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Regarding the Hart family.
That isn’t their real name, of course. They are a family singularly by choice, not by blood or by law; they don’t have the same family name. But they chose this one, because it felt… right. It suits them. Hearts drained and cut and cooked and savored with wine, hearts beating and bloody and stuttering still in closed jaws, hearts like clockwork ticking in mechanical chests, hearts broken and full of viscera and fear, hearts held in claws like gilded cages, because that is the easiest way for monsters to love.
Mr. Hart, the taller one, with lighter hair and darker eyes, is by all accounts friendly. A good neighbor, always hosting dinners, showing off his talent in the kitchen.
What a pity Daniela couldn’t join us tonight, he says, raising a fork to his lips, and across the table his husband gives him a look.
I haven’t seen her anywhere since Thursday, says a neighbor, and her knife slides so easily through the fresh and tender meat on her plate. It’s been prepared with herbs, savory, earthy-- something to balance the acidity of fear held within the flesh.
It’s not like her to miss one of your parties, offers another, jovial, pausing for a moment to chew. I think she must have come down with something.
Must have, says Mr. Hart, the shorter one, with darker hair and lighter eyes. He speaks softly, and their guests mistake it for shyness. Across the table, his husband smiles, and takes another bite.
In each of their heads, some of the dinner guests harbor fears they dare not voice, not here and not anywhere and not ever, because that would be so terribly rude -- though they can’t say why the thought sinks so much dread into their hearts.
Miss Bonner notices, with growing horror, a familiar shape. She uses her knife to scrape herbs and braize off her cut of the meat, and bites back a cry when true to her initial impression, it bears a small birthmark she’s seen often: whenever Daniela ever raised an arm to wave at her, in fact. Miss Bonner can feel the blood rush from her face, but she doesn’t dare say a word. Not with their host’s eyes on her, not with the carving knife on the platter in front of him. She looks at him, swallowing bile, realizing there’s meat stuck between her teeth, she’d just been thinking minutes ago that this was the most delicious meal she’s had in ages-- Mr. Hart winks at her, and she takes a bite of a steamed baby carrot, just a carrot -- except it splits, bloody, when she bites down, her teeth meet bone in the center, and she swallows the flesh along with the disgusted cry that threatens to escape her.
Mrs. Nguyen’s fingers shake, and she tries not to let them, tries to tell herself she’s being ridiculous. Miss Abbie Hart, sitting next to her, is a normal teenaged girl , of course, so Mrs. Nguyen must have imagined the wooden stiffness of her movements when she answered the door, the glassy way her eyes seem to have nothing behind them, the way her pretty makeup can’t quite hide the raised line of scar tissue around the edges of her face, and across her throat, and around her wrists-- the seams of a doll sewn together with care.
Mr. Fletcher, who’s been scared of dogs since an unfortunate incident in his youth, pretends his heart isn’t beating hard enough in his chest to feel like a drum, as the small hound under the table rests its head on top of his shoe. He’s harmless, of course, Mr. Hart assured him with a laugh, at the start of the night, when the beast had yipped and snapped at Mr. Fletcher like it knew he was frightened, like it knew he was prey, he’d never hurt a fly-- but Mr. Fletcher can feel the low growl rumbling in the creature’s throat, sharp incisors scant centimeters from his ankle, and he can see the knowing smile the shorter Mr. Hart gives him. It’s all teeth.
Abbie, why don’t you go fetch dessert? the taller Mr. Hart suggests.
Sure, the girl says, with an accent that matches neither of her parents’. She stands up from the table, sweeps into the next room with the grace of a dancer, and only Mrs. Nguyen sees the dripping trail of blood she leaves behind.
How’s your mother? the less sociable Mr. Hart asks Mr. Jameson, trying to revive the dying conversation.
Better! Mr. Jameson lies, as is expected of him in such a setting. Much better recently, thank you. She’ll be pleased to hear you asked.
Glad to hear it. The more cordial Mr. Hart smiles.
Their daughter comes back in from the kitchen, then, carrying dessert and wearing a smile, and only her fathers (and Mrs. Nguyen) know it is not her own. She has been marked by their influence, but in stepping into herself and out of herself, she found a path of her own. When your skin fits so uncomfortably, after all, isn’t the easiest thing to shed it?
This looks lovely, my dear, Mr. Hart says. The other Mr. Hart bypasses judgement until he’s sunken his teeth into the dense, blood-dark cake, and then he hums in casual agreement.
As he reaches for the small dessert plate he’s handed across the table, Mr. Fletcher moves his leg-- just a bit, just a smidge, but it’s enough to anger the dog. It latches on without hesitation, without a sound, teeth sinking into tendons, and the shorter Mr. Hart hums again, sounding pleased, even as Mr. Fletcher spasms with pain, drops the plate onto the table.
Abbie tilts her head much too far to the side, concern written plain and false across her features.
Are you alright? she asks. Her fathers say nothing, only stare as Mr. Fletcher forces himself to nod.
Sorry, he says, unable to stand, unable to push away from the table, even after the hound lets go, blood pooling in Mr. Fletcher’s leather dress shoe. So sorry. L-let me help clean this up.
Don’t worry, the taller Mr. Hart says, laughter in his tone. We’ll handle it after the party.
His wording makes everyone shiver, even the ones who don’t feel any fear yet, the ones who haven’t cottoned on, still smiling, still chatting, still chewing. Miss Bonner inhales, glances at Mr. Fletcher with a warning in her eyes, as he forces a smile and accepts the second plate of cake he’s given. He doesn’t look in her direction, and she doesn’t dare moving or, God forbid, speaking to catch his attention.
No one stays long, once dessert is finished. They wouldn’t want to impose, of course. Mr. Fletcher politely pretends not to be limping, when he leaves. Miss Bonner laughs nervously, hoping her nod doesn’t look too frantic, when asked if she enjoyed the meal. She agrees with everyone else when the dark-eyed Mr. Hart insists that they just must come back soon. Mrs. Nguyen shakes their hosts’ hands goodbye, and she tries to hide her shudder when Abbie’s skin slides under her grip, not perfectly tailored to whatever lies beneath.
The door shuts behind each and every dinner guest, and the Harts are left alone in the home that is, for now, theirs.
I’d count that as a success, says Mr. Hart, the shorter one, with darker hair and lighter eyes. He grins at his own joke, showing off sharp teeth. His husband breathes out in subtle laughter.
You’ve already chosen your next Hunt, then? he asks, ever eager for the delectable, terrified treats his beloved brings him, already looking forward to every step that will take the next bloodied corpse and elevate it to something beautiful, a recipe worth a dinner party.
Fletcher, I think, the other says, his American accent making the syllables harsher. The dogs will have fun with him.
The dog at his feet lolls its bloodied tongue out, an implicit agreement.
When do we have to move again? asks the girl who is and is not Abbie Hart, who has had other names before and will have more yet.
Soon, say her fathers. Soon, because three fears in one house is something bordering on balance and something boarding on madness and fully within the borders of ill-advised. Soon, because they cannot stay in one place too long while people are looking for them, humans and monsters alike, and they cannot will not be caught, cannot will not risk the safety of the strange brood they make. Soon, because the fear here will dry up, as it always does, and they will still be keen and empty and wanting and hungry.
Soon.
But not yet.