“Because Rowan was the perpetrator?” I asked.
“We don’t know,” Nessa said.
“Likely because Rowan’s the de facto leader of the family,” Tom said.
“He isn’t very old to be a leader,” Ethan observed.
“No, he isn’t,” Tom said. “That’s the nature of a war of attrition. The old guard is taken out, leaving the children—relatively speaking—in charge.”
“You’re the sheriff,” Ethan said, his tone less than subtle. “Isn’t it your job to keep the peace?”
Tom’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know how things work in Chicago, Mr. Sullivan, but I’m the only human straddling two supernatural communities that have been at war for over a hundred years. If peace was that easy to come by, the wider world would be a very different place. Sups don’t care much for prisons, and politicians in the county seat, which is miles from here, don’t care much about an interspecies dispute that keeps, as they’ve told me before, ‘the herds thinned.’”
“In other words, there’ve been no human deaths,” Ethan concluded, “so the humans aren’t interested in helping resolve things.”
Tom nodded. “That would be accurate.”
I understood bad blood and revenge. But it all seemed so unnecessary. “Why not just leave?”
Tom glanced at me. “Because they’re stubborn. Because they’ve got connections to the land. Because they’ve raised families here and they know the world is getting smaller, in part because of what happened in Chicago.” There was a bite in his reference to the fact that Chicago, through another House, had been the first place supernaturals—vampires—had come out of the closet.
“That puts them both here, facing each other down, virtually unfettered.”
“At least until we kill each other off,” Nessa said.
“A dire thought,” Ethan said, and there was an edge in his voice that Nessa detected. She glanced up at him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It had been so long since the last attack. I thought, after Taran’s last talk with Rowan, that we were finally done, finally moving forward. That there would be peace here for all of us, and we could get to the business of living. But it seems the violence, the hatred, is unavoidable. I’m so sorry for bringing you into it.” She looked down at her hands again, grief settling into her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”
Ethan put a hand over Nessa’s. “We’re here now, and we’ll do what we can.”
“Let’s go back to Taran,” Tom said. “Have you or Taran had any unusual visitors? Anything otherwise unusual happen?”
Nessa shook her head. “Nothing involving me. Like I said, he was absorbed by his work as usual. If he’d been in any trouble or had any problems, he didn’t mention it to me.”
“What about his family?”
“I didn’t talk to them,” she said. “But they were still close. Taran was the unofficial family archivist, so they’d talk about the family’s history, the valley.” She sighed deeply, looked up at Tom. “What happens next?”
Tom didn’t pull the punch. “Taran will be moved to the county morgue and autopsied. The house is being photographed. Once that’s done, we’ll release the house and you can go home. Or, if you prefer, you can go to the Marchands’. Vincent mentioned that he wants to see you and these vampires. In fact, they’re probably waiting for me to leave. I can do that; plenty more to do yet tonight.”
Tom pushed off the fireplace, adjusted his utility belt, glanced at Nessa. “You need to stay available.”
“I will.”
“There can be no reprisals,” he said, looking us over. “We had peace for so long. We should keep it that way.”
She nodded. “I’ll tell Vincent. I think he wants peace, truly.”
Tom didn’t look entirely convinced by that, but he nodded, walked to the door.
I watched through the front window as Tom climbed into the cruiser and drove off in the direction the McKenzies had taken earlier. I guessed it would be their turn for questions.
***
The shifters had gone, but the parade of supernaturals continued.
“They’re here,” Nessa said moments later from the living room. I was prepared to argue; I was standing in front of the window, would have known if we had visitors.
I glanced back to look, to firm up my position, and found them standing on the porch.
Three vampires, two men and a woman, all in simple clothing made of homespun linen fabrics. The one in front, who looked like a man in his early forties, had straight, coal black hair that fell to his shoulders from a high widow’s peak that topped a narrow face. He was tall and lean, and his hands were clasped behind his back. His expression was one of utter patience, as if he knew we’d be checking him out and was allowing us the opportunity.
Nessa rushed to the door, yanked it open. “Vincent!” she said with ringing relief, falling into the arms of the dark-haired man. “Thank God, Vincent.”
Vincent stroked a hand down her hair. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Nessa. So sorry. Taran was a good man.” He pulled back, looked her over. “You’re all right? You weren’t harmed?”
Nessa shook her head, wiped at her eyes. “I’m fine.”
“I’m so glad.” The affection in Vincent’s eyes was obvious and deep, but Nessa seemed oblivious to it.