Blood Claim by Laura Mykles (free e books to read .txt) 📕

It wasn't the window in the attic, though he expected it to have been for the effect. Attics always made him think that the ceiling was about to collapse on him, and he'd always hated the feeling. It was the second-story window, the one on the left. And there was definitely a man's shadow against the bright light, looking down at him. It should have meant nothing. There was no reason for the alarm Luke was feeling—but he was. He watched as the man lazily pointed his finger from Luke, to Corbin, back to Luke, and then came to rest on Corbin. “Get in my car,” Luke said without looking away. He was parked on the street, and the engine would still be warm.

"What?” Corbin asked.

"Get in my car,” Luke said, and the car's alarm shreeped. He didn't want to sprint the few yards between the two cars, but in another moment or so, the panic would force him to bolt. Instead, he grabbed Corbin by the arm. “Get in the fucking car, Corbin. Don't argue with me."

Corbin, for once, didn't. He threw himself into the passenger seat, sprawling like he owned the car, like he had every time he'd gotten into the car from the very first. He even drummed his fingers against his inseam. “My place or yours?” he asked.

Luke didn't look at him, but stared at the restaurant they just passed. The Deane House, it was called. He'd passed it a hundred thousand times on his way to the river bed. It had only been opened for brunch, so he'd never been inside it, but it had seemed fairly innocuous in a neighborhood full of historic buildings. It had even been painted a cheery red brick color, before the fire that had gutted it months ago. It seemed odd that they were just now renovating. The windows on the front side looked like bruised eyes in the darkness, and the cheery sign advertising their hours had a Closed for restoration sign over it. It hadn't been there at midnight, when Luke had driven past.

"I said, your place or mine?” Corbin said, louder this time. His fingers were constantly moving over his inseam, a dead giveaway for how personally he would take the rejection. Luke was suddenly too tired to fight. “Mine,” he said.

"All right,” Corbin said and leaned back. “I knew you couldn't resist."

Luke looked behind him in the rearview mirror, but all the windows were dark again. The knot in his belly didn't go away. “It means nothing, Corbin."

"Keep telling yourself that, old man."

Luke's house was so far in the suburbs, the first time he'd driven up the driveway to the attached garage, Corbin, then Cory, had made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

"You're still here?” he demanded.

"Yes,” Luke said. When he'd been in Seattle, his old master, Marcus, had had one of the huge, decaying old houses that he'd saved from the wrecker ball. It had been divided up into eight different suites, and in the late evening, before the sun went all the way done, Luke had hated wandering the broken-down halls. When Marcus had picked up everything and moved to Calgary, Luke couldn't wait, until he saw Marcus had purchased practically the same house as a replacement. There was a dead man who searched through a bureau that wasn't there anymore, and a woman who sometimes climbed the narrow, winding staircase with her walker, and sometimes just lay there on the main floor of the landing, her head at a strange angle.

Marcus and Luke had rattled around the huge house together, but grew further and further apart. When they'd had their first, last, and only fight. Marcus had left him there, in a house Luke hated, and promised he'd send for him when he was settled back in Seattle and had cooled off.

Only he never did. Eventually, Luke sold the house. The housing market had been hot, and the huge lot the house stood on had been worth more than Luke thought possible. He'd used half the money to buy the small, cozy house on Maple Creek Drive, and the rest he invested. It had done quite well for him, too.

"Luke, buddy, you here with me? It's getting light out there."

"Right,” Luke said. He turned off the engine and closed the garage door before getting out of his specially treated car with its specially treated windows. “After you."

"I don't have a key,” Corbin said.

"And I don't believe you. After you."

"You're not a trusting soul, are you?” Corbin asked, but fished out the keychain from his too-tight jeans.

"No,” Luke said. “Leave them when you go."

Corbin tsked, but unlocked the door, punched in the master code on the alarm, and led the way into the living room.

Trying very hard to look like he wasn't, Corbin took a look around. “You haven't changed much."

Luke glanced around the room himself. “I bricked in the skylight,” he said, pointing up. Other than that, the only thing that had changed was which night-blooming flowers he had in the garden. The spider plants had runners across the hardwood floor that he swept around rather than disturbing, and the big leather couches were overstuffed and comfortable. The rug under the coffee table was new, now that he thought about it, but just new to the house. He loved the way it had been passed on from family member to family member, and while he didn't understand the language of the conversations that had been held over it, they had been mostly held with love. The rug warmed the entire room for it.

"Still rattling around here all alone with just your ghost?"

Mrs. Reinhart, who had owned the house before Luke, was still around. She'd died here, a month or so before Luke had bought the place, and he still saw her sometimes. She spent time in his garden, working with flowers and herbs that had long since shriveled and