1933

From, Blood’s History: Thieves

I have no love for thieves. My family and I worked too hard over generations for what we have, and we do not willingly allow it to be taken from us.

Sometimes, it would have been for the best had the thief left us alone.

In 1933, an unknown young man stopped at my home to beg a cup of coffee and a tank of gas. We were in the grips of the depression, and my heart is always in the best of places, although at times it should not be.

I gave the man his gas and invited him in for coffee. While I prepared it, he waited for me in the parlor. A place where I believed he could do little harm. I was mistaken.

We drank our coffee, added a healthy drop of brandy to cut the chill out of the May air, and then made our goodbyes.

It took me three hours to discover the theft of a book. A slim volume of war notes given to me at the close of the Great War.

I wanted them back.

There are creatures who can travel the darkness, leaping from shadow to shadow. I am friends with many of them, and even more, owe me favors.

One found this young man, crossing a bridge in his car. My book was on the seat beside him.

Now, as I write this, my book is on the desk beside me.

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