TheSmallPrint (22 page)

Catch pushed himself up on four legs, raised his head and howled Matty’s name.

Chapter Fifteen

Turner trudged back to the hall after Matty, knowing Catch had just shifted to avoid a confrontation. And there would have been one. Fangs bared, Catch hadn’t “lost it for a moment”, he’d moved into “protect” mode.
Unbelievable.

Maybe Catch had forgotten what he’d whispered twenty years ago, but Turner hadn’t.

You’re my mate.

Turner had pretended not to hear, but he’d felt the truth in what Catch said because he’d felt it too—that indefinable link, an invisible chain that held them, the deep pull of needing each other. When Catch had gone on to betray him, Turner decided it wasn’t difficult to confuse need with lust. Since they’d spent twenty years apart and survived without each other, that meant something too.
Didn’t it?

What Turner also struggled with were his feelings for Matty. When he’d seen her in the water, he’d been paralyzed with fear. When did that ever happen to him? Before he could move, Catch jumped in, and instead of being relieved one of them had a functioning brain, even if Catch hadn’t thought things through first, Turner’s anxiety had doubled.

While Catch used his powers of persuasion to convince Matty to let go of the tree, Turner’s mind went on a rampage of worst-case scenario. What if Catch didn’t grab her and she drowned? What if the idiot mongrel died saving her? What if Turner lost them both? If the two got into real danger, how would he choose who to save? Turner was the only one of them who couldn’t drown.

Probably.

There was no sign of Matty in the hallway, but wet footprints showed she’d gone upstairs. Turner followed.

He pushed open the attic door and a trail of wet clothes led to the mattress.
Wet panties. Oh God.
She lay wrapped in her duvet.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and edged closer.

“Yes,” came the muffled response.

Turner knelt by her side. Only the top of her head showed.

“Need me to cuddle you?” he asked.

“No.”

“How did you get into the water?”

“Fell.”

Relief rippled through him.

“I got your eviction notice,” she muttered, and rolled over to sit up.

Turner blinked. “What?”

“The letter?” she snapped. “Your lawyers work pretty fast. Not sure how bailiffs would evict someone they can’t see. You’d look a bit stupid. Don’t worry. I’ve given up. I finally get it. You don’t want me here. I’ll leave tomorrow.” She slumped down again.

“I want you to stay.”
Oh God, I
do
want her to stay.
Guilt and worry surged through him.

She pulled the duvet tighter around her. “I don’t want to.”

Turner saw the irony in that and swallowed hard. “Please stay.”

“What? You feel sorry for me now? You’re asking me to stay out of pity? You haven’t believed anything I’ve said.”

“I-I’m sorry about the letter.”

Her eyes blazed with fury. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the damn letter. You don’t want me. You don’t need me. You never will. The two of you have each other. Go away.”

The two of you?

“Matty, I—”

“Leave me alone.”

“I don’t want to.”

“If you don’t get out right now, I-I’ll disappear like the ghost you think I am. Even dead girls get tired. Bye.”

Turner got to his feet and backed out of the room. He’d fucked everything up. Now he had to find a way to put it right.

In the library, Turner switched on his laptop. While it booted up, he went over to his bookshelves to get the box containing the Purelight diaries. There was something he wanted to check, a thought sparked by the Winterval celebration and what the vicar had said about it embracing winter and darkness. These diaries weren’t the real thing, but close copies Turner had painstakingly reproduced, ink blot for ink blot, as he’d translated each page for Gabriel. His suspicious nature had made him change small details, disguise the truth so that if they were ever stolen, no one would be able to come to the same conclusion as him. The act of forgery began through an instinct for self-protection and also with a touch of selfish greed because Turner wanted his name on this discovery. An act that continued once his suspicion over Gabriel’s motives and his disturbing methods grew too strong to ignore.

The original books hadn’t been destroyed but were hidden in the Vampire Archives deep beneath London, at the bottom of a box of first editions of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
where they were unlikely to be found. A mass purchase of Stoker’s work had been made in 1897 in a vain attempt to avoid public exposure. Didn’t matter that the book was mostly fiction, public awareness of vampires and their weaknesses was hardly wise.

As Turner lifted his box down, the weight told him the contents had gone. He still checked, but the container was empty. Turner’s anxiety spiked and he shuddered. He’d somehow envisaged Gabriel torturing the truth out of him, Turner giving up the books under duress, and then the vampire leaving Turner to live another day. Even though Turner knew he was wasting his time, he searched every shelf and the space behind the books. So who’d taken them? Matty? One of those committee members? Someone working on behalf of Gabriel? Catch? A lump erupted in Turner’s throat. Had this unexpected visit hidden an ulterior motive all along? Or was the mongrel trying to save his skin by removing the diaries before they became an issue?

If Turner could have turned the clock back twenty years, he might wish he’d never seen the damn things, despite their immense historic importance. He’d told the High Court he’d seen the diaries destroyed and no, he hadn’t made copies. But some perverse desire to keep a memento of his stupidity, a stark reminder to self not to trust anyone ever again, had made Turner hang on to the translations he’d tampered with. Which left Turner with a few uncomfortable truths.

Gabriel thought he’d purchased fakes but he hadn’t.

The Council didn’t want anyone to know the truth of their origins.

And someone knew Turner had those copies.

He slumped at his desk.

It all came back to Dava and Gabriel. Much as he might try to fool himself otherwise, they were the main reason Turner had wanted Matty out of the house and the only reason he’d wanted George away on vacation. If Turner’s past was about to catch up with him, he wanted to face it on his own. He didn’t want to have to be worrying about some aggravating little tadpole swimming in his attic. Nor an even bigger aggravation who’d bulldozed in, so intent on righting wrongs that he’d get himself killed trying to help him.
Fuck, what a mess.

