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“I can’t.”

“It’s just a few hours. People will miss you if you don’t go,” I begged.

But no amount of cajoling would get him to move. I went alone, still limping slightly as I wove my way through the heavy autumn rain to the graveside. There were more people than the previous day – probably more people than I’d ever met. But Maggie had a full life, complete with friends, family and people who genuinely loved her. Jonathan hadn’t had the chance for anything like that. He’d been pulled into my darkness early on,at the expense of everything else. It was no wonder the two events were so vastly different.

A grey-haired man in a suit spoke words over Maggie’s coffin, repeatedly calling her Margaret, which she’d never been a fan of. I barely heard him. I was on edge, unable to shake the feeling of being watched by eyes hidden beneath the many umbrellas around the graveside. The wind picked up, and I didn’t stay for the wake. There were too many questions I couldn’t answer truthfully, and my guilt was inescapable – chilling me far more than the English winter.

On the way home I cranked up my car’s sound system as loud as it would go and made a deal with myself. No matter what happened this afternoon, I would go to work the next morning. This limbo could only go on for so long, and as much as working alone was weird, the distraction would be welcome. Maybe I’d force Tom to come with me – I reckoned I could dress him myself and drag him by his hair if push came to shove.

The house was filled with an unexpected warmth and spice when I stepped through the front door, shrugging off my coat. I breathed it in, shaking out my damp curls. Ginger, maybe? And something deeper, earthier – cardamom? The scent wrapped around me like a blanket, and I followed it into the kitchen.

Tom was standing over the stove, his back to me as he stirred a small pot. Several tiny bowls were arranged in a precise row on the counter beside him. A stick of cinnamon, star-shaped pods, and what looked like black peppercorns – all waiting their turn.

“You’re cooking?” I asked, my voice still rough from tryingto keep my shit together.

He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Proper chai. Not that powdered crap we serve.” He gestured with his wooden spoon to a chair. “Sit.”

I sank down into it, grateful that he was at least animated again. Scrawl-filled notepads and empty coffee mugs were scattered across the table, so he’d clearly been researching before this odd new behaviour began.

“I didn’t know you could make it from scratch,” I said, watching him crush something between his fingers before adding it to the pot.

Tom’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yeah. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, actually. She’d make it whenever someone…” He trailed off, focusing intently on the pot. “I was going to teach Maggie how to make it. Maybe put it on the menu.”

He tapped the spoon against the side of the pot a little too forcefully.

I didn’t say anything. The last thing I needed was to send him back into a zombie state with a careless word or look.

“She said she’d never had real chai before,” he said quietly. “It seemed like an important thing to fix.”

The liquid in the pot reached a simmer, releasing another wave of fragrance. He added what looked like loose black tea and a splash of milk.

“Shit,” he muttered after a moment, setting down the spoon. “I’m out of star anise.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’ll pop out. I can grab some sandwiches too, while I’m at it –I dunno about you, but I’m starving.”

I nodded, my stomach grumbling in confirmation. “It smells amazing, Tom.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s medicinal.” He paused, halfway to the door. “We should still add it to the menu. The real thing. Maggie would have…” He swallowed hard. “She’d have liked that.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed his keys and slipped out, leaving me alone with the comforting aroma of spices and a grief that even his grandmother’s recipe couldn’t quite resolve.

Padding back into the living room, my tights slipping on the bare floorboards, I noticed his laptop was still switched on at the bureau. I sat down to read the article he’d left open while I waited for him to come back, unsure if I should interfere with his pan or not. The name Nicholas Murray was highlighted across the page, and I skim-read it at speed, frowning. There were some disturbing and familiar patterns to this guy’s MO. Red-headed women, ritual murder – I had to assume this was the Wyatt accomplice that Tom had mentioned.

I sat back and took a deep breath. This wasn’t what we did. Sheffield had its share of vamps, like any major city. There was a dark history here, sure – but serial killings that lasted for decades? That sounded more like a murder documentary than my life. It was well beyond anything we had experience with.

A quiet knock on the door shook me from my trance, and I slammed the laptop closed.

“Did you—?” I stopped with the doorhalf open as I recognised the person in the doorway.

“Hello, Erin.” Adam’s smile was friendly as he stepped past me into the hall. “Could we talk?”

I closed the front door without a word and followed him into the living room. He stood by the fireplace, running a hand along the mantelpiece and gazing up at the ceiling.

So much for your self-preservation instincts, Erin.

“What a lovely home. Quite typical of the period, of course, but a well-preserved example.” He seemed perfectly at ease, despite his lack of invitation.

I didn’t know how to react. I cast my senses out toward him, but they hit a wall. There was absolutely nothing there. As far as my confusing and weird sixth sense was concerned, I was alone – and I might have convinced myself that was actually the case, if not for the exotic aroma of what I assumed to be his expensive cologne.

“What are you—” I started, but he cut across me.