Chapter 3 The Visitor

Iris Beaumont

I released the curtain, my mind racing through possibilities. No member of the Coterie would knock—they would call first, observing the courtesies established centuries ago. No mortal friend would arrive unannounced at this hour. Which left official visitors. Police. Perhaps responding to a noise complaint from my historically minded neighbors, who objected to any disruption of their carefully preserved lifestyle.

Or perhaps something worse.

I closed the bedroom door, sealing Javier's body away from whatever awaited me downstairs. No time to move him, to clean the evidence. I would have to deal with my visitor first, then dispose of the body later. The bayou was always hungry for secrets.

My bare feet made no sound as I descended the grand staircase, hand sliding along the banister that generations of craftsmen had polished to a warm glow. The foyer below gleamed with marble and brass, the crystal chandelier casting prismatic reflections across the space. Beautiful. Elegant. A perfect setting for the careful performance of humanity I'd perfected over centuries.

I paused at the mirror in the entryway, assessing my appearance. My black hair hung loose around my shoulders, my skin pale but not unnaturally so. I adjusted my silk robe, ensuring it covered enough to be decent while revealing enough to distract. No blood on my face or neck. Nothing to suggest I was anything other than a wealthy woman interrupted during her evening routine.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

"One moment," I called, injecting just the right note of annoyed confusion into my voice. The role of a disturbed homeowner required proper inflection.

I opened the door and the night air rushed in, carrying with it the scents of the garden and the city beyond—jasmine and car exhaust, sweet olive and river water. And standing on my porch, backlit by the glow of a streetlamp that had been gas-powered when I'd first taken ownership of this house, stood Detective Clive Morrow.

I recognized him immediately, though we'd never formally met. His reputation preceded him—the detective who solved impossible cases, who noticed details others missed. The Ghost, they called him on the streets. The last person I needed on my doorstep was with a corpse cooling in my bedroom.

"Ms. Laroque?" His voice was exactly as I'd imagined it would be—deep, graveled, careful in its precision. He held up a badge, though he hadn't needed to bother. I'd been identifying law enforcement by their stance alone since the days of night watchmen with handbells.

Dread curled in my chest, a sensation I hadn't experienced in decades. I'd navigated world wars and epidemics, prohibition and police raids, but something about this man's amber-gold eyes sent warning signals racing through my ancient nervous system. He saw too much. People who saw too much didn't survive long in my world.

"Detective Morrow," I said, leaning slightly against the doorframe, the picture of casual confidence despite the panic flickering at the edges of my consciousness. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"I apologize for the late hour." He didn't sound apologetic at all. "I'm investigating a missing person's case. May I come in?"

Missing person. Not a dead body. Not yet, anyway. Which one was he looking for? Javier, sprawled across my sheets upstairs? Or perhaps David from last week, whose surname I couldn't recall because I'd never asked, never imagined I'd need to remember it?

I wondered idly how many others there had been. How many blackouts had ended with me waking beside cooling flesh with no memory of the kill? The thought should have horrified me, but all I felt was a detached curiosity, as if observing someone else's moral dilemma.

"Of course," I stepped back, opening the door wider. "Though I can't imagine how I could help with a missing person."

He stepped over the threshold, and I felt the strange electric charge that sometimes accompanied the crossing of a mortal into my space—not a supernatural barrier, merely the accumulated weight of time and ownership making itself known. My house recognized its mistress, even as it admitted this dangerous visitor.

As he entered my foyer, the light from the chandelier caught the silver at his temples, the only obvious sign of age on an otherwise youthful face. His long dark hair was pulled back, revealing strong features that might have been carved from stone for all the emotion they revealed. He wore his authority like armor, but beneath it, I sensed something wilder, something barely contained.

"Beautiful home," he said, his eyes scanning the space with professional assessment, looking for exits, for weapons, for inconsistencies. Always working, this one. "Historical property?"

"It's been in my family for generations," I replied with practiced ease. The lie came as naturally as breathing once had. "Would you like to sit down? Perhaps have some coffee while you tell me about this missing person?"

"Coffee would be appreciated." He followed me toward the parlor, his footsteps heavy compared to my silent glide across the marble.

I felt his eyes on me as I moved, assessing, cataloging. I wondered what he saw—a wealthy eccentric? A potential witness? A suspect? I'd played all those roles before, over the long centuries. I could become whatever would send him away fastest, with his curiosity satisfied and his suspicions aimed elsewhere.

All the while, upstairs, Javier's body continued its slow surrender to death's processes. And somewhere in the fog of my memory, other victims waited to be discovered. How many? What had triggered these blackouts, these unintended kills that violated everything the Coterie stood for?

I had no answers, only the certainty that Detective Clive Morrow would not leave until he found what he was looking for. Whether that was Javier, or David, or some other poor soul whose name I'd never learned remained to be seen.

I turned to face him in the parlor doorway, my lips curving into a practiced smile that had charmed kings and presidents alike. "Now then, Detective. Tell me who's missing."