In her back garden, she watched him and he watched her. The night was warm. The sounds of the waves drifted over the wall.

“You’ve been following me,” she said.

The shadows draped themselves over his sharp features. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t deny it.

“You’ve been doing that a lot, haven’t you? Following me. Watching me.”

“Looking out for you,” he said. “But only at night. Only when you’re vulnerable.”

Valkyrie shook her head. “That isn’t right,” she said. “You shouldn’t do that to people. You shouldn’t watch them. I don’t want you to do it any more.”

“I need to make sure you’re safe.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he asked, “Did you kill him?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Did you want to?”

“Yes.”

“You sound ashamed. You shouldn’t be. You have darkness in your heart, as do I.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. It’s a part of who you are. You can’t fight it.”

She heard a car. “They’re back,” she said. “You have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I don’t want you watching me or my family.”

“You better hurry, they’re almost in the house.”

She gave him one last look, then hurried through the back door and ran up the stairs, and she heard the front door open and her mother’s voice. She went to the window, looked out. She couldn’t see Caelan out there, but Valkyrie knew that he was.

Chapter 33 - Willow Hill

Chapter 33
Willow Hill

hen Willow Hill Retirement Home had closed down twenty years earlier, nobody had wept. It had been a cold place, of long halls and strong smells, that seemed to infect its staff and its citizens with a dangerous level of indifference. Bodies, once young and strong, wasted away with barely a whisper of protest, following dutifully after minds that were in no condition to lead them. People gave up in Willow Hill. In Willow Hill, nobody seemed to bother.

The Necromancer Order had purchased the Home ten years previously, and had done nothing to prevent the slow decay that seeped through the walls. They let it crumble. They let the local kids throw rocks through the windows and spray-paint the outside. The only thing they didn’t allow was anyone to break in, to spend the night. There was no telling when the Order might be in need of refuge, and they didn’t want to deal with an infestation of mortals when this need arose.

Craven, in particular, liked retirement homes. He liked the peace and the quiet, the still quality of stale air. Most of all he liked the death that lingered like a faint memory.