Holiday.
âHe mustâve picked the lock with his tiny claws,â Mr. Holiday suggested dryly.
âI donât think heâs gone far,â Mrs. Holiday added. âHe seems to enjoy the smell of your soiled underwear, and God knows there are plenty of pairs scattered around your bed.â
âGod, Mrs. Holiday!â Jupe snatched the backpack out of her hand. âDo you enjoy embarrassing me?â
âI live for it, darling,â she answered, gripping the sides of his face long enough to plant a kiss on his nose before he squirmed away and ran inside.
Mr. Holiday waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to Lon. âAnything we should know about your visit to Mr. Dare?â
He crossed his arms over his chest and kicked a chunk of gravel. âBoth of the kids taken were Hellfire.â
Mr. and Mrs. Holiday murmured in surprise. They knew about the Hellfire Club. They werenât members themselves, and I donât think they quite knew everything that went on during their monthly bacchanales inside the Hellfire caves, but they knew about Lonâs transmutation ability.
âDo you remember a Hellfire member named Jesse Bishop?â Lon asked. âHe disappeared after the kids were taken thirty years ago.â
Mr. Holiday thought for a moment. âDoesnât ring a bell.â
âFor me, either,â her partner agreed. âWhy?â
âDare wants Cady and me to find out if heâs still aliveâwants us to track him down, but didnât give us much to go on.â
Much? Try anything. Dareâs box was full of useless paperwork.
âWell,â Mr. Holiday said, âif the man was a Hellfiremember, you might try looking through your fatherâs things. Your mother always complained that he could fill a warehouse with all the garbage he hoarded.â
Lon grunted. âThatâs not a bad idea.â
Jupeâs muffled voice called from within the house. It sounded like he said, âI found him.â I hoped that meant my hedgie hadnât been eaten by the dog.
âWhere do you keep your dadâs stuff?â I asked.
âIn the Village. If we leave now, weâll be back before dinner.â He lifted a brow at Mr. Holiday. âCan you make sure he doesnât leave the house ward?â
âIf youâd let me install that padlock on his bedroom door like I wanted, we wouldnât have to worry about the ward.â
The corners of Lonâs mouth curled. âDonât tempt me.â
Lonâs mother died of cancer around the time that he and his then-wife, Yvonne, were splitting up. His father died a few months later, of loneliness, Lon thought: cause of death was never determined. His parents werenât rich exactly, but they had a respectable amount of property, including the plot where Lonâs house was built. They also owned a couple hundred acres of farmable land outside the city limits, which Lon sold, and his parentsâ home in the Village, which he didnât. The plum-colored Victorian house sat on a quiet block, snug between two other newer homes that wouldâve dwarfed it if it werenât for the trees standing between the properties. Their extensive canopy enveloped the home, adding to the privacy that a tall iron fence provided.
Four gas-burning lamps bordered the crumbling sidewalk, and another hung near the painted front door. The fence locked behind us with a weary squeak as we headed inside.
âI keep the utilities on,â Lon said as my eyes scanned the pale light glowing through the covered first-story window. âMost of the residents in this neighborhood know itâs empty, but I donât want it to look abandoned and vulnerable to prowlers.â
âYou grew up in this house?â
âYeah.â
Kind of spooky, if you asked me. Like an overgrown gingerbread cottage with lacy decorative trim around the eaves, spindly banisters, and crescent moons
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