Page 2 of Fangs

Nothing.

Only the lingering pulse of something that felt far too real.

Outside the tall window, the night is still absolute. Somewhere in the manor, a clock strikes three

I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. But the shadows in the corners of the room no longer feel empty.

And far down the corridor, behind glass and oil and centuries of dust, a painted mouth curves just a fraction deeper. As if it already knows I will dream of him again.

I

Part One

Odd Lucy

The door bangs open at a quarter to nine, and I flinch so hard the ladle nearly slips from my fingers. The unsteady thud of his boots on the floorboards tells me everything I need to know.

He’s been drinking again.

“Lucy.” His voice is thick, slurred. He stumbles into the kitchen, the reek of cheap gin rolling off him like a second skin.

“You’re late, Dad.” The words come soft. I don’t turn around. I can’t face what the drink has done to him. The hollow cheeks, the shaking hands, the eyes that once held love and now look straight through me.

“I had business,” he says, sharp as accusation. As if I made him late. As if I’m the reason he drowns himself night after night.

The ladle dips into the pot. I fill two bowls and slip the only carrot slices into his.

He won’t notice. He never notices the raw skin of my fingers from the washboard, the needle-pricks from mending torn linens for village women who bring their ironing because they know I need the coin. They whisper behind my back. ‘Odd Lucy’, they call me, because I’d rather read than gossip. Because my questions have no answers in this mud-choked place. Because my gaze drifts past the lanes toward the horizon, searching for anything beyond.

“Business,” I repeat, “at the tavern?” and I finally turn. The sight of him—God, so old now—twists sharp in my chest.

“Joe Tallow,” he spits.

I flinch. The name lands like a slap. He snatches the bowl and drinks the broth in one long swallow, ignoring the spoon. “We came to an arrangement.”

The bowl clatters down. His hands tremble. Guilty eyes dart sideways, and my stomach curdles.

My father. The man who once lifted me onto his shoulders so I could see the world. The man who taught me to read by candlelight. The man who wept at my mother’s grave until his voice broke. Where did he go?

Through the cracked window, laughter drifts from the village fair. Girls my age spinning and dancing, carefree and wanted. I wonder what it feels like to be chosen for love instead of necessity. The tattered romance novel beneath my mattress calls from upstairs. A story of escape, of a woman who found someone who understood the restless fire in her blood.

That is not my story. It never will be.

I sit across from him. “Joe Tallow? Rude. Heartless. Disrespectful. The whole village despises him. At this point he’d marry the first unfortunate woman desperate enough to accept him.” A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. “I suppose that’s me now.”

“Lucy, I had no choice. The debts…” His cold, trembling hand reaches for mine. “I’ve tried everything. Begged the Order for mercy. But they won’t listen. After tomorrow, the cottage is gone. They’re taking it all.”

My hand pulls back of its own accord. “Then where will we go?”

“I’ll work to pay them back.” His palm presses to his chest, where the cough lives like a permanent tenant. “But you… I can’t leave you alone. You need to be cared for.”

“By Joe Tallow?”

His gaze drops. “He has a house. A business. He promised to treat you well.”

“Promised.” I rise, the chair scraping hard against the floor. “You believe a man like that? You’ve heard the stories. Everyone has.”

“I had no other choice!” His voice cracks. “I’m a dead man, Lucy. The Order owns me. When I’m gone, what happens to you? Alone in the world. If they decide to come after you too, who protects you?”