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  She frowned at me. “Screw up again?”

  “Oh, they didn’t tell you why you were spying on me in the first place? They didn’t mention Paris?”

  Her frown deepened. “Paris, France?”

  I nodded. “If they didn’t mention it to you, don’t worry about it.” I certainly wasn’t in the mood to go over all that again. I’d spent more than enough time explaining it to the Inner Circle under interrogation a few months ago.

  “I don’t know anything about Paris,” she said. “I was just told to come and work for you and send a report to headquarters once a month, or more often, if you behaved strangely.”

  I nodded. Yeah, that figured. It seemed to me that the Inner Circle, led by my father, had decided to use Felicity Lake as a pawn in a game that was being played between them and me. Even I didn’t know what that game was. As far as I was concerned, I’d been questioned about the events in Paris and demoted from my office in Chicago to the sleepy town of Dearmont. I thought that was the end of the matter, but the fact they’d sent someone to spy on me suggested otherwise.

  “Felicity,” I asked her, “how good of an assistant are you?”

  She looked at me with a glint of pride in her moist eyes. “I’m very good. I’ve been through the Society’s three-year course and I was hoping to become an investigator like yourself. As you know, that requires at least a year working with a fully-fledged investigator.”

  “Ah,” I said, understanding now. “And that’s how they sold you this job. They told you that the time you spent working with me, and spying on the side, would count toward your time in the field.”

  She nodded.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “Through no fault of your own, you’ve been dragged into this game the Society are playing with me. Now, we both know that your cover has been blown, but the people who sent you here don’t know that. So, if you still want to be my assistant and spend time in the field, that’s fine with me.”

  Her eyes widened and a small smile spread across her mouth. “Really? But what about sending reports to your father?”

  I shrugged. “Send them as normal. I don’t expect much to happen around here anyhow.”

  Felicity’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes shot to the clock on the wall. “Mrs. Robinson!”

  “Mrs. Robinson?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Your client. She’ll be here soon. I have to get everything ready.”

  I followed her eyes to the clock. It wasn’t even eight yet. “I thought you said she was coming at nine.”

  “She is,” she said, getting up.

  “So she won’t be here for another hour.”

  “Still, I need to prepare the reception area and make more coffee. And fix my makeup.”

  “Okay,” I said. I guess I couldn’t blame her for being nervous on her first day. “So you go do that and I’ll hang around in here.”

  She nodded and scuttled to the door. Before she went out, she turned back to me and said, “Thank you.”

  Before I could reply, she disappeared into the hallway.

  I sat in the big leather chair behind the desk and swiveled the seat from side to side a few times, surveying my new office. It would take me some time, but I could probably get used to this place. Rolling the chair over to the window, I peered out at Main Street. The sun was up now and the street was busy with people opening up their businesses or just strolling along the sidewalk. Some of them had rolled newspapers tucked under their arms and takeout coffee in their hands.

  Bringing my own coffee and the apple bakes over to the window, I ate breakfast and watched Dearmont come to life. That might be overstating things. Sure, the traffic increased and a few townsfolk wandered along the sidewalk, but this was hardly Chicago. I wondered what preternatural problem Mrs. Robinson could possibly have in a place like this.

  Obviously I knew enough not to judge the town by its outward appearance; dark secrets and creatures sometimes lurk in the most innocent looking places. But I can usually sense those things and Dearmont not only looked like a sleepy town, it felt like it to my innermost senses, too. Sure, there could be a haunted house somewhere in the area, maybe even a ghoul or two at the cemetery (those damned things got everywhere), but I had a hunch that Dearmont was a dead zone as far as preternatural activity went.

  I really needed to stop trusting in my hunches so much.

  3

  I spent the next hour on my computer, checking the local news reports on the net. Maybe whatever Mrs. Robinson wanted to hire me for was connected to an event that had been reported somewhere. But my search seemed pointless. The last time Dearmont had made the news was when a local librarian named Deirdre Summers had gone missing and was presumed dead after her clothing had been found on the shore of the lake near town. That had been three years ago.

  Still, I grabbed a notebook from the small pile Felicity had put on my desk and made a couple of notes. The sheriff investigating the case was Sheriff John Cantrell. A picture showed him standing by the edge of the lake, staring out over the water with a searching look in his eyes. He’d probably been told to adopt that expression by the photographer.

  Cantrell was a big man and looked like he might spend his free time wrestling grizzlies for fun. But it was the deputy standing next to him who caught my attention. She was stunningly attractive.

  She was much smaller than Cantrell, but who wasn’t? Her hair was cut to shoulder length and was a fiery red color. It framed a face that wouldn’t be out of place on the cover of a magazine, with high cheekbones and cat-like green eyes.

  Despite her model’s face, she wasn’t thin, but had curves in all the right places. Even her uniform couldn’t hide those curves. Standing with her hands on her hips, she also stared out over the lake, but her face looked more thoughtful than her boss’s. I guessed she was the brains and he was the brawn of the local law.

