“I’d keep chatting, but that has made me hungry,” he says with a wink before stepping away and walking back through the bedroom.
I step into the hall with a retort on the tip of my tongue, when I see Emilio with a very angry Mr. Muffins in a cat carrier. Emilio’s sleeve is torn and his hair mussed. I’ve never seen it mussed before.
“Take your cat,” he says, thrusting the crate into my hands. “I suspect it is possessed.”
He goes into my room with the other bag, a couple of the neckers trail behind him carrying the rest of my things.
I follow, but can’t help a glance back. Reilly is waiting at the end of the hall. He winks and smiles at me, cheeks dimpled and not looking nearly guilty enough.
“I do not have enough potions to deal with this,” I whisper under my breath as I hurry into my room.
I lean in and inspect my face in the mirror. Thanks to the potions I took before bed, and the healing I did on myself, the bruising and scrapes on my face are mostly gone. The shower washed away the last of the concealing potion on my hands. The welts are still red and tender.
Emilio brought all my medicinal potions to my room last night. I grab the salve and work it into my hands and up my arms. The welts don’t fade at all. I’m starting to worry they’re going to scar. Perhaps because they were made by magic they won’t heal like a regular burn. I need to try to brew a stronger version of this salve, or maybe something new.
I press my palm to a welt near my elbow and prod it with my healing magic, then yelp as it shocks me. My palm is unmarked, but it feels warm and achy. I won’t try that again anytime soon. I really need to figure out what I’ve done to myself, and soon.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Just a minute!” I shout as I hurry back to the bathroom to pull on my clothes. I’m still sticky from the shower, but I can’t let anyone see these welts. It’s bad enough Patrick saw them.
Clothes finally on, I hurry to the door and crack it. Lydia is standing in the hallway in a crisp black suit, her hair pulled up into a chignon. I pull the door completely open and step aside to let her in. Mr. Muffins runs out as she walks inside. I hope she pees on Reilly’s pillow or something.
“I’m glad you’re up,” Lydia says briskly. “Special Agents Brunson and Hawking will be here soon to take your statement.”
“I don’t have to go to the police station this time?” I ask as I walk back to the bathroom to finish getting ready.
“No, I insisted they come to you this time,” Lydia says. She tugs the comforter straight, then perches on the end of the bed since there is nowhere else to sit.
“Are they still assuming the NWR is behind this?” I ask as I brush a little mascara on my eyelashes. It makes me look a little more awake.
“Yes and no.” Lydia walks over to stand in the doorway. “Did Reilly tell you about the second bomb?”
I nod and turn to face her, leaning against the bathroom counter as I braid my hair.
“They have to investigate the possibility the NWR is, in fact, responsible. But the second bomb they found is making the agents question that.”
“Reilly said Maybelle is lying about not knowing who might want to hurt her.” I roll my eyes, still irritated about that.
“Did he say why?” Lydia asks, forehead furrowed. “She seemed adamant about finding out who had planted the bombs. She insisted the police provide extra security at the cafe as well.”
“Apparently her heartbeat gave her away,” I scoff. “I think he’s full of shit.”
“It is strange though, for her to be the target,” Lydia says thoughtfully. “She has to be hiding something. There’s no way she wouldn’t realize it if someone hated her enough to set bombs at two of her businesses.”
“You’d think,” I agree with a sigh. I don’t want Reilly to be right. “I’m going to try to call her again.”
“Alright,” Lydia says looking at her watch. “Make it quick, I think they’re already here.”
I grab my cell off the dresser and dial Maybelle’s number. The phone rings and rings, and goes to voicemail again. I end the call and shrug, but I’m getting concerned. It’s not like her to ignore me like this. A small part of me is just hurt that she hasn’t checked in on me at all. I did almost die.
“Voicemail again.”
“After the funeral, I can drive you into town to see her in person. I’m sure she’s just caught up with the fallout, probably dealing with insurance,” Lydia offers.
“Probably,” I agree, shoving my phone in my pocket. “Let’s go get this over with.”
The house is strangely quiet with all the vampires, and most of the neckers, asleep. Zachary’s voice drifts upstairs, then Leslie’s. It seems like she takes over Emilio’s job during the day.
I follow Lydia down the stairs. Zachary and his partner are waiting in the foyer. Hawking looks up first, her nose twitching. Zachary doesn’t look at me.
“Sorry to keep you two waiting,” Lydia says, holding out her hand to Hawking first, then to Zachary.
