, but eventually, she tears her attention away from Harvest and refocuses on Quinn with a lazy smile, as if they are the only two in the store. The only two in the world, even. “She just came in to buy a postcard.”
“Did she pay with a credit card?”
Amy shakes her head. “Cash. I remember because she didn’t stay for the change. Just tossed it on the counter and left. The funny thing is, she didn’t even write anything on it. She dropped it in the mailbox, no postage or nothing.”
Quinn leans closer to her. “Would it be okay if we took a look at the footage from the camera?” His eyes dart to the corner of the ceiling, where a blinking red light indicates that they are being recorded.
She laughs. “It’s not real. Boss just wanted to stop theft but didn’t want to shell out the money for a real camera.”
Quinn frowns and lets go of Amy. She sways, like she’s drunk, like Quinn’s touch is one too many shots of tequila. “You get anything?” he asks Harvest.
She nods, startled, and looks around. “Yeah, she was here. I can follow the thread to where she went next.”
He turns back to Amy and holds out his hand. She hesitantly reaches out, her movements stiff and confused. Quinn angles his gaze into hers. His words are slow and deliberate as he says, “The next time you see your boss, insist that he invest in a legitimate security system, or you’ll go to the cops about the illegal poker game he hosts in the back room. Don’t mention me or my colleague.”
It isn’t until they leave the store and begin walking in the direction of the Ferris wheel that Harvest says, “That was unnecessary. She didn’t give you permission, and it wasn’t in a formal interview.”
Quinn stops her by placing a hand on her upper arm, ignoring her flinch. “All I was going to get out of her was some flirting. I just sped up the process to get to the truth quicker.”
“You didn’t have—”
“Let’s get this right, little witch,” he interrupts, leaning closer to her. She feels a small flare of annoyance at the nickname. In the right tongue, it can be a term of endearment.
In Quinn’s inflection, it’s anything but. For a second, his fingers tighten around her arm, and she thinks she can feel his aura through his touch, an annoyed coldness like the underside of a stone. He wrenches his hand away from her a second later.
“This isn’t an investigation,” he says evenly, “and I don’t have to follow the rules. You asked me to help. If you don’t approve of my methods, I will gladly walk away.”
Her lips form a straight line as she weighs his words and ultimately decides to bite back her retort. “How did you know about the poker game?”
“It was a guess,” he says easily. “Where did Hazel go next?”
“Here.”
They look up at the Ferris wheel. At this time of the day, it stands still, like a sleeping giant. Its coated steel is vibrantly white against the blue sky and its bright red carriages sway in the breeze, a ghost of their purpose. Harvest blinks, searching for Hazel’s aura. “She took a ride on the Ferris wheel.”
Quinn calls to an employee who is kneeling over a panel in the base. His badge is already out and glinting in the late-morning sun. She blinks away her second-sight, but not before she glimpses the employee’s aura. It’s a swirling, multi-dimensional purple with soft edges that shimmer as the man looks up.
Shifter, she thinks, though she’s not sure what his second-form would be. There’s something about the hue of purple that reminds her of Ronan, of night skies tinted with moonlight. Maybe a wolf.
“Yeah, she was here yesterday,” this shifter is saying. He tosses down his wrench and straightens up, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe the grease from his fingers. “She seemed to want to get away from the man she was with, so I gave her a free ride on the Wheel.”
“What made you think that?”
He leans his head to the side, thinking. “He seemed a bit rough with her, the way he was gripping her arm. It didn’t seem like she wanted to be here with him.”
“Did he hurt her?” asks Harvest sharply.
Quinn shoots her a warning look.
The shifter considers her question, oblivious to her impertinence. “Not that I saw.”
Quinn widens his stance, taking up more space as if to remind Harvest that he’s in charge. She almost rolls her eyes. “Can you remember anything about the person she was with?” he asks gruffly.
The shifter nods, running a greasy hand through his hair. “Yeah, he was like you. I could smell him a mile away.”
Quinn is unimpressed with this assessment. “Anything else you can remember about him? Did he say anything?”
“They had a conversation over by the Lighthouse.” He points his scruffy chin in the direction of the tower on the opposite side of the boardwalk, on a rocky stretch of land by the pier. “They might have gone in, but I wasn’t paying attention.”
Quinn hands him a business card. “Can you call me if they come around again?”
“Sure,” he says, slipping the card into his back pocket. “Is she in trouble?”
“No,” replies Harvest. “We’re just concerned about her welfare.
Besides the Ferris wheel, the Lighthouse is the tallest structure on Valkaria Bay, a cylindrical white tower with a black-railed balcony and a defunct light on top. In front of the tower is a bungalow that houses a bar, with a neon sign in the window proclaiming that customers are welcome to Come On In. The circle with three lines radiating from the bottom looks like part of a logo mark, but, in actuality, it acts as a welcome sign for those with any measure of mischief.
While the boardwalk had been quite sparse, the bar, in contrast, is surprisingly full. The fishers they had seen earlier have retired to a booth in the corner, their poles propped up against the wall, next to the dart boards. A few regulars sit at the bar, watching a soccer game on the television mounted above the pool table. Two gray-haired witches sit by the window, their wrists dripping with heavy bangles and their necks adorned with crystals. Although they are sharing a seafood platter, their attention is on the game of gin rummy, which takes up most of their table.
Quinn is pleased to see Dominic, the owner of the Lighthouse, behind the bar. Quinn has known Dominic since before they both suffered a mischief-laced bite while separated from their unit, wandering in the middle of nowhere with sand in their mouths and blisters on their faces.
