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“I suppose I’m giving away his secret,” Betty said dolefully, “but it can’t be helped.”

Fanule tried on a reassuring smile that didn’t quite fit. Not yet. “You haven’t given away anything. I deduced the general location of his quarters a while ago. So, did you investigate?” Betty didn’t quail from wandering around a dark wood. She did it every night. After all, nothing could harm her. The harm had already been done.

The question seemed to unsettle her. Although not in a chair, she was in a sitting position, and her airy hands clasped and clasped above her lap. “Not then, no. I probably should have, but I wanted to deposit the plant matter I’d gathered. Each piece has to be stored in its own way.”

“But eventually you did have a look?”

“Yes. The incident kept nagging at me—that burst of soft light, Lickshank’s reaction. I feared for Clancy’s safety. He’s utterly helpless, you know, between daybreak and nightfall. So I had to, I
had
to check on him.” Ripples ran through her translucent face. “Oh, how it pained me to violate the most sacred of a vampire’s privacies!”

It was impossible to be unaffected by the distress that continued to shiver through Betty’s features. “And?”

Her eyes grew larger. “He was gone, Fan,” she pronounced in distinct, dreadful syllables. “Clancy was
gone
. I checked again today, with the same result. He wasn’t there.”

“And you didn’t hear him arise last night, or return this morning? You’ve heard no sounds to indicate he’s been up and about?”

“None,” Betty whispered.

Fanule absorbed her anxiety. Rarely was Betty fearful. Concern as well as curiosity began to displace that rock inside of him. “Are you sure you searched the right places? And thoroughly?”

Betty’s head nodded. “I know that bluff like I used to know my own palm. I slipped in and out of every crevice and cranny, even looked for signs of disturbed soil at its base. I recognized Clancy’s sleeping chamber as soon as I saw it.” She made a mewling sound, and when she spoke, her words shook. “Strands of his beautiful hair lay within, and the cave smelled of that fragrance he wears.”

“Was there”—Fanule swallowed; the question had to be asked—“a pile of dust where his body should’ve been? Or pieces of jewelry and empty clothing? Or something a hunter might’ve… left behind?” He couldn’t bring himself to name the favored weapons. They sickened him. Wooden stakes and iron spikes, crossbow bolts and long, pointed bullets clad in silver. Clancy Marrowbone was his dearest friend, not to mention a former lover, and Fanule could not begin to contemplate the end of his existence.

“No. Nothing like that,” Betty said.

Fanule exhaled in relief. “Thank gods. So it appears he’s changed his sleeping quarters, that’s all.”

“I suppose it’s possible.” Betty didn’t look convinced. “But Clancy once told me that when he finds a place he favors, a place where he feels comfortable and secure, he tends to settle there.”

“For a while, perhaps, but he’s too cautious to sleep in one place indefinitely. I imagine all it takes is the smallest hint of encroachment—a campfire, a minor rockslide—to undermine his sense of security and make him move.” The more they talked, the more engaged Fanule felt with the reality that existed outside himself. The tonic had likely helped, but it was Betty’s concern for Marrowbone that had forced Fanule to refocus. “It’s the only explanation, Betty. Mortals might occasionally kill vampires, but they don’t
steal
them.”

She smiled again, although the smile was nothing more than a stretch of her lips. She clearly didn’t feel comforted. “His things are still in my wardrobe, Fan.”

“We can’t read too much into that. If his new hide isn’t far from the old one, he can still travel quickly to and from your cottage.”

“He hasn’t left any clothes for me to launder, either.”

“Does he always?”

“Not always. Not if he’s in a hurry.”

In a hurry….
Fanule rose from the table. “I know exactly what will put your mind at ease.” He wished his memory were clearer, but every onslaught of illness scrambled it. “A few nights ago, Clancy stayed in the city to visit with some acquaintances he’d run into. His lover was upset with him, threatened to call it quits if Clancy ever again disappeared without notice. So all I need do is vox Simon Bentcross.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Betty said, more chipper now. “Clancy’s quite smitten by that man—put his own life in danger to save Simon’s life, as I understand—so he wouldn’t intentionally do anything to jeopardize their bond.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Excuse me a minute.” Fanule went into the parlor, aware of the difference in his footsteps. He was no longer shuffling like an octogenarian with aching joints. After glancing through one of the parlor windows to gauge the progress of dusk—it was November, and darkness closed in early—he had the vox connector patch him through to Simon’s residence. He knew Simon liked to be there before Clancy arrived, so he had time to clean up and fix himself a bite to eat.

