The Frontenac Sisters: Supernatural Sleuths & Monster Hunters (1-4) Box Set by S.H. Livernois

Author:S.H. Livernois
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boonies Press
Published: 2022-09-25T20:41:25+00:00

9

Detective Sidders lived down a lonely side road a stone’s throw from a dairy farm, just outside of Clarington. His bungalow seemed to be made of windows—every light was flicked on so that the house glowed like a giant lamp amid the fields. From the darkness, a loud chorus of insects buzzed, and fireflies emerged from invisibility into yellow brilliance, then disappeared again.

Hyla opened the van door to warm air that smelled of cow manure, but the sudden shift to standing made her dizzy. She leaned against the van a moment, trying not to think too much of how sick she felt. It had begun quite suddenly with the dizziness, which shifted to nausea, and then the migraine. She told herself it was stress. Nothing to worry about. But the hypochondriac in her probed the soft lymph nodes below her jaw, finding them tender and swollen.

Stop.

Hyla took a deep breath and walked up the driveway to the house, toward Tristan’s black shape pacing in what appeared to be the living room. Lizeth had opted out of this welfare check, her nerves quite understandably raw from the week’s events. She needed to rest and recharge, forcing Hyla to shoulder this obligation alone. She knocked, nervous.

Tristan opened his front door, clutching an amber bottle in his other hand. “Which one are you again?”

“Hyla.”

Tristan stumbled back into his house, leaving the door wide open. Hyla followed him inside.

“Where’s your twin?” he said, quickly moving to the center of the room where a delicate glass coffee table stood. A rickety, hinged wooden box sat on top. He collected some papers and a journal and threw them inside, snapping the lid shut and then locking it with a small key. This he put in his pocket.

“She needed some rest. It’s been a difficult few days.” Hyla sat in a leather club chair opposite Tristan and his mysterious box. “She’s extremely sensitive.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not usually.”

He pointed at her with his bottle held loosely in his hand. “So then why are you here if not to comfort me?”

“I think I can manage. I am human, after all. Plus, it’s part of the job—to make sure our clients are okay.”

Tristan sat clumsily on his couch, laid his hands on his thighs, and stared at his box, his eyes bleary with drink. “That’s a hefty responsibility, Hyla. I haven’t been okay in a long time.”

“Me neither.”

He smiled. “Aren’t we a pair. Want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

Tristan took a swig of his bottle. He was older than Hyla initially thought. His smooth and closely shaved jaw and cheeks were rounded and soft, giving the illusion of youth, but a touch of gray had crept into his sideburns and along his hairline. He ran a hand from his forehead to his chin. From some unseen speaker, Mel Tormé sang “The Nearness of You,” which reminded Hyla of Zeke.

“The Velvet Fog,” she said. “Wasn’t that his nickname?”

Tristan nodded, and his eyes unfocused. “He was my father’s favorite.” His eyes swung upward to meet hers, red-rimmed and full of pain.

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