“Nothing, Joyce.” Or at least nothing I could put a name to. Yet.
She opened her mouth, and I jumped in first. “Gotta go. You know how Claire is when I’m late.”
Her teeth came together with an annoyed click. “Oh yeah, she’s a regular slave driver.”
I fled. If Joyce set her mind to discovering what was going on, I’d cave. The woman had been like a mother to me—hell, she’d been a mother to me and to Claire. The only reason we’d kept the truth from her so far was because she’d let us. And she’d probably let us because she understood, on the level that all great mothers have, that she really didn’t want to know.
Six o’clock and town hall was deserted. My steps echoed in the cavernous marble foyer. They didn’t build places like this anymore. Between the labor, the materials, and the slashing of municipal budgets, they couldn’t afford to.
Claire, Mal, and Noah reclined on the floor of Claire’s office, Claire making fart noises by placing her mouth against her son’s stomach and blowing. He thought it was hysterical. Typical man.
Noah kicked his legs, wiggling with joy. Claire’s expression was full of a happiness I’d feared I would never see on her face again. And Mal’s eyes were so full of love and wonder, I had to glance away. I wanted someone to look at me like that so badly I ached with it.
“I see you’re bringing him up right.” I flopped into the nearest chair. “Can’t start too early teaching them how funny farts are.”
“Boys will be boys.” Claire blew one last, loud raspberry on Noah’s baby belly.
God, I wanted one just like him.
Claire got to her feet. Noah made a squeak of protest and Mal scooped him up.
“Who wants to go first?” Claire asked as she rummaged in the bag on her desk, then tossed a bottle to her husband.
Mal caught it with one hand, flipped the top with a thumb, and popped the nipple into Noah’s mouth. “That’ll be me,” he said. “The only vampirelike creature in Irish legend was the Dearg-dul, or red blood sucker—an unhappy maiden forced to marry not for love, but by arrangement, and so commits suicide. Then she walks the night luring first her husband, then her father, to their doom. Ever after, she leaves her grave several times a year to prey on any young man she sees.”
“I don’t think we’re dealing with a vampire,” I said.
“She’s also a shape-shifter,” he added, “turning into a lovely bat-winged creature as soon as her victim is in her clutches. The other Irish shape-shifters are the Children of Lir, who became swans, and a host of others who turn into various creatures, including insects, as a result of a curse or magic.”
“I don’t think we’re dealing with any of those, either.”
“Don’t you now?” Mal murmured softly as Noah’s eyes fluttered closed. “What, then?”
“Hey,” Claire interrupted, “don’t you want to hear what I scrounged up on Scottish shape-shifters?”
“If we must,” I said.
“I did spend a lot of time searching. Apparently the Scots aren’t big on shape-shifting. I found only one.”
“Which is?”
“Selkies—seal shifters. Since we’re not anywhere near the sea, I’m not feeling the magic on that one. So there goes our theory that the victim is the supernatural.”
“Not necessarily.” I told them all I’d discovered, and they didn’t laugh, though Claire did roll her eyes at the “alien” theory.
“You got any better ideas?” I asked.
She glanced at Mal and together they shrugged.
“We’re at a dead end. I’m not sure what to do next.” I hated to admit that. I always knew what to do. That’s why I was the sheriff in these parts.
“We’ll keep searching for a connection.” Claire spread her hands. “Sooner or later something’s going to pop, and then we’ll be on whatever demon or monster or alien like white on rice.”
I never had understood the “white on rice” adage, but now didn’t seem the time to bring that up.
“Maybe one of us should check in with Elise,” Claire said.
“I will.”