“What do you want, Perfidor?” Bentcross asked straightaway. He sounded more morose than snappish.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something, but—”

“All you’re interrupting is my rather sorry excuse for supper.”

Fanule’s apprehension rose. “Might I speak to Clancy if he’s there?”

Sharply, “He isn’t.”

“Oh. Well, he must still be out searching for a host.”

Simon answered in a sad, angry rush. “He isn’t here, and I doubt he’ll be here, because he wasn’t here last night. Even if he does show up, he’ll be turned away. I’m done with vampires. I’m done with
him
.”

“Oh, gods,” Fanule muttered, dropping into a chair. “Bentcross, we need to talk.” Betty appeared in the doorway, or at least her head did, and her wavering features betrayed her alarm.

“All we need to talk about is working out that deal, as soon as you get your OMT back from Marchman. Which reminds me… why the hell did you throw him out? You’ve been under the weather before but never wanted to be rid of him.”

Fanule felt an upsurge of grief and guilt. “You talked with William?”

“He came to my shop today.”

“Why?” William wouldn’t think of staying with Simon, would he? The mere thought of them living under the same roof set Fanule’s stomach roiling. He couldn’t summon any outrage. He was, after all, the one responsible for William’s homelessness.

“For gods’ sake, Perfidor, don’t come undone over it. He just wanted to know if Clancy would look after you at night, since he’s not there to do it himself.” Bentcross muttered something Fanule didn’t catch.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said, you and Marrowbone are both pigeon-kissing tossers. Maybe the two of you should get together again. He’s unaffected by your spells, and you’re unaffected by his fickleness. And if you want to punch me for saying that, I don’t give a damn. It’s the truth, and I’ll damned well punch you right back. Just don’t suck the light from my eyes, ’cause I’ll be needing them to find a new and better playmate.”

Hanging his head, Fanule sighed. He had no desire to punch anybody. Hurt rang through Simon’s furious words, and it drowned out any outrage Fanule might otherwise have felt. “Clancy hasn’t just been your playmate, Simon, and you know it. That’s why we need to talk. You can’t write him off.”

“The hell I—!”

“Something might have happened to him,” Fanule cut in, raising his voice.

The parlor clock ticked through Simon’s silence.

“Bentcross?”

“
What
might’ve happened to him?” Simon’s voice was tight and quiet. Just like that, he’d stopped being incensed. If he still felt wounded, his hurt was of a different nature now.

In the doorway, Betty despairingly shook her head.

“I wish I could tell you,” Fanule said, “but I don’t know. We’re going to look into it, though.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“A mutual friend and I.”

“A vampire friend?” Judging by the sound of his voice, Simon’s level of tension was rising.

Fanule made an effort to sound calm. “No. I don’t know any other vampires. She’s the healer I’ve mentioned. Clancy sleeps near her cottage.”

“I want to talk to her.”

“You can’t, Simon.”

“Damn it, Perfidor, I’m the one who’s… most attached to him!”

Fanule smiled at the euphemism. It was a limp smile, granted, but at least he was capable of feeling a small touch of amusement. Why would so many men rather choke than admit to loving someone?

“You can talk to
me
,” Fanule said. “She knows no more than I.” He glanced at Betty, who did look relieved. The poor woman had already been seen by William. He was probably the first mortal human who’d laid eyes on her since Louis Pandemain, the monster who’d done away with her and her cat.

“Then tell me what you know,” Bentcross said.

Fanule realized he must choose his words carefully, lest he upset Simon unnecessarily or give away the location of Marrowbone’s sleeping chamber. The latter wasn’t his secret to divulge. “It appears Clancy hasn’t been to his hide in the past couple of days. Before you assume he’s fled the province without a word, it also appears he hasn’t done that, either. His possessions are still where he left them. But most important,” Fanule hastened to add, “there’s no indication he was attacked while he slept.”

