Hemlock Grove by Brian McGreevy

writing, and Nicolae didn’t know how to write himself so he figured if you took the trouble it must be true. So he walked up and down the beach until in his mind he licked it, and then he went inland a ways until he found a pond, and he tied lily pads to the bottoms of his shoes. And that was how he walked to America.”
    Roman was not satisfied. But perceiving this line of inquiry a blind alley, he changed the subject. He asked what any of this had to with Peter.
    “This is my blood,” said Peter. “Blood … stains.”
    Roman picked up the coupling link and hefted it thoughtfully.
    “Shee-it,” said Roman.
    “Shee-it,” said Peter.
    “Who do you think this Chasseur really is?” said Roman.
    “I need to know like an extra ear on my dick to hear myself whack off,” said Peter. “Let’s be clear, only one thing matters here: not putting me in a cage.”
    Roman was quiet. “What now.”
    “We do what you said,” said Peter. “We find the vargulf. And we stop him.”
    Roman slapped the link against his palm a couple of times. “How?”
    “If there’s time before the next moon, help him,” said Peter. “It’s possible he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”
    “If there’s not?”
    “I kill him.”
    Roman looked at the other boy who was hiding a wolf. “You would do that?”
    “I would do what was necessary,” said Peter, who in a past moment of truth failed to wring the neck of a dying fox in an act of merciful necessity and could make no promises to himself what he would or would not do in a replicated scenario with so much more on the line. But he did know he needed to sell it convincingly for the benefit of the upir ’s not insignificant resources.
    “So if we went through with this,” said Roman, stressing the word if to lend the false impression there was any question in his mind, “where would we start?”
    “Lisa Willoughby,” said Peter.
    “Seems like a bit of a dead end,” said Roman.
    “What’s left of her,” said Peter. “We find out where they’re burying her.”
    “Why?”
    “Because we’re going to dig her up.”
    Peter was not sure if the joyful light that suddenly shone in Roman’s green Godfrey eyes was indicative of how auspicious or dumbfuck a partnership this would be.
    “We’re not calling ourselves the Order of the Dragon,” said Peter.
    “Do you … know what it’s like?” said Roman, haltingly shifting gears. “The taste of fear?”
    Peter did not know what he disliked more: the idea of formulating an appropriate response to this question or that it had been asked. So he employed a strategy he had perfected in his dealing with the opposite sex: reply naturally as if to an entirely different conversation.
    “That bum who hangs out at Kilderry Park,” said Peter. “We also may as well try and talk to him—who knows, maybe he saw something.”
    Roman was quiet.
    “What bum?” he said.
    *   *   *
    From the archives of Norman Godfrey:
    NG: You wanted to see me?
    FP: …
    NG: Mr. Pullman? Francis?
    FP: I … seen it.
    NG: What?
    FP: There was another one. I didn’t know there was another one.
    NG: Another what?
    FP: …
    NG: You didn’t know there was another what?
    FP: Another girl.
    NG: What did you see, Francis?
    *   *   *
    Letha was sleeping when some obscure tension woke her and she saw in her doorway a silhouette palpable with ill ease.
    “Dad?” she said.
    “I’m sorry,” said Dr. Godfrey. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
    “It’s fine, but … are you all right?”
    He considered his response. “No,” he said.
    “Why don’t you come over here?” she said.
    For a moment it seemed as though he hadn’t heard. But then, trancelike, he went to her bed and sat. He tucked his hands into his lap. She smelled the scotch on him and in her condition it was nauseating to her, it was the smell of a man in pain. She touched his arm.
    “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I’m going to stay away from