It didn’t surprise Turner that Dava had slipped out of sight. He suspected the VRB housed new releases in basic one-star conditions and Dava was a high-maintenance, five-star woman. Vampires should be experts on living below the radar, something Turner had learned to do, but he doubted Dava’s ability to maintain a low profile.

Gabriel was far more cunning. He’d play whatever game was required. He was the most ambitious, mercenary, vicious individual Turner had ever come across. Not that Dava was much better. When they first met, she’d been charming and hung on Turner’s every word about emerging markets. That should have tipped him off she was up to something, though it hadn’t taken long for him to see her for what she was—a conniving bitch. Whatever Gabriel wanted, she did without question, and if they
were
together, there’d be trouble. Turner doubted either of them intended to buy a secluded house in the country and raise sheep.

But the diaries? Could Dava have been here and taken them? Had there been opportunity? Apart from not understanding how she could get in the house, she couldn’t
know
he had the things, but might have guessed he’d kept them or copies since he’d spent almost every waking hour pouring over the books after Gabriel had handed them over.

Plus, there had been an incident, once she’d given up on seducing him, when Dava ripped up a book—some mortal romance writer’s paperback that featured ridiculous vampires who got their fangs stuck in chewing gum. He’d snapped at her, “You should never destroy books.” Dava had tossed the volume on the fire. Then thrown him after it. He’d been lucky to escape with only singed hair.

Maybe he
was
lucky because Turner had walked away from the Purelight debacle without a prison sentence. Apparently, his stupidity wasn’t a reason to send him to jail. Turner had done as Catch had begged and maintained he believed in the books even after their provenance and content were ridiculed. Experts testified the paper was modern. Turner disagreed but said nothing. More scientific experts picked apart the suggestion of vampires arriving from outer space and laughed at Turner’s earnest testimony. Catch hadn’t been in court to see his humiliation, nor his ultimate surrender.

After the trial was over and Turner was dismissed as an air-brained academic, there seemed little point in going back on what he’d said about the books. Real, fake, real—who the hell would believe him? He didn’t know himself any longer. But Catch’s desertion hurt the most. Turner had done as Catch asked, and then the bastard had vanished. Twenty years was a long time to think about that and how he’d been used.

Though there was one niggling thought that had grown and grown over recent years. What would happen when Gabriel was released? What if Gabriel thought Turner still believed in him? What if he’d somehow discovered what Turner had been up to? If Gabriel and Dava came here, asking the wrong questions and found the right answers, Turner would have to kill them. He’d never killed anyone.

Turner slumped at his desk. He might as well get on with what he’d planned. If the diaries were gone, they were gone. In any case, his notes were elsewhere. He tapped
Matty Hobsbawm
into Google. Over two thousand hits and not one of them relevant. Turner spread his net wider—typed the words
Matilda Hobsbawm
,
David Hobsbawm
,
accident
,
death
,
Milford Hall
,
Strachan
—the vendor’s name—in a variety of combinations and still came up with nada. He clicked onto a local newspaper,
The Dovedale Times
,
but couldn’t access papers printed a year ago.

Forty minutes later, Turner leaned back in his chair and sighed. Without Matty’s date of birth it was impossible to check official records. He could ask her who she’d last worked for and try from that direction, except Turner didn’t think she’d even talk to him.

Catch could do it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Catch snapped.

The vamp-were stood naked in the doorway, his wet clothes bunched in his arms, the tan leached from his face.

“Trying to find out how Matty died,” Turner said.

Catch gaped at him. “You’re messing around on the internet? I presume she’s upstairs. Why aren’t you up there with her? She nearly died.”

“She can’t die. She’s already dead.”

Catch dropped his clothes and stormed across the room. “Whether she’s dead or not, she half scared herself to death tonight. You’re sort of dead, but you can still feel pain, you can still
die
. What the fuck do you know about ghosts? She might not be completely dead. What would have happened if we hadn’t sensed she was in trouble? She might have got caught up under that tree and we’d never have found her.”

Turner swallowed hard. “She’s leaving tomorrow.”

Catch glared. “What did you do?”

Oh Christ.
“Don’t look at me like that. She wants to go.”

“And that’s what you want too.”

Turner stood. “Yes. No. I don’t… There’s something… She makes… I can’t…” He ground to a halt.

“Don’t leave it too late to work out what you want,” Catch said, and made for the door.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Turner snapped.

Catch turned. “At least I’m here now.”

Turner felt his jaw twitch. He wanted to say something meaningful and “Have you taken some of my books?” came out of his mouth.

“What the fuck are you talking about? She’s up there, alone, and you’re worried about a few misplaced books? You’ve plenty of others. Find something else to read.”

Catch got as far as the door to the attic before he remembered he was naked. He could borrow something dry of Turner’s, but before he went back downstairs, he had to check that Matty was okay. He eased open the door, heard her gasping and froze. This was a different sound to the one he’d heard before, not pleasure but pain. Catch burst into the room and ran to drop down next to her. He pulled the duvet off her face and took in her grimace, the way she curled up, hugging herself. Had she collided with a rock in that blasted river? Damaged something internal?

He stroked her forehead. “Princess, what is it? Where does it hurt?”

“Heart. Be okay. Minute,” she panted.

Catch yanked a corner of her duvet over his groin and lay beside her. No way was she dead. She wouldn’t be able to feel pain. Anyway, Catch wasn’t sure he believed in ghosts. When someone was properly dead, they were dead and that was it. He didn’t have anyone he wanted to see again in an afterlife. Besides, if there was such a thing as heaven, then there was also a hell, and that’s no doubt where he’d end up, along with the guys who’d abused him. How was that fair? No, the whole afterlife thing was a crock of shit.