Hunting Partners

This story is by Allie April Knox and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Percival has decided this ball is ridiculous and a complete waste of his time. He’d much rather be at home, working away in his basement. His most recent project is calling his name, and if it weren’t for his promise to stick around for more than an hour, he’d have already left. 

Thank goodness for refrigeration. Otherwise the cadaver would be rendered impossible to work with by the time he’s finally able to return to it. 

If that happened, it’d be Ethan’s fault. 

After all, he was the one to plan this whole affair. 

It all began with a discussion on ballroom dances, him saying he loved the elegance of it all and wondering why they’d gone out of fashion. Percival tried explaining they’d been named antiquated and obsolete once courting methods changed, but his self-declared “best friend” turned a deaf ear. 

Ethan hired planners and caterers, spent an exorbitant amount of time searching for just the right venue and just the right entertainment, and sent out exquisitely designed invitations. A masquerade theme, he decided—a decision for which Percival is immensely grateful, as it gives him something to hide behind—and required his guests come dressed for the occasion, old fashioned tuxedos and ball gowns, masks all around. 

Percival won’t lie. The feel of the handsome trousers and the suspenders on his shoulders, vest under tailcoat, cravat comfortably tied and feet encased in uncomfortable dress shoes are all familiar to him, soothing in a way the rest of this affair isn’t. 

He very nearly celebrated at the chance to wear such clothing again, forced to donn whatever society deemed the current fashion for many decades. He’d wear his clothes any time he went out if they didn’t draw so much unwanted attention. 

And if they didn’t have so many blood stains. 

He sights, sets his champagne glass on the banister, and peers into the ballroom, scanning the crowd with a sharp eye. 

He’d agreed to come to this event for the sole purpose of locating a supplier, someone worth interacting with on a regular basis. He needs supplies. His formaldehyde is running low—again—and he’s looking for a ready supply of jars. 

The Mitchells work the docks and would be his best source for information and a possible contract, but they grow cagey and unaccommodating every time he inquires about working with them. 

Ethan keeps suggesting he order online. Percival keeps telling him to mind his own business. 

“There you are.” 

Percival startles and straightens, knocking his champagne glass as he does. A breath, and it shatters on the walkway far below. 

“Oh, don’t worry dear. I doubt our host will care one bit for a single broken glass. I do, however, wonder about who will have to clean that up.” 

Percival’s unwanted company is a tall woman in a dark dress, mask pushed up and blending near-perfectly with her black hair. He raises an eyebrow. “Do I know you?” 

“No,” she says, taking his question as permission to approach. “However, Mr. Beauregard said you’re looking for regular medical supplies, and I may be of help to you. May I ask the profession?” 

She looks at him expectantly. 

He returns the look. 

She tugs off her long gloves and offers him a slim hand. “Florence Grave, owner of Grave Supplies. At your service, Mr…?” 

“Crawford.” He eyes her as he takes her cold hand. “Percival Crawford. Pleasure.” 

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you. Now, Mr. Crawford, your profession, if you please. I won’t provide medical supplies without adequate reasoning.” 

His eyebrow—miraculously—raises further and he says, “I’m the medical examiner for the county, Miss Grave. I think you’ll find that reason enough.” 

“Quite.” Her dark eyes skim him, calculating. “Now, what are you looking to get?” 

He tells her. He also needs more thread, and does she know of any stronger scalpel blades? The ones he’s been using keep shattering. 

“Maybe you’re too forceful.” At his unimpressed stare, she amends her statement—with humor, apparently. “Maybe the corpses are a little less human than the traditional blades are designed for.” 

“…Sure.” 

She finishes jotting down his order, before looking up at him, eyes piercing, expression neutral. “I have one final question for you, Mr. Crawford, and you’ll have to forgive my forwardness when I ask: what did you use?” 

He raises an eyebrow—again. “Excuse me?” 

“How did you reanimate yourself?” 

He stares at her. 

“I trust I don’t need to explain the concept of reanimation.” 

His expression turns deadpan. 