The woman they found promised them water and a place to sleep for the night, and while she kept her promises, they both woke in blood-soaked garments only to find themselves in a state of interminable damnation craving something much thicker than water.
They’ve been brothers ever since.
Dominic nods hello to Quinn, but the movement is accompanied by a tilt of an eyebrow and silent curiosity at seeing Quinn in the bar on a Monday afternoon with a witch he doesn’t recognize. When Quinn smirks, however, the look turns dark and wary. “To what do I owe the pleasure, brother?” he asks, hands braced against the bar.
Harvest perks up at Dominic’s use of the word “brother,” and Quinn can feel her gaze bouncing between the two of them. They look nothing alike, of course.
Quinn is tall and slim, with olive skin and amber eyes. His hair looks like bronze in the shadows and gold in the sun, and while cut short and neat, it still occasionally falls across his forehead. The curse that keeps vampires permanently unchanged despite their years of existence also prevents hair growth, and it was somewhat of a risk to get it cut so short. But the style suits his high cheekbones and long nose. Besides, the heat in Valkaria Bay is oppressive at times, and it’s worth it to keep it off of his neck.
Dominic, in contrast, has kept his hair long, and it curls around his ears in dark, silky waves, swept back away from his aquiline nose and full lips. His narrow jaw is forever peppered with the beginnings of a beard. He is shorter than Quinn, with broad shoulders and bright blue eyes that look like ice against his dark skin. He tends to dress far more casually than Quinn as well, with jeans and a basic white t-shirt making up the bulk of his wardrobe since the ‘50s.
Quinn props his elbow up on the bar. “Just here to ask some questions.”
Dominic ignores this. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure, I’ll have a Midori and Coke.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Harvest wrinkle her nose, but when Dominic places a blue glass in front of Quinn, it is filled with something dark and rich, slightly thicker than what you’d expect from a cocktail.
The smell of blood, rich and coppery, hits his nose. His gums feel tight and uncomfortable as his canine teeth sharpen. Harvest has the decency to purse her lips together and avert her gaze politely, just now remembering who—and what—she is sitting next to. When Dominic turns his attention to her, she orders sparkling water and a basket of fries.
Dominic shoots Quinn one more questioning look before leaving to get Harvest’s order. Quinn knows he will have to explain Harvest later, but what would he say? She’s pretty and he wanted to help her? She’s pretty and he wanted to help her, but also Hazel’s disappearance never really made sense and it’s been bugging him for two years?
It’s true, he thinks, even if Dominic would be skeptical of any explanation. Harvest is pretty, he thinks. Her rose gold hair is shorter than when he first met her at Ezra and Hazel’s engagement party more than two years ago, but the bob suits her heart-shaped face and her caramel eyes that do little to hide her true feelings.
Earlier at the diner, she looked even more attractive with her face half in shadow, half in watery morning light, the stark difference highlighting her delicately blushed cheeks and pursed lips. He felt his gums tighten when she looked up at him with pleading eyes, her fingers tangled in her necklace. He could just about catch a whiff of something floral and sweet when she leaned forward to talk about Hazel.
He agreed to help so quickly if only to prevent the tears that were threatening to burst forth. At least, that’s what he tells himself. To be honest, he’s surprised she brought up the text message, too. It was over a year ago at this point, and she never responded. When he bought her a drink a few days later, her body language reinforced her silence, and instead, he comforted himself with the attention of Dr. Vivienne Burrows, the medical examiner, who seemed to be searching for the same kind of casual fling that Quinn had wanted at the time.
Harvest and Quinn have had very little interaction since, with their work groups keeping them separate as of late. Now that he thinks about it, the only times Quinn has seen Harvest since is with Ezra’s arm wrapped around her. His eyes dart down to her finger and the conspicuously absent ring.
She doesn’t notice his gaze, and he hides the movement by continuing his sweep of the bar, noting casually that at least one of the vampires engrossed in the soccer game is carrying a gun, a barely hidden holster resting against the small of his back.
When Dominic places Harvest’s order down, Quinn uses the opportunity to repeat his earlier statement. “I have some questions, Dom,” he says, slightly louder.
Dominic pauses, his eyes flitting over to the group of vampires sitting at the other end of the bar. So quick, only another vampire would have caught it. “You’ll have to wait. I’ve got customers to serve.”
Quinn makes an unimpressed hum at the back of his throat. “I guess we will,” he says reluctantly. He motions toward his empty glass and Harvest’s food. “You can put this on my tab, right?”
Dominic shakes his head. “One of these days, I’m going to make you pay for something.”
“One of these days,” says Quinn, with a grin. “But not today.”
Dominic shakes his head, feigned disapproval that Quinn knows well, and moves away to serve his other customers.
“Why are we just leaving?” Harvest asks, dropping a half-eaten fry into the basket.
Quinn left his jacket in the car earlier, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and when she reaches out to stop him, her skin is soft and cold. He looks down at her hand and then back up at her face. She retracts her hand with a hint of blush on her cheeks.
“Not now,” he says quietly.
She follows him out of the Lighthouse like a sullen teenager, her arms folded across her chest. He makes his way to the edge of the pier and leans on the chipped wood railing. Harvest does the same; only the wood snags on her sweater, and she uses her palms to brace herself against the railing instead. The wind has picked up, bringing with it white-capped waves, the spray from which lines their lips as they look out at the sea.
“Dominic knows something,” he says after a minute of silence. “I’ve known him for a long time. He didn’t want to talk in front of the group of vampires at the end of the bar.”
“Then we go back later?”
He nods. “Sure. But, first, there’s a deli around the corner from here. You should get some actual food. I’d be able to hear your stomach growling from a mile away.”