Someone had even added, at some point, a little signage at the base of the frame, Eliahu Rathboone and the birth and death dates.

The fact that he bore only a passing resemblance to the human who had built the house centuries ago didn’t seem to matter. Thanks to the Internet, grainy images of antique pencil drawings showing the actual Rathboone were available for viewing, and other than them both possessing long dark hair, they had little in common. That did not bother the people who wanted to believe, however. They felt like he was the first owner of the house, therefore he was the first owner of the house.

Humans were big proponents of magical thinking, and he was content to let them stew in their folly. Who was he to judge? He was insane. And it was good for business—which was why the staff let the lie lay, so to speak.

The letter writer knew the truth, however. Knew lots of things.

They must have seen the B&B on the TV, though, and made the connection.

The first letter he had dismissed. The second had troubled him with details only he would know. The third had determined him unto action, although he’d not immediately known how to proceed. And that was when the King’s solicitor had arrived with news of the inheritance and Murhder had decided upon his course.

He was going to the King for help. He had no choice.

Down on a lower floor, upon the landing of the main stairs, the grandfather clock began to chime the announcement of nine o’clock.

Soon it would be time to go back to where he had escaped from, to see once again those whom he had no wish to cast sight upon, to reenter, for a limited period, the life which he had left and vowed ne’er to return.

Wrath, son of Wrath. The Black Dagger Brotherhood. And the war with the Lessening Society.

Although that last one was no longer his problem. Nor the other two, actually. In the august and ancient annals of the Brotherhood, he held the notorious title of being the only Brother ever expelled from membership.

No, wait … the Bloodletter had also been kicked out. Just not for losing his mind.

There was no scenario he had e’er expected to reengage those fighters or that King.

But this was his destiny. The sacred shard had told him thus.

His female was waiting for him to finally do right by her.

Indeed, he bore the weight of many wrongs in his life, many things that he had done to hurt others, cause pain, maim and destroy. A fighter he had been once, a killer for a cause that had been noble but whose execution had been bloodthirsty. Fate had found a way to hold him accountable, though, and now its ruthless will was once again grinding upon him.

Abruptly, the image of a female came to his mind, powerful of body, fierce of will, her short hair and her glowing gray eyes staring at him with a no-nonsense directness.

Not the one in the glass.

He saw Xhex often in his broken mind, visions of her, memories of them together as well as everything that had happened later, the only channel his mental TV was trained on. If he were apprehensive of taking his malfunctioning cognition into the Brotherhood’s orbit, meeting up with that female would ruin him, he was quite sure. At least he didn’t have to worry about running into her. His former lover had been a lone wolf all her life, and that trait, like the gunmetal color of her eyes, was so intrinsic to her makeup that he had no concern she would congregate with anyone.

That was what you did when you were a symphath living among vampires. You kept that part of your DNA a secret from everyone by removing yourself as much as possible.

Even when it came to males you were sleeping with. Males who thought they knew you. Males who stupidly ran up to the symphath colony to free you from captivity—only to learn that you hadn’t been kidnapped.

You’d gone to see your blooded family.

That noble move on his part, rooted in his need to be a savior, had been the start of the nightmare for both of them. His decision to go after her had permanently altered the course of their lives because she had kept her true nature from him.

And now … further repercussions, unforeseen and undeniable, had arrived unto him. At least these, however, might lead at long last to a resolution he could take to his grave in some kind of peace.

Murhder fanned the letters out. One, two, three. First, second, third.

He was not up to this task.

And on the same deep level that he knew he could not handle this pilgrimage of his, he was aware that there would be no returning from the journey. It was time to end things, however. When he had initially come unto this property, he had had some hope that in time, perhaps he would reenter his body, re-inhabit his flesh, restore his purpose and connection to the common reality in which all other mortals dwelled.

Two decades was long enough to wait to see if that happened, and in those twenty years, naught had changed. He was as unglued as he had been when he had first arrived. The least he could do was put himself out of this misery once and for all, and do it in a righteous way.

One’s last act should be virtuous. And for the female destiny provided unto you.

Rather like leaving a room clean after its use, he would take care to restore order to the chaos he had unwittingly unleashed before exiting the planet. And after that? Nothingness.

He did not believe in the Fade. He did not believe in anything.

Except suffering, and that would soon be over.

Ithaca, New York

Good evening, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Manfred from the FBI. Are you Dr. Watkins?”

Sarah Watkins leaned forward and checked out the badge and credentials the man held up. Then she looked over his shoulder. In her driveway, a dark gray four-door was parked behind her own car.

“How can I help you?” she said.

“So you are Dr. Watkins.” When she nodded, he smiled and put his ID away. “You mind if I come in for a minute?”

Out on her quiet street, her neighbor’s new Honda Accord ambled by. Eric Rothberg, who lived two houses down, waved and slowed to a roll.

She waved back to reassure him. He kept going. “What’s this about?”

“Dr. Thomas McCaid. I believe you worked with him at RSK BioMed.”

Sarah frowned. “He was one of the lab supervisors. Not in my division, though.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” As she stepped back, she channeled her inner hostess. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, maybe?”

“That’d be great. It’s going to be a late night.”

Her house was a small three-bedroom on a small lot on a nice-and-normal street of young families. Four years ago, when she’d bought it with her fiancé, she’d assumed at some point she’d hop on that mommy train.

She should have sold the place a while ago. “The kitchen’s this way.”

“Nice digs, you live here alone?”

“Yes.” Inside her gray-and-white kitchen, she indicated the round table with the three chairs. “I’ve got K-Cups. What’s your poison—oh, sorry. Bad phrasing.”

Agent Manfred smiled again. “It’s okay. And I’m not picky, long as it has caffeine in it.”

He was one of those good-looking bald guys, a forty-something who’d stared his missing hair in the follicle and decided not to pretend about his male pattern no-go. His nose was a ski jump that was crooked, like it had been broken a couple of times, and his eyes were a bright blue. Clothes were loose dark slacks, a dark navy windbreaker, and a black polo with FBI stitched in gold on the pec. Wedding ring was one of those titanium dark gray ones, and its prominence reassured her.