She sighs. “Please, Mr. Crawford. I know, all right? I know when I’m interacting with a member of the Others. I recognize my people. Therefore, I recognize you.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence, Miss Grave watching him as he examines her. 

When she first approached, he thought she’d be like his long-dead Cecily, fragile and weak of heart. She certainly resembles her enough. The same thin figure. The same dark hair. The same pale skin. 

But where Cecily had been petite and frail, Miss Grave is tall and elegant. Where Cecily’s ebony hair had hung in ringlets, Miss Grave’s ink black hair is pin-straight and veil-like. Where Cecily’s near-translucent skin had shown every bruise and vein, Miss Grave’s white skin is opaque, like there isn’t any blood in her body to show. 

And her eyes… 

Where Cecily’s eyes had been blue, bluer than the sky itself, Miss Grave’s are dark and glint red in the dim light. 

“Miss Grave, do you make a habit of playing with your food?” he asks, hackles rising. 

Miss Grave has the gall to look affronted. “You are not prey, Mr. Crawford. Mr. Ethan Beauregard—a man who claims you his friend—mentioned your quandary. And just as you are looking for a supplier, I am looking for a business partner. Thus, the reason I stand before you now.” 

“A business partner,” he repeated. 

“Yes.” 

He tilts his head. “Why?” 

“Because hunting alone is only fun for so long, and I have been doing so for centuries,” she admits. “A partner would offer ideas, new and different from any I’ve ever thought up on my own.” 

An expression of longing crosses her face. 

“A partner would offer companionship.” 

Now, there is a desire Percival can understand. 

“You wouldn’t like me,” he tells her. “I’m a grumpy old man who’d rather pull apart a body and eat its innards than interact with living creatures.” 

“You’re selling yourself short, partner of mine. And who’s to say you’d like me? I’m far older than you, you know.” 

“Are you?” 

“Oh, yes. Hanged in 1653 at the age of twenty-six for being a ‘witch.’ Townspeople said I ate one of their children. Joke was on them, though. The Fae had replaced that child with one of their own. I was merely doing them a favor by eating the faerie babe.” 

“Hm.” He considers her death before offering his own. “Shot in 1864 at the age of thirty-four for deserting. I’d killed a masquerading fae in combat and taken the wishbone to my sickly fiancée. Worked for me but not for her. That’s likely a good thing, though. I don’t think she’d have had what it takes.” 

“Her name?” The question is tentative but genuine. 

“Cecily Montague.” 

“Pretty.” 

“Yes,” he agrees. “She was.” 

Silence settles over them, broken by laughter and music. Percival finally catches sight of Ethan, the man flirting with a delighted young lady. He takes her out on the floor, the couple dancing poorly but clearly enjoying themselves. 

“Had anything good to eat recently?” 

“No. An accountant died last week. The fat provided adequate flavoring, but his liver was horrendous.” 

“Ah, fond of his liquor, was he? I had a barista a few days ago. She tasted like espresso beans.” 

“Fond of coffee?” 

“Not particularly. Cafés are wonderful hunting grounds, though.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Another long stretch of silence, pleasant, relaxed. Miss Grave is the one to break it, turning to him and asking, “What do you say, Mr. Crawford?” 

“I think,” he says, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, enjoying her captivation, “if we are to be partners, you should be me Percival.” 

“Percy?” 

“No.” 

“All right, then. You must call me Florence.” 

“As you wish.” 

They watch Ethan a moment longer, Florence outright snorting when he stumbles over the young lady’s feet. At her raised brow, Percival smiles and releases the chuckle that’s been itching at his throat. 

Tucking her hand in his elbow, Florence tugs him towards the door, and he follows. 

“Our turn to dance, my dear.” 

“I don’t dance, love.” 

“You will with me.” 

And so, arm-in-arm, Percival Crawford and Florence Grave enter the ballroom at last, taking to the floor just as a waltz begins, the gentleman muttering, “Tchaikovsky,” and the woman laughing fondly. The floor clears and the predators dance, hungry eyes scanning the crowd for their next meal, each enjoying their new partner in the hunt.