She felt caught out, like a child with her hand in the biscuit tin.
‘How nice to see you again,’ she said, brightly, hoping her voice sounded natural. ‘An appointment? Not at all, I’m up here on a weekend getaway. A friend of mine said this was a nice area to explore by bike.’ She gestured at the helmet. ‘She also said the farmers’ market in Hanover was not to be missed.’ She showed him her bag of jam and maple syrup as evidence, like a witness on the stand.
‘Where are you staying? The Black Horse? A lovely place. Be sure to give my regards to Jean and Artie. Tell ’em I said to treat you well.’ He looked at the helmet dangling from her wrist, then at the bike leaning against the fence post. She could see his mind scrolling backward and putting two and two together. She held her breath and waited, but the moment passed, and she turned to unlock the bike.
But Stern didn’t move away. She could hear him behind her, shuffling his feet on the gravel. He cleared his throat. ‘Now that we’ve bumped into each other, may I ask if there’s any news about Tim’s case?’
In the dappled shade, his face looked strangely opaque. It may have been a trick of the light, but for a moment it seemed as though his eyes could see through her skull and straight into her brain.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any details about Tim or the status of his case,’ Erin said, easing the bike round until it was pointed towards the street. The air felt heavy, and she was anxious to get away. ‘I’m sure someone will contact you before Tim is scheduled to appear before the judge.’
‘That’s good to know.’ He slapped some dust off the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Enjoy your stay in Hanover.’ The voice was hearty. But his eyes hadn’t changed, and it was his eyes that bothered her. Surely, he didn’t buy her story about driving all the way up here to buy jam at the local farmers’ market.
The wheels of the bike spun on the gravel as she pulled out of the car park and pedalled away, acutely aware of Stern’s cool stare, boring into her back. Some might say those penetrating eyes were the sign of a true believer. A man lit by the flame of a higher power. But Erin would call them something else.
34
Belle River, Maine
August 1977
Music thumps from the stereo in the basement rec room, blocking out the chirrup of crickets in the yard. Jeremy’s parents have gone out to a party and won’t be back until late. A perfect time to break out a little weed. Jeremy pulls the plastic baggie of Jamaican Gold from the pocket of his jeans and sets to work rolling the sticky buds into a fat spliff. He lights the end and takes the first pull, holding the smoke deep in his lungs before passing the spliff to Tim. He’s not all that fond of weed, but he takes a pull, coughs and sputters.
Another toke, and the top of his head shears off. He can feel his blood and bones break away and waft through space to rendezvous with the stars. He closes his eyes and lies back on the orange beanbag, his heart galloping as his spinning thoughts race for the moon. He takes another toke, waiting for the familiar calm to flush through his veins, but this time he feels something different. An urgent, vibrating energy, like a swarm of bees descending through the air. Bees in the trees. Bees in his blood. Jeremy’s face balloons to twice its size.
‘Man, this is heavy stuff,’ Jeremy says. ‘Where’d you get it?’ He lies flat on the floor and laughs like a loon. ‘I’m totally wasted.’
It was that boy everyone called the Duke who gave Tim the weed. He’d been acting all chummy recently, even slinging his arm around Tim’s shoulder when they’d run into each other at the docks last week. Punching him on the shoulder, laughing at his jokes. Like they were blood brothers, or members of some long-lost tribe. Weird, that’s for sure. But if Jeremy knew who’d given him the dope, he’d freak out, sure they’d been poisoned. If there was anyone Jeremy hated worse than the Viking, it was the Duke. A snake in the grass was what Jeremy called him.
He sucks more of the oily smoke into his lungs, and tries to focus on his friend’s face, but it keeps moving in an out of his sightline, until it detaches from Jeremy’s body and floats up to the ceiling like a helium balloon.
Blood canters through his veins and electrifies his fingers. A surge of power blows his body into the size of a giant, while sharp fangs push through his gums. Beset by a furious hunger, he eyes Jeremy’s limp form, splayed out on the beanbag, and the delectable, tender skin of his neck, where a blue vein pulses, beating in time to the werewolf thump of Tim’s heart. How inviting the pale skin looks. He creeps closer, presses his finger against the beating blood.
Jeremy stirs and opens his eyes. ‘Hey, man. What’s up?’
35
Lansford, New York
June, Present Day
A stiff breeze, laden with the tang of the river, ruffled the yellow tulips Erin had placed in a vase on the kitchen table. On her way home from the clinic, she’d taken the long way round, to drive by Cassie’s house, the third time in two weeks. But the blinds were drawn, and the windows shut. She could only imagine what went on behind those closed doors, and hoped that Cassie was okay. When a man from the house next door stepped onto his front porch, she had started the engine and driven away. First, the weekend in Hanover to spy on Stern, and now
