Spying him from where she crouched in a nearby ditch, Ivory knew her only hope lay in him not returning home. If she killed him now, he’d be an assumed victim of war. Waiting until after the war was not an option; these days, one could not kill a man so easily without drawing attention.
After the murder, Ivory raced back to Keota, needing to reach town before word of Theodore’s death. She made it, much to the misfortune of one of the Army’s messengers, whose body now slumped against the crumbling stone of an old well behind her.
Ivory stood in the prairie and stared out over the town. A coyote stalked behind her and growled.
“Oh, come on, you’re all right with me.” She turned to him, smiling at the eerie glow in his cloudy, pale-blue eyes. “You’re one of them? Poor, filthy thing.”
The coyote stepped tentatively forward, a light breeze carrying his honeysuckle aroma ever quicker to Ivory. Only the Strigoi smelled and tasted as sweet as humans.
“Come ‘ere, boy,” she said, drawing him closer with her gentle lilt. He sidled beside her thigh, and she hummed to him. “That a’boy.”
She stroked his dusty grey and white fur. The pollen coating his fur left a chalk-like residue on her hand, and she wiped the grit on her skirts and looked to the Methodist church across the way.
“She’ll be out soon and heading home.”
Ivory grabbed the coyote’s snout and gave it a playful shake. The coyote tensed and growled again.
“I am not your enemy.” She let out a wistful sigh and turned her gaze back toward the town. “I will return tonight with food and clothes. Yours surely ripped while shifting. But you tell others like you to stay away, understand?”
After a long stare, the coyote took off across the dips and patches of the prairie. Tonight, Ivory would feed.
Hand wrapped around that of a small boy’s, Abigail left the church, and Ivory timed enough distance to follow their scent without being seen.
Things had changed over the last couple of centuries. Dirt roads had given way to pavement. The automobile had grown in popularity.
Straight past the cemetery Ivory strode, past women in black dresses, past the general store and post office, and nearer to the heavy shadow of a water tower. She continued until she reached a lonesome house on a large lot of land. Abigail’s scent stopped here.
For nearly an hour, Ivory paced down the road from the house, trying to gather the nerve to approach. Finally, she headed up the walkway and knocked on the flimsy wooden door. When no one answered, she knocked again, louder this time, the door giving way under each distinct tap.
A few moments later, the door opened a crack, and a pair of honey-colored eyes peered through.
“Mrs. Anderson?” Ivory asked, already preparing to use her influence. Keeping Abigail calm would be a necessity.
Abigail opened the door the rest of the way and wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes?”
Straightening her skirts, Ivory felt suddenly outdated at the sight of Abigail in slacks. “My name is Lenore Kinsbury. I’ve brought news from overseas.”
“News?” A crease formed between Abigail’s eyes, and Ivory got lost in the lines of Abigail’s features—features that so closely mirrored the way Ivory remembered Elizabeth. It took her a moment to return to the conversation.
“Your husband,” Ivory replied.
“That can’t be,” Abigail said. “They would send an official.”
Ivory retrieved a document from her purse. “I know this is unusual, but these are unusual times, are they not?” She handed the letter to Abigail, who slowly scanned the page.
Abigail’s trembling hand covered her mouth, and she stepped back. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
Ivory entered the house and gently clicked the door shut. “My deepest sympathies for your loss.”
She helped Abigail to the couch. Abigail didn’t say anything. She only sat on the very edge of her seat, grief rolling off her like a thick fog. Ivory’s stomach twisted, ill over the pain Abigail was suffering, though not at all regretful for Theodore’s death.
“Let me put on some tea,” Ivory said. “Don’t worry about the child. I’ll tend to him when he wakes from his nap.”
“The child?”
“I…saw the baby shoes. By the door.”
Abigail sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Of course. The shoes.” She took a deep breath. “He’s my nephew. My brother passed away.”
“My condolences,” Ivory said softly. She sensed Abigail on the verge of breakdown. “Tea, then?”
Without waiting for a response, Ivory continued into the kitchen. She wasn’t yet used to the smells of a human house. The aroma of recently sautéed onions and the char of an extinguished candle made her stomach lurch.
“Do you have any other family?” Ivory asked, using her influence to send waves of comfort toward Abigail.
“I had only my brother and husband.”
“I see,” Ivory said.
Steam piped from the kettle on the stove; Abigail must have already been preparing tea. Ivory poured and sweetened the tea, the spoon clinking in the ceramic cups as she stirred, then brought the tea into the living room.