Page 30 of What Happened on Roslyn Street? (Strode University #1)

Chapter Twenty

“ W hy do you have so many ropes on hand?”

In the weirdest turn of events imaginable, I find myself watching warily as Margaux ties Caldwell to a chair.

“You don’t want to know.” She pulls the ropes at his wrists tighter.

The pocket watch—now in my hands—burns with each of her movements. I don’t want to do this, but against my better judgment, I agree. At the very least, it can keep him busy until someone comes to take him off our hands.

“But I’ll tell you anyway,” she says. “One word: werewolves.”

I hate seeing Caldwell like this. He’s a worn-down shell of himself. Doubts creep in.

No matter how pathetic he looks, there’s nothing to explain the blood on his hands or the way he held the mask. Those are the small things I cling to, but the truth is…

I don’t know how to feel. I’m holding my breath as I wait for answers, and it’s too easy to let Margaux take the lead.

“Werewolves.” I echo blandly. “Do ropes work to keep them in place?”

Ropes aren’t the strongest restraint.

“No,” she says. “We learned that the hard way, but… these are the last of the ropes from the wolf fiasco. They should work just fine for a witch.”

“How could you think that would work?” I shake my head. “You know what? You were right; I don’t want to know.”

I step closer to Caldwell. A storm brews inside of me.

“Coming here was the wrong move,” I say. “I really didn’t think you were this stupid.”

“I know.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “But it was either they kill me before I see you, or… I take a chance and get to see you. Even if it is the last time I lay my eyes on you, it will be worth it.”

“They weren’t going to kill you, but you might die this way.” I gesture to Margaux without looking away from him. “She’s hungry.”

“Poor thing.” His lips turn into a mock frown, his gaze drifting to my friend. Whatever good nature there was between the two of them no longer exists.

I can understand Margaux’s perspective, but why is he being so rude?

“You said you have proof.” I grind my teeth together and hold the burning watch tighter.

“I do,” he says.

“Then stop gabbing,” Margaux snaps. “If you don’t share your proof now, I’m calling my father.”

“Oh no.” He chuckles under his breath. “You’re calling your father? I’m petrified…”

“Caldwell.” I’m begging—I can’t help it. I don’t want to draw this out any longer, and if I leave them to their own devices, they may bicker for the rest of the night. “Show your proof, please.”

His gaze flickers back to mine, eyes lingering on me for a moment too long. “The proof is in the watch.”

“This could be a trick,” Margaux mutters. “That watch is full of magic.”

“It is a magical artifact,” Caldwell says. “But it is not a trick. Take it out, and I’ll teach you how to activate it.”

“How?” I open my palm, and the watch cools down. “I’ve already tried to activate it a hundred times…”

“Not like this.” He sighs, flexing his fingers. “It can only be activated by me. You’ll need a drop of my blood.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Margaux flashes her fangs.

“No.” I step between them. “I’ll do it.” I turn to Margaux.

To my surprise, she doesn’t argue.

“You’re right, you deserve this.” She smiles deviously. “I’ll fetch a knife.”

I don’t have time to worry about being alone with Caldwell. She’s back in a flash, gone with a burst of air and returning with the same gusto. A jeweled dagger rests in her hand, and she offers the handle to me.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to run with knives?” Caldwell drawls.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to mess with blood magic?” Margaux lifts a brow.

“It’s not blood magic,” he says. “It’s ancestral magic.”

I don’t know the difference, and I have no interest in arguing with them. I take the dagger carefully in my hand. There’s power in the weapon.

I’ve never held one before. The closest I’ve come is the stake buried in the bottom of my bag.

I could end it all. It would be easy to drive the dagger into his heart. All I have to do is think of Poppy. Hell, I could stab it in his leg and give him a fraction of the pain he’s put us through.

I don’t. I’m delicate as I poke the blade to his index finger, drawing out the tiniest prick of blood.

“Now what?” I mutter. My attention shifts to the pocket watch.

“Open it,” Caldwell says. “And let a drop of blood fall onto the face of the clock.”

“At least the instructions are simple,” I mutter.

I squeeze his finger, and the drop of blood lands in the middle of the watch.

Nothing happens. The blood rests on the glass that covers the moving hands of the watch. Margaux hovers over my shoulder, holding her breath.

Slowly, the blood dissolves as if it were never there. I glance at Caldwell, praying it isn’t some sort of trap.

“Just wait.” He nods lifelessly.

So, I wait. I’m unsure what to expect, and Caldwell tells me nothing. He stares intently at the painting on Margaux’s wall. It’s a fruit bowl of ripe apples and pomegranates—surprisingly generic and uninteresting.

Finally, something in the room shifts. It’s subtle at first, a change I can’t put my finger on… until words fill the room.

“Benjamin!” It’s a woman’s voice, a frightened, shaking sound. The voice doesn’t appear to come from the watch. It surrounds us with magic so strong I feel like I’m choking. My mother may liken it to the voice of God.