“No problem at all, Leslie here promised us sandwiches for our troubles,” Hawking says with a wide smile, hands on her hips.
She’s wearing the usual JHAPI uniform, black slacks and jacket over a white button-down shirt. Her belt buckle draws my eye though. I stare for a moment before it makes sense. It’s a pineapple turned sideways. What an odd choice.
“We can sit in the dining room then.” Lydia leads the way. I wave Zachary and Hawking ahead of me and trail after them. Zachary’s shoulders are tense as he glances back at me. I look at him impassively even though my stomach is twisting and palms are sweating.
Lydia sits at the head of the table. Hawking takes the chair to her right, and Zachary sits down next to her so I’m forced to walk behind Lydia to sit on the other side of the table.
“Alright,” Hawking says, pulling out a notepad and a recorder. “Go ahead and start at the beginning when you got into town.”
She looks at me expectantly. I take a deep breath and think back to that afternoon.
“I got some pie at Maybelle’s, spoke to Georgia. She wanted me to heal one of her people,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning back in the chair.
“Georgia?” Hawking asks. “She is the Alpha of the local werewolf pack, correct?”
“Yes.”
Hawking motions for me to continue.
“I agreed to heal her packmate, but she still had a couple of errands to run, so I decided to go check on the progress of the apothecary. I don’t really remember what happened next,” I say with a shrug. “I just remember smoke and sirens and then I woke up in the hospital.”
Hawking nods, biting the end of her pen. “Did you see anyone you didn’t recognize at Maybelle’s Cafe? Anyone acting nervous?”
“No, but I wasn’t really paying attention.” I shrug.
“Has anyone sent you threats?”
“Not that I know of. I’m fairly certain Martinez wants me dead, but that’s not exactly new information.”
She scratches down a few notes. Zachary hasn’t said a word since we got in here. He has his notepad out as well, but he hasn’t written anything down. He has been glaring at me for the past five minutes though.
Hawking glances at him too and narrows her eyes at him. “Brunson, do you have any other questions?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Alright,” she says, tapping her pen against the table once. “I guess we’re done then.”
She pushes her chair back and stands, Zachary follows suit.
“I had a question before you leave actually,” I say, standing as well. “Do either of you think this was the NWR?”
“We can’t discuss an ongoing—“ Zachary begins.
“No,” Hawking interrupts. Zachary turns his glare on her, but she ignores him. “I don’t, and I intend to find out who is actually behind it.”
“Any leads on who it is?” I ask, leaning forward. I’m glad Hawking is willing to talk to me at
least.
“Nothing solid. There’s a suspicious person on the security camera, a man with a long white beard. Maybelle Williams is cooperating, but somehow being completely useless as well. You know her personally, right?”
“Yes,” I nod.
“If you can, get her to be honest with us. We can’t help her if she’s hiding things from us,” Hawking says, tapping her pen against her leg, agitated.
“I’ll do what I can,” I say, disquiet stirring in my gut. Everyone is saying the same thing, and Maybelle isn’t acting like herself.
Hawking nods. “We’ll be in touch.”
Lydia and I follow them out of the room. Brunson pauses just outside of the doorway. Hawking gives him an odd look, then rolls her eyes and continues on. Lydia follows her.
Brunson grabs my elbow as I go to walk past him as well, “Can I have a word?”
Lydia and Hawking are deep in conversation now, so I nod and lead him to the front living room. I let him shut the door behind us and plop down in one of the chairs.
“Why is there blood on the carpet?” He asks, staring at the spot where David had been lying the day before.
“Vampires,” I shrug. Brunson looks between me and spot, clearly concerned, then shakes his head and leans back against the wall.
“Did you ask me to talk so you could just stare at me?” I ask. I don’t want to sit in here with him longer than I have to and he doesn’t seem willing to start whatever conversation it is that he wants to have.
Zachary rubs both hands over his face, then finally looks at me. “Why did you leave?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Why can’t he just hate me and avoid me like a normal person?
“Does it even matter? I left. You hate me. Debra probably hated me. It’s done.”
He groans in frustration. “Maybe I just want to know! You owe me that much.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees and press the palms of my hands into my eyes. “Your dad promised to help me find my mom. He did that, and then he—”
I bite off the word, unsure how to continue. The paranoia that followed and the worry over the way his tone with me had changed after he had found the information is hard to explain.
