The Darkest Kiss

“I do so love the level of conversation I get with you two around,” Jack said dryly.

I gri

It took nearly an hour to get to Yuroke, and another ten minutes to find the right side street and house number.

Mrs. Young lived in a little weatherboard cottage that was barely visible amidst all the gum trees. I drove down the long drive, avoiding as many potholes as I could, my gaze sweeping the old house and the run-down barn that stood to the left of it. The barn actually looked in worse condition than the house, the tin roof rusted and lifting in several places, and the rear corner of the building was broken open to the elements.

The only signs of life were the several chickens that scratched out the front of the barn, and the mangy-looking dog chained to a ke

I stopped the car and climbed out. The wind meandered through the trees, making the leaves whisper, and the soft clucking of the chickens added a brighter note to this chorus. There was little noise coming from either the house or the shed. Even the dog was silent, watching me with disinterested eyes.

It looked for the world like this place—and the dog—had been abandoned. Yet there were clothes on the line, and a car parked just inside the lean-to garage on the right side of the house.

I swept my gaze around the buildings once more, then reached back inside my car and collected my gun. I might be dealing with an old woman, but she was an old woman with a crazy son, and just because I couldn’t smell him didn’t mean he wasn’t here. Yuroke wasn’t that far out of town, he could easily be using it as a safe house.

I slammed the door closed then walked toward the house. If the old bird happened to be inside and watching, she was doing so extremely quietly. But I didn’t think she was. I couldn’t smell anyone. Only rubbish and age.

The wooden steps creaked and dipped as I stood on them, and the windows to my left rattled. The whole house was in a state of decay, the window frames rotting and the weatherboards barely holding any paint. Even the door didn’t look capable of withstanding much bad weather—it was warped and hanging on a slight angle, so that it didn’t look properly shut.

I pressed the doorbell, but didn’t hear an accompanying ringing inside the house, so I knocked instead. Even though I didn’t use much force, the whole thing rattled.

There was no response. I knocked again, then stepped back and peered through the front window. It looked into a living room and, again, decay was evident. There were newspapers scattered all over the floor, their edges yellowed and curling, and a thick dust lined the top of the patterned sofas and the dark wood of the sideboards. Several cups and plates dotted the coffee table, one with cake that looked rather green. Either Mrs. Young wasn’t a very good housekeeper, or the room hadn’t seen human occupation for at least a couple of weeks.

“Mrs. Young?” I called out. “Riley Jenson from the Directorate. I need to talk to you.”

My voice echoed through the emptiness. No answer came. Not even from the dog.

I grabbed the door handle and twisted it open. The door opened several inches then stuck fast, forcing me to lift it up and over a warped floorboard. Inside, the house smelled as bad as it looked. The air was stale and perfumed with the hint of rubbish and rot.

The floorboards creaked as I stepped inside. “Mrs. Young?”

Still no answer. Nor could I smell any life. I walked down the hallway, checking rooms as I passed each doorway. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom at the front of the house, both a good deal tidier than the living room—although the dust that was so thick in the front room had invaded these rooms as well.

The hall led to a kitchen, and it was obviously here that the old woman spent most of her time. The kitchen was small but tidy, with clean plates and cups sitting in the drainer. The little dining area consisted of a table and a couple of chairs pushed up against the wall, allowing room for a large, well-used sofa chair. A TV stood in the corner of the room.

There was a pile of newspapers at the far end of the counter. I walked over and had a look at the date. The latest was a month old—around the same date as Mr. Young had died. Maybe his wife had moved out rather than be alone, but why would she leave the poor old dog and the chickens here? It didn’t make any sense.

I swung around and saw another door. It probably led into nothing more exciting than the laundry, but I walked over to take a look anyway. My skin began to tingle several feet from the door. I frowned and stopped. Usually I only got that reaction when I was near silver—but why in hell would there be silver in this old house, especially if it housed a family of shifters?

I stepped forward and pressed my fingers against the door. The tingle grew stronger, burning my fingertips. For whatever reason, there was a whole lot of silver in the room beyond.

And really, there could be only one reason for that—someone wanted to restrain a shifter.

With some trepidation—and some effort—I pushed open the door. What I discovered was basically a prison. The netting started just beyond the door, and was spiderweb fine. It was made in several layers, so that the overall strength of the net was tripled. Not many shifters would have gotten through it—not without seriously injuring themselves. And even if they had, there was then the silver-coated walls to deal with. That’s what I’d been feeling—the back of the door had obviously received the same treatment.

Someone had wanted to make damn sure something—or someone—couldn’t get out.

The room itself had been set up like a bedroom. It had a bed, a small bathroom area, and a TV. There was also a desk and laptop in the corner opposite the bed. Books and magazines lay scattered about the floor, but not covering the small, stained rug.

My gaze went back to the nets. Was this the explanation for Young’s parents suddenly up and leaving Beechworth? Had they discovered that their supposedly dead son was alive, but something of a monster?

Given this room, it certainly seemed possible.

But given the fortifications, how had Young escaped? And why now, if he’d spent a good thirty or so years in captivity?

And where the hell was his mom?

I backed away from the silver room and swung around. There were glass sliding doors at the far end of the small dining area, and these led out into a little patio area.

I walked across, unlatched the door, and walked out. To the right, in a little lean-to at the back of the garage, was the laundry area. To the left were steps, and these led out past the clothesline. The various shirts and undies on the line were a mix of women’s and men’s, but they looked as if they’d been there for some time. Bird shit decorated the backs of some of the shirts, and fade lines had begun to appear.

I walked down the steps and followed the path, ducking under the clothes and walking toward a little vegetable patch. There were big, fat pumpkins looking ready for the picking, and potatoes and carrots gone wild.

Obviously, this garden had been abandoned long before Mr. Young had died.

The path continued on, and so did I. Trees lined either side, most bearing fruit in various degrees of ripeness. Unfortunately, the birds had gotten to most of it, leaving it half-eaten and rotten.

The path ended in a little sitting area. A large liquid amber tree provided shade, and under this sat a little table and two chairs. To one side, a rose bed that was a riot of color, filling the air with sweet summery scents.

To the other side, a grave.

I’d finally found Mrs. Young.