We drove northwest from Hyde Park to Hellriver, crossing the Des Plaines River and moving west.
Ethan had turned on a talk radio station, but switched it off again after a ten-minute dissertation on the Problems With Vampires. They included, to quote the speaker: (1) their penchant for violence; (2) their disdain for human authority; (3) their refusal to acknowledge humanity’s innate superiority; and (4) their lack of temperance.
I wasn’t entirely sure what the last one was about. Prohibition hadn’t worked in Chicago in the twenties, and it certainly wasn’t the law now.
Gabriel had been right about the shifter’s location. Caleb Franklin’s former home was only a few houses down from the broken chain-link fence intended to block access to Hellriver. Not that there seemed to be much improvement on this side of the barrier. The homes were dilapidated, the businesses boarded up.
“Here we are,” Ethan said, pointing to a single-story house. It was yellow, the small porch white. The paint on both was peeling, and the concrete sidewalk outside jumbled and split. The yard wasn’t fancy, but it was tidy.
We climbed out of the car, belted on our swords, and took the steps to the front porch. The neighborhood was quiet. I hadn’t seen a single human, or supernatural, but a dog barked in the distance, warning its owner of something ominous in the dark.
The building was completely dark, utterly quiet. I closed my eyes, let my guards drop just long enough to check for signs of life inside. But there was nothing, supernatural or otherwise.
“There’s no one in there,” I said after a moment, opening my eyes again. “No sound, no magic.”
“My conclusion as well,” Ethan whispered, then turned the knob.
The unlocked door opened easily into a small living room that smelled of must and animal.
We walked inside, and I pulled the door nearly closed behind us. “Nearly” so that passersby wouldn’t decide to investigate, but we could still make a quick exit.
The living room was marked by an enormous couch on the opposite wall. It was what I’d call the “Official Couch of the Seventies”—long, ruffled, and covered in cream velveteen fabric with orange and brown flowers.
There was a matching love seat, an end table, a lamp. No photographs, no curtains, no television or stereo.
“Not much here,” I whispered.
“Or maybe our shifter wasn’t into décor.”
The living room led into a dining room that was empty but for a small table with four chairs and two more doorways—a kitchen straight back, and what I guessed was a bedroom to the side.
“I’ll take the bedroom,” I said.
“Passing up the kitchen?” Ethan asked with a chuckle. “How novel.”
“As is that joke. Check the refrigerator.”
My excellent suggestion was met by an arched eyebrow. “He’s a shifter,” I reminded Ethan. “If he’s been here lately, he’ll have food.”
Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “That’s a good suggestion.”
I glanced back at him, winked. “It’s not my first night on the job, sunshine.”
Ethan humphed but walked into the kitchen while I slipped into the bedroom, a hand on the pommel of my sword. That the house seemed empty didn’t mean we shouldn’t be cautious.
The bedroom held a matching set of white children’s furniture—lots of curlicues and gilded accents. Probably from the same era as the couch in the front room. The mattress was bare, and there were no ribbons or mementos tucked into the corners of the mirror that topped the chest of drawers. Furniture or not, no child lived here.
The bedroom led to a short hallway. Closet on one side, Jack and Jill bathroom on the other with avocado green fixtures. No toothbrushes, no towels, no shampoo bottle in the shower. There was a spider the size of a smallish Buick, and I gave him or her a wide berth.
The next door, probably another bedroom, was nearly closed, and a soft mechanical throb seeped through the crack. I flicked the thumb guard on my sword, just in case, and pushed the door open with the toe of my boot.
It was another small bedroom. A ceiling fan whirred above a black double bed with more gilded accents, the mattress covered by a rumpled duvet and thick pillows. This was Caleb Franklin’s bedroom. And if the fan was any indication, he’d been here recently.
There was a closet in the far corner. It was empty but for a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. No shoes, no hangers.
I opened the drawers of the bureau and nightstand that matched the bed. The nightstand was empty; the bureau held a few changes of clothes. T-shirts, jeans, a couple of hoodies.
Had this been the freedom Caleb had wanted? The freedom to not care about material possessions? Had he found peace in this desolate neighborhood? And if so, why would anyone have bothered to kill him?
The bedroom’s second door led into the kitchen, completing the circle through the interior. I walked through, found a small storage closet behind it that led to an exterior door. There was a mop, a bucket, and a worn pair of snow boots.