Simon hesitated before responding. “So… what exactly are you telling me?”

What indeed? Fanule hadn’t told Bentcross anything, really. He glanced at Betty, who lifted and dropped her arms in what appeared to be a shrug. “I’m trying to convince you that Clancy hasn’t abandoned you. He’s disappeared. All his things are where he left them. Yet there’s no sign that any harm has come to him.”

“No sign?” Bentcross shouted. “How the fucking hell do
you
know? Have you searched the entire blasted province for ‘signs’? He could’ve been taken down anywhere, Perfidor, not just where he sleeps! And with your damned lunatic of a father prowling around—”

“What’s
he
got to do with this?” Fanule broke in, jarred by the reference. Even Betty’s head drifted forward.

“He thinks vampires are devils, that’s what! And a twor vampire?” Simon barked out an acid laugh. “In his eyes, that’s the most diabolical kind of devil. Your old man
sweats
hatred, Perfidor. And who knows what the hell is inside that damned wagon he’s been hauling around?”

Betty’s eyes opened wider as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Cold swept over Fanule when he looked at her.

Someone pounded on the front door.

Betty withdrew so rapidly, her departure made a soft, suctioning sound.

Simon’s voice sliced through the room. “Fuck all this, I’m going to find out what he’s up to.”

Before Fanule could ascertain what Bentcross meant—whether he was referring to Clancy or Zofen—the front door banged open. Scowling and wild-eyed, Doder Cormorand barged into the parlor, his arm curled around a bedraggled, oversized doll.

“End call,” Fanule croaked into the voxbox, his mind spinning and stomach churning, his unsteady legs barely able to carry him forward.

The doll was Yissi Sweetgrass. Her eyes were open but sightless.

She looked deader than Lizabetta.

“W
HAT
’
S
WRONG
with her?” Fanule asked.

“Can’t you see? Overnight she turned into a damned sack of rice, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Where were
you
?”

Doder’s face reddened. He was a broad-shouldered man with a dome-shaped belly and arms like war clubs. His short, choppy hair matched his ill-shaven face. “In the city, enjoying a few games. I’ve a right, you know. I work damned hard every day.”

So he was in Purinton, at a gambling parlor. The man did work hard, Fanule had to grant him that, but he played even harder.

Doder, face set stubbornly against any judgment, steered Yissi across the room and sat her on the sofa. He remained standing, staring down at her. “Aggabin voxed me when I got home from work and said she’d been wandering aimlessly around the village all day. He managed to get her into his store and keep her there until I came to fetch her.”

“Did you take her to see Doc Crimple?”

“Just came from there.” Doder finally tore his gaze from Yissi, put his hands on his hips, and looked at Fanule. “He tried to talk to her, which got him nowhere just like it got me, then made her picture and studied it. He said it was ‘moral insanity’ that done this and she should be in Cindermound.” His expression grew more belligerent, if that were possible, and a patch of skin beneath his right eye began twitching. “You know what’s goin’ on in this village better ’n anyone, Eminence. So you tell me if it’s moral insanity.”

“Give me a moment to feed the fire, Doder. It’s getting cold in here.” Fanule went over to the parlor stove and shoveled in more coal. He hadn’t been tending to his fire very well, and a chill had indeed been overtaking the house.

Damn that puffed-up Crimple. He was a smart man, smart enough (and with a large enough human component in his lineage) to have made it through some medical school. Most of the time he could treat common illnesses and injuries well enough, but he espoused some bizarre notions when it came to nonphysical maladies.

Crimple had certainly heard the rumors about Yissi Sweetgrass and Jusem Fober—everybody had heard them, except for Yissi’s common-law husband—so the doctor had simply paired those rumors with some lame-brained new theory. Had Crimple known about the wild swings of Fanule’s mental pendulum, he would have had the Eminence of Taintwell unseated in a blink and on his way to the asylum. Either melancholia or mania alone would have been enough to guarantee him a place there, but both? Fanule was certain he’d have been caged and bound like a demon escaped from the underworld.

He wished Crimple would retire. There were two good healers in Taintwell who didn’t have the pretensions that seemed to come with a diploma.