The voice says, “I don’t have long, so please, listen. I need you to finish what I started. You must go to Strode. I failed you. I’m sorry. The cycle will continue if we do not?—”

The voice cuts off as abruptly as a phone line hung without warning. There’s rifling, shuffling, a scream… and then nothing.

The wind whistles outside. Margaux gasps. Caldwell meets my eyes again, and I see his pain. Without asking, I know who the voice belongs to.

“That was your mother,” I say, venturing a guess.

“Yes.” His voice is tight. “It was all she left when she died. I found it in her study, hidden between the pages of a book.”

They’re the last words from his mother, and she didn’t have a chance to say she loved him.

I break my gaze from his, dangerously close to feeling sorry for the killer.

“I don’t understand,” Margaux says. “How does this prove your innocence?”

“It proves why I’m here,” he says. “When I told you a vision brought me to Strode, that was a lie.”

“Of course, it was.” I bark out a laugh.

“My mother’s voice in this watch is what led me there,” he says, “and while I don’t have much information… I believe it’s connected to the murders. This proves I’m not the murderer.”

“All it proves is that your mother wanted you to finish what she started,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “How do we know she wasn’t the one who started the killing? How are we supposed to trust you?”

“Because you trusted me before,” he says. Desperation clings to his words.

“I did for a spell,” I say, “and I regret it.”

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

But I do. I hoped for proof, but this watch doesn’t offer that—not enough for me to feel comfortable cutting him free. I already made the mistake of trusting him once, and I can’t let myself be tricked again.

“Tell me about your mother.” Margaux takes a seat at the dining table. “Why did she want you to go to Strode, and what are you finishing for her?”

“She didn’t tell me what I was supposed to finish,” he says. “It was my vision that made me realize it was connected to the murders. I still don’t know exactly what it is. She was a professor as well. Your father knew her.”

“And her name?”

“Professor Luna,” he says. “I carry my father’s surname, but she kept hers. The two were never married.”

“I’ve met your mother, and I know of Caldwell,” Margaux says. “He’s the demon, yes?”

Caldwell nods. “I’ve never met him.”

“Yet, you use his name,” I mutter under my breath.

“You’re the son of a demon, and… your mother had the gift of sight as well, I presume?” Margaux has taken over the questioning.

I’m grateful. My mind runs a mile a minute as they talk.

“Yes,” he says. “My grandmother, too, and my great grandfather as well. It is a generational… gift.”

I can read between the lines; it doesn’t feel like a gift now. It feels like a curse to him, but Caldwell has no clue what a real curse is. He doesn’t know how it feels to be surrounded by monsters without a single defense.

I let out a bitter laugh, and the two continue to ignore me.

“This is what you were hiding,” Margaux says. “I could tell there was something, but… it was your mother, wasn’t it? Her involvement in things?”

Caldwell nods.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I finally speak, turning my gaze to him.

“Because,” he says, “you hardly trusted me. If you knew my mother was involved… you would have trusted me even less.”

“True,” Margaux mutters.

“This conversation, and your reaction to everything, is proof of that,” he says. “I showed you my mother screaming, begging for her life, and you still do not believe me. I won’t believe she was the killer—and I know she was the one trying to stop it. I don’t need a vision to tell me that.”

“I can’t—” I start.

“She’s gone now! If she were on their side, she wouldn’t be. I want revenge as much as you do.” His voice is harsh and cutting. “No, I may want it more than you. I’m willing to trust you with a knife, to let you tie me up…”

“You love it,” Margaux says.

“Hush,” I mutter.

“The only one I want to kill,” he says, “is the person responsible for my mother’s death. And whether you believe me or not, I know who it is. I’m the only one who knows who it is.”

“I assume you have more half-baked proof?” I lift a brow.

“I’m sure the two of you will poke holes in it, but… I do have proof.” He smiles—a slow, lazy smile. “I wouldn’t consider it ‘half-baked’ either…”

“What is it?” I ask warily.

“A vision,” he says. “When I found the last body, I saw their face—and I can show you, too.”

“That’s why you were there, with the body stuck in place?” I shudder.

He nods. “I touched the mask to receive a vision of the wearer, and… it worked.”

“And what about the blood on your hands?” I ask faintly.

“A pathetic attempt at saving the victim, I’m afraid.” He looks down, frowning. “I found them when they were mid-kill, but they were gone before I approached. By the time I tried to stop the bleeding, It was already too late.”

“It was a messier kill this time,” I say.

“Likely because I interrupted,” he says. “Vampires are usually… clean eaters, but the killer pulled away quickly, disappearing in a blur.”

“They must have pierced the wrong spot,” Margaux murmurs. “It happens—either with baby vampires or with certain distractions. If they tried to run away with their fangs still dug into the neck, then… I can see it happening that way.”

“Caldwell was the distraction…” I muse.

“It was already over by the time I found them,” he says, “but I had to try.”

I glance at the watch in my hands. The seconds idly tick by.

We’re losing time, and we’ve already lost too much.

Margaux is the next to speak.

“Go on, then,” she says. “Show us the vision, and I’ll decide if you live to see another day.”