  I searched for her name, but it wasn’t mentioned either beneath the photo or in the article.

  Apart from the missing woman case, which made national news, Dearmont wasn’t considered interesting by journalists. The only other mentions of the town on the net were uploads of articles written for the Dearmont Observer, the local paper. Most of these were written by someone named Wesley Jones, who I assumed was the town’s reporter. The articles covered events like a bake sale at the church, the 4th of July parade, and the Christmas parade. The people here sure seemed to like their parades. I reached over to the intercom device on my desk and pressed the button. Felicity’s voice came out of the speaker a few seconds later. “Yes, Alec?”

  “Do we know why Mrs. Robinson wants to hire us?” Maybe I should have just asked Felicity in the first place and saved myself the time I’d just spent looking at articles about coffee mornings and town council meetings. Still, if I’d done that, I wouldn’t have seen the picture of the stunning redheaded deputy by the lake.

  “No idea,” she said. “Should I have asked her when she called to make an appointment?”

  “No, sometimes people don’t like to talk about this kind of stuff until they’re here in the office.” I paused and then said, “When did Mrs. Robinson call?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You were here yesterday?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here two weeks. I had to oversee the refurbishment of the offices and unpack your books and trash can. I also put an advertisement in the local newspaper last week. That’s probably where Mrs. Robinson heard about us.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I just hope she isn’t a kook.” I released the button and sat back in my chair. It was entirely possible that Mrs. Robinson was one of the many people who came through the doors of preternatural investigators’ offices with either a crazy story or a ridiculous request. I’d heard it all during my time in the field. Aliens are abducting my dog. Elvis lives in my garden shed. The award for the craziest story I ever heard goes to an old woman in Chicago who told me that her cat was planning to assassinate the president.<
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  It comes with the territory, of course. My job is to take cases where there might be some kind of preternatural activity. That means I deal with vampires, demons, faeries, werewolves, and a whole host of other creatures that most people don’t believe in. Some of the people who do believe in those creatures are not always of sound mind.

  Those people are turned away once we realize their case isn’t a genuine haunting, possession, curse, or whatever.

  The other potential clients we have to turn away are those that think the P.I. stands for Private Investigator and not Preternatural Investigator. There’s a preternatural investigator office in almost every city and large town across America and Europe—hell, there’s even one in Dearmont, Maine now—so you’d think people would know who we are and what we do, even if they think we’re nuts.

  But they still come and ask us to follow a cheating spouse or track down a long lost family member. I usually keep contact details of local private investigators so I can pass the customers on once I realize their problems aren’t preternaturally based.

  Mrs. Robinson could be a kook, or someone in need of a private eye. Or maybe she had a real preternatural problem. I had to speak to her and find out, but I wasn’t counting my expenses checks just yet.

  The intercom buzzed and Felicity’s voice said, “Mrs. Robinson is here, Alec.”

  “Send her in,” I said. “And Felicity, you come in, too. You can take notes if you like.”

  A couple of seconds later, the door opened and an elegantly-dressed woman in her fifties entered. I got up and went around the desk, my hand out. “Mrs. Robinson, I’m Alec Harbinger.”

  She shook my hand with a soft grip and said, “Please, call me Amelia.”

  “Of course. Take a seat.” I gestured to the chairs in front of the desk and she took the one where Felicity had been crying earlier.

  Felicity came in and closed the door behind her. She was carrying a legal pad and a pen. I pulled the other client seat halfway around the desk so that Felicity wasn’t sitting next to Amelia Robinson. I didn’t want the older woman to feel crowded. Some of our clients only come to us after they’ve reached a point of desperation regarding their situation. Talking about things you’ve been told aren’t real isn’t always easy, and I wanted Mrs. Robinson to feel comfortable.

  Felicity took the seat and sat poised with her pen above the legal pad.

  I looked at Amelia Robinson. From the pearls around her neck, perfectly coiffed gray hair, and expensive-looking blue blouse, black pants, and black high-heels, I guessed she was a successful businesswoman or a member of a rich family who made some wise investments.

  “How can I help you today?” I asked her, sitting down.

  “I have a … problem,” she said. Her voice was controlled and even, supporting my theory of businesswoman. I could imagine her talking to a board of directors with that voice. “But before we begin, I must be assured of your discretion. I am well-known in Maine society and I cannot abide a scandal.”

  I frowned. “And by scandal, you mean….” I let my voice trail off, waiting for her to finish my sentence.

  “I mean hiring you,” she said. “Talking to you. Being here in your office. If word got out that I had hired a supernatural detective, I’d be the laughing stock of the East Coast.”

  So, at least she wasn’t here under the mistaken belief that I was a mundane private investigator. I was also pretty sure she wasn’t a kook, but I wouldn’t know for sure until I heard her story.

  “As it says on my card,” I said, “discretion is assured. We’re very aware of the delicate nature of our work and we act accordingly.”

  “Very well.” She looked around the office as if she were an army sergeant inspecting the privates’ quarters. I hadn’t had time to settle in yet, so at least the place was still tidy. “It isn’t like I have a choice,” she said, her gaze resting on me.

