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I thought about it as I sat down. “I dunno. You normally dawdle more, I guess.”

He didn’t meet my eye as I watched him. “It seemed like the right thing to do. Seize the day, and all that.”

Of course. I sighed.Must be nice.

I’d always known my days were numbered. Eventually, I’d pick a fight I couldn’t win – it was the way things were for hunters, or so I assumed. But Jon’s death had made that final fight seem closer than ever before, and my pride in Tom’s courage was heavily coloured by my own worry that I wasn’t making the most of my life. Then again, the fire was addictive. There was something dark in me, and I knew it. How was I supposed to share a life with someone, knowing that? First dates are awkward enough without having to explain why you keep a sword in your car.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and settled into the chair beside Tom. “Go on then, what’s so important it couldn’t wait til I got back?”

He cleared his throat and spun the laptop around, his dark eyes dancing. “Oh, you know. Only the most notorious vampire I’ve ever come across.”

I rolled my eyes. Sometimes he really didn’t get it. “Why doyou seem excited about that?”

“Because this woman is… old, Erin. She’s legendary.”

I huffed, but I humoured him. “Well I hope by legendary you mean fictional. Because legendary doesn’t sound like a fight I want to have.” Before he could respond, I held up a hand. “Start at the beginning.”

“Alright.” With a few taps on the trackpad, Tom brought up an image. “So this is her—”

It was a classic Renaissance portrait: a beautiful young woman, around twenty, with ebony curls wired into an elaborate hairstyle and an intense gaze that looked right through the screen at me. The text at the bottom of the page dated the image as sixteenth century.

“A Tudor portrait? Really? What’s next, Dracula?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom said, but he couldn’t hide his grin. “Dracula could never be this interesting. Though now you mention it—”

“Focus, Chowdhury.”

“So, Jon’s post-mortem report was useless, but I got hold of the crime scene notes, and there were a few things that seemed way off. I wasn’t sure if I was wasting my time to start with—”

“Can we skip your entire train of thought, Tom?” I interrupted.

“Sorry. Anyway, the forensic specialist noted that there were flowers on the bedside table. A posy.” He dug out a printed photograph of a bundle of indigo blossoms bound with thread. “I’d read about something similar before.”

“He could have picked them up on a hike?”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But there were two silver coins, too.”

“Silver coins?”

“Plain silver discs. No stamp or date, but pure silver.”

I frowned. “Okay. What for?”

“Payment for the kill?” Tom shrugged.

“Or the ferryman,” I added darkly.

“Either way, it’s not the first death like that. And the coins led me toher.”

I sensed Tom might finally get to his point. “Who is she?”

“Isabel Wyatt. She sometimes goes by Elizabeth, but the records are sketchy as to whether she’s the same person. Most often she’s recorded as Izzie Misery.”

The name wasn’t familiar, but my stomach stirred uncomfortably. It wasn’t often vamps built up enough of a reputation to gain a moniker like that.

“Was she a noblewoman?” I asked, taking the laptop from him and scrolling through the image search results. “I’ve never heard of her.”

“No, but the painter—” he gestured at the screen. “I think it’s a Holbein. And there are rumours online about his other work. You know the Anne Boleyn one, with the pearl necklace? It’s supposedly based on—” He cut himself off.