Grave Matters: A Night Owls Novel by Lauren M. Roy Page A

Still, he held the book reverently—as much out of respect for Justin as out of protocol. Sure enough, the margins were filled with notes in the professor’s cramped handwriting. As he turned to the front to see when it had been printed, something slipped out from between the covers and fluttered to the floor.
    Justin snatched it up. Most of the time, Chaz still thought of him as the gangly, awkward kid he’d been when they’d hired him. Other times he moved with that ridiculous vampire speed, and Chaz was reminded of his own relatively weak physicality.
    “What is it?”
    “A picture.” Justin stood so they could both look at it: Henry and Helen Clearwater, waving from the open front door, keys in their hands. “I think it’s the day they bought this house.”
    They looked so happy in the shot, so very goddamned
vital
. “You should keep it,” said Chaz. “The picture and the book. Get a frame, hang it up, you know?”
    Justin didn’t respond at first, staring intently down at the photo. It took a few seconds for Chaz to register the way his nostrils flared, and how he’d started taking slow, shallow sips of air, the way you do when you’re trying not to smell something rotten.
    “I can’t block it out,” Justin said. “The smell of death, it’s everywhere in here. I can’t . . .”
    “Take a walk.” Chaz took him by the shoulders and steered him out of the room. “Go on, go for a spin around the block and clear your head. It’s okay. Take as long as you need.”
    “Yeah, I . . . That’s a good idea.” He walked the first few steps down the hall, but by the time he reached the stairs he was moving at a lope.
    Chaz waited until he heard the front door slam before he unclenched his fists.
Close fucking call, there.
The night they’d come in here after the murders, Val had nearly lost control when she got a noseful of the Clearwaters’ blood and the Jackals’ scent. She’d kicked him out of the library with her fangs and claws showing and bloodlust in her eyes. Justin didn’t have nearly her level of control. He hadn’t changed, not quite, but Chaz saw the fingertips of his cotton gloves stretching as Justin’s nails elongated. Sure, his hands hadn’t bent and twisted into a vampire’s ugly fucking claws, and no fangs had peeked out beneath his lips, but the transformation didn’t take terribly long.
    And even without fangs and claws, if the kid had wanted to bash Chaz’ face off a wall or a desk while they waited, he was more than capable. Chaz wasn’t keen on the idea of being Justin’s late-night snack.
    He figured when he came back, he’d remind Justin that he didn’t
have
to breathe, didn’t have to smell whatever the cleaners hadn’t been able to wash away. But it seemed prudent to first let him calm down and work some of that sorrow and anger out with good old fresh air. Later, he’d tell Val about it, to be on the safe side. Justin had come with him a few times now and had never gotten that close to losing it. Far as Chaz could tell, nothing had changed from the last time to this aside from finding that book. He didn’t know if strong emotions could bring on the old killing urges, but hey, it got the Hulk going; why not a new vampire whose mentor had been brutally murdered?
    Chaz worked on getting himself back to calm. Wouldn’t do for Justin to come back in and pick up on Chaz’ fear. It’d be apologies and offers of atonement for the rest of the night, and fuck that noise. They were cool. Chaz was cool. Everything was goddamned cool.
    He got back to sorting and stacking, losing himself in the rhythm of it. Most of the books up here were going to end up at Val’s. Whatever logic Henry Clearwater had used to categorize the books, it had died with him. No card catalog, no ledger, no mysterious ciphers for them to decrypt. Chaz had booted up the slim laptop they’d found downstairs, hoping for a stroke of luck, but the only one he got was that the professor hadn’t