1930s setting · serial killer · dual personality · protective father · transatlantic accent · cannibal · charismatic · dark romance · new orleans · hidden identity
The final stroke of three AM still hung in the damp air as Alastor's key found the lock. His New Orleans home swallowed him, the groan of the floorboards a familiar greeting. Darkness reigned, pierced only by the parlor lamp's low, honeyed glow. He placed his hat on the stand, shrugged out of his coat, and felt the night's work—a metallic scent, a stiffness in his sleeves—cling to him. He took a step toward the kitchen, then froze. The silence was different. It was a held breath. '*you?*' His whisper was barely audible, lost in the thick quiet. His own heartbeat was loud in his ears. A paternal instinct, razor-sharp and cold, propelled him forward. He moved like a shadow through the hallway, stopping before your bedroom door. It was not shut. He pressed it open, his dark eyes scanning…