  “Tell me all about it,” I said, sitting back in my seat, my body language telling her I was ready to listen.

  “It’s our son, James. He’s nineteen and something has happened to him. Something terrible.” Her level tone cracked slightly and she reached into her purse for a tissue. She wasn’t crying yet, but maybe she knew that the story she was about to tell always made her break down at a certain point in its telling.

  I glanced at Felicity. She was scribbling notes.

  “Just take your time,” I told Amelia. “There’s no hurry. What’s your husband’s name?”

  “George,” she said. “George Robinson.”

  Felicity wrote the name down.

  “We own Robinson-Lubecki Lumber,” Amelia went on. “When we met thirty years ago, George was working for his father in a little company called Robinson Lumber. I was in charge of the Maine expansion of my own father’s company, Lubecki Lumber.”

  “Is Lubecki your maiden name?” I asked.

  She nodded. “When our business expanded, George’s father, Harold Robinson, and my father went into competition with one another and it wasn’t pretty, to say the least. But George and I saw past all that. We fell in love with each other, despite our family’s feuding.”

  I really didn’t need to hear her Romeo and Juliet life story, so I said, “Since the company is now called Robinson-Lubecki Lumber, I’m assuming it all turned out well in the end.”

  “Yes,” she said. “After our fathers died, we married and merged the two companies into one of the largest lumber businesses on the East Coast.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” I said.

  “Except it hasn’t ended well. Something has happened to James.” Her eyes got watery and she dabbed at them with the tissue.

  “Okay, tell me about that. What do you think has happened to him?”

  “To understand that fully, you would have to know what James was like before. George and I made sure our son never wanted for anything. We spoiled him from the day he was born. As a result, James grew up feeling privileged and entitled. He was the epitome of a rich brat, living off his trust fund, partying, and dating a string of women. He drank sometimes, and we suspected he was using drugs, but he was never hostile toward me or his father.”

  “And that all changed one day?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “In early April, James and some of his friends went up to Dark Rock Lake for a weekend. There are cabins up there and I suppose it’s a perfect place for parties. You know, plenty of booze, loud music, and girls.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said.

  “When he came back from Dark Rock Lake, James was like a different person. He lost interest in going anywhere. We always used to travel to New York as a family twice a year, and we had a trip scheduled the week after James returned from the lake, but he refused to travel with us. That wasn’t like him. He always loved our New York trips.” Her eyes drifted away as if she were reminiscing about past vacations.

  “Is that it?” I asked, bringing her back to the present. “He didn’t want to go to New York?”

  “No, of course not,” Amelia replied, shaking her head and frowning at me. “What do you think I am, some crazy old lady? James refusing to go to New York was just the start. There were other changes, too. He began asking about the financial arrangements we had set up if George and I should die.”

  “Your wills,” I said.

  “Yes, and also how our company shares would be allocated between him and Georgia.”

  “Georgia?” Felicity asked. She had already filled one page of the legal pad with writing and was moving on to a second.

  “Our daughter,” Amelia said.

  “James’s sister?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Younger or older?”

  “Georgia is his younger sister. She’s eighteen next month.”

  “Is Georgia James’s only sibling?” I asked.

  Amelia nodded.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “So how is the family fortune split between James and Georgia?”

 
She looked shocked at the question. “Is that relevant?”

  “It might be.”

  “Everything is split down the middle. They each get fifty percent of all money and assets, as well as equal shares of controlling interest in Robinson-Lubecki Lumber.”

  “Okay, so you think James is taking an unhealthy interest in the family fortune and he doesn’t want to go to New York.”

  “It isn’t only New York. He hardly leaves the house now. It used to be that he would disappear with his friends for days. Now, he just stays home. Sometimes he goes walking in the woods around our house, but I don’t think he’s gone any farther than that since he came back from the lake party. I’ve spoken to George about it and he says James is just going through a phase. If he knew I’d come to see you about this, he’d tell me I was crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy,” I told her. “You’re a mother who’s concerned for her son. But why did you come to see me and not a normal private eye? I’m not seeing a preternatural angle here.”

  She looked at me with worried eyes and said, “I’m afraid that James might be … possessed.”

  I sat back again, body language open, giving her the subconscious signal that I was ready to listen to whatever she said next without judgement. “Go on,” I said gently.

  “Well, for one thing, he’s become nocturnal,” Amelia said. “He only seems to come out at night. That’s when he goes walking in the woods. During the daytime, he stays in his room.” She paused and then asked, “Do you think he’s a vampire?”

  “It doesn’t sound like vampirism,” I said. “He’d be doing more than walking around the woods at night, he’d be going into town in search of prey. Does he eat normally?”

  “He raids the fridge, if that’s what you mean. For him, that’s always been normal.”

  “And you’ve seen him eating the food from the fridge?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Vampires don’t eat,” I told her. “They’re sustained by the blood of their victims.”

  “Then … a demon?” She looked even more worried.