Page 36 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

The slightest twinge of longing shot through me, razor sharp. The brothers might scrap tooth and nail—Kit’s exasperated growls a daily symphony in the halls of Killigrew Street Hotel—but their unwavering loyalty remained as constant as the moon that ruled them.

How nice it must be, I mused bitterly, to have someone in your life who remained steadfast, ready to catch you when you fell. The thought carried the weight of five hundred years of watching families grow old and fade. Of a sister’s face growing increasingly distorted by time and guilt.

I pushed Magdalena’s image far from my mind.

Not presently, thank you very much.

I still had a handful of days before October 31st, when it was time to open my chest once again. The stack of leather-bound journals from my human life sat there, waiting. My stomach twisted at the thought of those yellowed pages, filled with a handwriting I barely recognised as my own.

Every ten years, on the anniversary of my sister’s death, I forced myself to reread them, to re-solidify the memories of that distant time. By this point in the cycle, they were hazy, smoke-like things, impressions of images rather than sharp-edged certainties. Only the guilt remained constant, a lead weight in my chest that grew heavier with each passing century.

Kit and I finally reached our stop, then a short walk later, a quiet suburban street. Identical semi-detached houses lined both sides. Number 47 had a collection of wind chimes hanging from a twisted apple tree, their gentle tinkling at odds with the gravity of our visit.

I closed my umbrella as we stepped into the shade of the porch. Kit’s knuckles rapped against the red painted door, and a middle-aged man opened it, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed.

“Mr Ashworth.” Sarah’s—the dead woman’s—husband. “Can we trouble you for a moment of your time?”

Kit and I flashed our fabricated ID badges at him. As expected, he barely glanced at them. People rarely did, especially in times of grief.

He frowned, shoulders slumping further, but wordlessly stepped aside to let us in.

The actual police had left around ninety minutes ago, according to Felix’s monitoring of the Met’s digital network.

Mr Ashworth led us to the kitchen table, where an elderly lady sat with an untouched mug of tea. I reached out to shake her hand.

“Detective Morris,” I said smoothly, reciting the name on my badge. “And this is Detective Allan.”

“Margaret. Sarah’s my daughter. Was my daughter.” She glanced at a family photo on the wall, where Sarah’s smile beamed back at them. “Is there another update already?”

“We’ve just been sent to clarify a few points, ma’am.”

“Let us start by offering our condolences,” interjected Kit.

I nodded, leaving a slight pause. “We intend to work tirelessly to find out what happened to Sarah.”

“The police just said they suspect it could be a rare poison. A toxic agent,” said Mr Ashworth.

“We’re hopeful the toxicology report will provide answers, and you’ll be the first to know,” Kit promised them.

“So what else can we help you with?” Margaret asked.

“Did Sarah mention any new people in her life recently?” I leaned forward slightly. “Perhaps someone through work, or even just a stranger who caught her attention?”

Margaret and Mr Ashworth exchanged glances before shaking their heads.

“She kept to herself mostly,” he said. “She liked to be home as much as possible.”

“In the weeks or days before her death, did Sarah complain about feeling unusually cold? Or perhaps experiencing vivid dreams or nightmares?”

Mr Ashworth’s brow furrowed. “Nightmares? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Some toxins can cause sleep disturbances,” Kit explained. “It could help narrow down what we’re looking for.”

Margaret’s hands tightened around her mug. “Now you mention it… she did call me last week. Said she couldn’t sleep. Something about… about shadows moving in her room.”

I caught Kit’s eye.

We worked through our prepared questions methodically. Was she spending time in any new places? Had she changed her usual routine in any way?

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