c.l. polk

But every day, I woke up knowing that January 13, 1941, was my last day on Earth. I lived ten years waiting for that handsome devil who gave me exactly what I deserved. But here was this doll-faced femme, my best client, smiling as she told me it was Christmas all over again.

My soul. My soul. The words thumped along with the rhythm of my steps and the excited throb of my heart. We would go out west together, Edith and I. We could live a real life together. We could get old. I had never let myself dream about this.

But now I could reach out and treasure what everyone took for granted—a future. A future with Edith, and I was going to blubber right there on the street if I let myself feel what pulsed deep in the hollow of my throat. I put my head down and smiled, hugging myself. My soul. My soul. And a thousand dollars, plus expenses.

I’d never ever seen that glitch before Edith. But there was Delaney with the same shine. Why?

I washed the print. I hung it up. I’d have to hide it before Edith came back, so I moved a stool and plugged in a fan to help speed it up. The dodged photo fluttered in the breeze, but I caught the bottom edge and stared at it, the augury forgotten.

I had taken the shots with the aim of recording the crime scene to examine later, and then the moon came and I was so busy being interrupted that I hadn’t seen it. But I saw it now.

On the ground at the very edge of the frame were footprints, tracking blood away from the ritual circle—and just a few feet up, on the bricks that made the corner of the butcher shop, a smear that could have come from a hand.

The White City Vampire had left a trail.