Page 22 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She leaves the window open, assuming Kane is out for a flight and faces the library, arms akimbo as she considers where an instructional booklet on piano playing would most likely be shelved. She browses the spines closest to her as a gentle breeze trickles in through the window. It dances around her and settles against the newspaper from earlier, playfully lifting a corner so that her black-and-white smile bounces mockingly at her.

In a trice, she has the paper tucked under her arm, and she’s closing the door to her bedroom behind her, all thoughts of the piano forgotten. She traces the words as she reads, as if afraid they will rearrange themselves, becoming falsehoods even as she mumbles the words out loud.

Local man, Maddox Grey, 43, was found deceased July 23, 1993.

She hates that she shares his last name. Maybe she could change it back to Croft?There is honor in being a Croft witch, her grandma told her as she urged her not to change her name the night before she took her vows.

But Maddox Grey had insisted—and when Maddox Grey wanted something, he always got it. Including her.

His courtship had been persistent and overwhelming. On paper, he had been a perfect match: a well-respected warlock in the community with a sizable amount of wealth. He peppered her with sweet words and lovely promises, gifted her flowers and amulets, and proclaimed his love of her freely.

But the thing about warlocks is that they are not born with magic in their blood. They rely on outside sources to enable them in their Craft. Maddox’s preferred tool was a wand—but wands and amulets and other instruments of a warlock’s trade must be recharged. The magic burns up otherwise, leaving the user with a cold chunk of wood, stone, or iron.

She was besotted, drunk with affection, and so, when the first gentle request for a little help came, she thought,yes, of course, this is what wives do for their husbands.

The spell he used to harvest her magic is not for the faint of heart. She told herself the pain was worth it. And it would only be one time anyway. Just until business picked up. But one time turned into three, four,five…. When she left, the wand was still fully charged, and she was still magicless.

A knock on the door pulls her attention from the article and her memories.

“Calliope, I, uh—” begins Rory, voice muffled through the door. “I have to head to work.” An awkward pause. “If anything comes up, the number for the Go-Go is next to the phone downstairs.” She can see his shadow through the bottom of the door, and it leans to the right as he shifts his weight from foot to foot nervously. “Cal—”

She opens the door to see him frowning, hands shoved in the pockets of his faded jeans. There’s a hole in the right knee. “It would be best if you stayed inside while I’m gone,” he finishes, eyes searching her face for something.

She looks up at him, fiddling with the cuff on her left wrist. The dangling bits of chains clink against each other. “Sure. Fine.”

His eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw clenches. He looks like he wants to say something, but a second later, his mouth relaxes, and he merely gives her a curt nod. “I’ll be back at sunrise,” he says before turning away.

She shuts the door and returns to the newspaper article, listening for the vague noises of a car starting in the background, followed by the crunch of gravel as he drives away. She reads through the whole article twice, finding it exceedingly vague. The authorcontinually skirts around the finer details, such as his cause of death, how he was found and by whom. Because she disappeared just before his body was found, she supposes it makes sense that she’s wanted for “questioning.”

He won’t actually be dead, she thinks. He always said he had contingencies in place for this kind of thing, but she does wonder what led him to fake his own death. Maybe a business deal had gone sour, and he had to go into hiding? A cold dread washes over her as she considers, maybe, that his death is related to her. And if he has gone off in search of her, did she cover her tracks well enough? Can he find her here, in the middle of nowhere? Would Rory protect her if Maddox Grey came for her?CouldRory even protect her?

The shrill cry of the phone interrupts her thoughts, making her jump until her brain catches up with her ears. Curious, she pokes her head outside her room and sees a small table in the hallway, upon which a pink telephone sits.That most definitely wasn’t there earlier, she thinks, instinctively picking up the cradle. “Hello?”

“Oh, hello,” says the feminine voice on the other end. “This is Martha Clayton. I’m calling for Rory?”

“He’s out at the moment. May I take a message?” She looks around for a scrap of paper and a pencil, her curiosity piqued. Up until now, she assumed Rory lived a life of solitude with Kane as his only friend.

“Oh, yes,” Martha is saying, her voice cracklingwith static, “thank you. Could you let him know that his order is ready for pick-up?”

She makes the connection a second later. Martha Clayton, as in Clayton Farm. This must be who he gets his blood from. “Sure.” Pad of paper and pencil found in the small drawer of the table, she wedges the phone between her ear and shoulder and writes downMartha called - order ready.

“Thank you,” says Martha. “And to whom am I speaking? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m Calliope,” she replies. “I’m Rory’s…” The manacle digs into her wrist. Prisoner? Blood-thirsty Roommate? Youngling Vampire? “Friend. I’m just visiting for a week or so.”

Martha sounds delighted by this news. “How lovely! You know, me and Bill worry about him, up at that lake house all by himself. You two will have to come over for dinner while you’re in town. We’d love to meet one of Rory’s friends.”

“Sure. Yes, we’d—we’d love that. I’ll let Rory know you called. Thank you.” She hangs up before Martha can respond and cringes at the phone, silent and innocent in its cradle.

She’s not quite sure what she’s done but she has a feeling it wasn’t the right thing to do. Rory is still pretty much a stranger to her, but she’s fairly certain that he would not fancy dinner with the Claytons. Then again, it’s not like she truly made any promises of such. It’s just a thing people say, like “Oh, let’s catchup sometime,” or “I’d love to grab dinner, let me know when you’re free.” Furthermore, she reminds herself that she won’t be here much longer. There’s nothing keeping her here in this dark, musty house.

The hallway lights flicker in protest. She touches the wallpaper briefly, tracing the slightly raised petals of a rose. “Sorry. I meant mysterious. Such a dark andmysterioushouse.”

13

Vampiric Entities

Rory

---