“He changed. You didn’t see it, but he did. He avoided talking about my mother’s disappearance, and her death, after he found her. He got angry with me when I said I wanted to find out who had killed her, said I needed to let it go. Which was the opposite of what he said when he took me in. I saw fear in his eyes, Zachary,” I say, a lump forming in my throat. “Then those cops came to the door, and he was dead. I just assumed it was connected. It wasn’t logical, and I didn’t wait to find out the truth. I couldn’t face either of you while I thought I was somehow responsible for his death.”
“It wasn’t—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “Six months after he died I got drunk and worked up the courage to look at the cause of death. A drunk driver hit him when he stopped to help someone change their tire.”
I remember the pictures of Debra and Zachary standing by his casket, overwrought with grief. The lines of men in uniform. The deep, wrenching realization of how much I had failed them. I’m tired and I want Zachary to leave, but instead, he walks over to the chair across from me and sits down.
“A stupid, pointless accident killed the best man I’ve ever known. And I abandoned his family because I was selfish and self-obsessed. Because I couldn’t watch you grieve while I was still grieving myself,” I say, my voice cracking on the end.
My lower lip trembles and I dig my nails into my palm to distract myself. I refuse to cry. Again. I stand abruptly. This will have to be enough for whatever closure Zachary wants.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Zachary says, eyes tired, face locked in a frown.
“Good,” I say, firmly. “Don’t.”
I walk out of the room before he can reply.
12
It’s three a.m. and I can’t sleep. The funeral is in five hours and I’m going to look like the undead. I rub the heel of my hand across my eyes. Every time I try to go back to sleep, all I can see is my mother’s face. I didn’t even have this problem right after she disappeared. I can also hear the vampires in the hallway, whispering and laughing about whatever it is they gossip about. Between all that and dread for the funeral tomorrow, well today, sleep has been elusive.
Mr. Muffins is currently kneading my stomach, her claws pricking through the blankets. I sit up, dislodging her, and pick her up as I slide out of bed.
“How about we both go get a snack?” I ask.
Mr. Muffins meows and licks my arm. I take it as an affirmative. I’m wearing an old, worn t-shirt and baggy sleep pants with tacos all over them, hopefully, I can avoid running into too many people on my way to the kitchen.
I open my door and check the hallway, but it’s empty. I pull the bedroom door shut behind me and readjust Mr. Muffins, smoothing down her fur.
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear a disgustingly flirtatious squeal from the room I’m about to pass, and I can’t help myself. I edge toward the door and peek inside. I shouldn’t have.
Reilly is with a different girl tonight, a redhead with long, straight hair. She’s perched on his lap with her head thrown back in laughter and her arms wrapped around his neck. She whispers something to him as he trails a finger up the side of her neck. I should look away, but a sick curiosity keeps my eyes glued to the spectacle in front of me.
He smooths a hand across her cheek and she quiets, her head tilting to the side with a breathy moan. She has got to be faking it, no one is that excited before anything is even happening. He leans in slowly, flicking out his fangs at the last moment. They sink in slowly and she sighs like it feels good, her back arching. Reilly’s eyes slip shut as he sucks. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. Warmth pools in my stomach and I’m not sure if I’m jealous of the girl, or if I want to be the one sucking her dry. I can almost taste Javier’s blood in my mouth. It had made me so hungry.
Mr. Muffins meows loudly, clearly ready for her snack, and Reilly’s eyes open. He doesn’t stop feeding and I’m frozen to the spot, watching him watching me. He pulls away slightly, licking the puncture points as his arms tighten around the girl and she moans. I finally find my feet and hurry away.
“You are such a bitch,” I mutter to Mr. Muffins as I jog down the stairs. Reilly is guaranteed to give me shit for that. I am such an idiot.
A girl that I’ve seen around the house often passes me on the stairs, her eyes flicking between my pants and sleep-rumpled hair. I frown at her, but she doesn’t comment.
Thankfully, the kitchen is empty. Then again, it’s almost always empty. I don’t think the neckers cook very often.
I drop Mr. Muffins on the floor and dig through the cabinets for a bowl. All the dishes are slightly fancy, but I guess Mr. Muffins does deserve the best.
I grab a white and gold china bowl and set it on the ground as Mr. Muffins winds between my legs, purring like a lawnmower.
“You’re shameless,” I say as I grab the milk from the fridge.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Patrick asks, startling me. The jug of milk almost slips through my fingers.
“You need lessons on how to make a sound when you walk so you can stop sneaking up on me,” I say as I crouch down and pour the milk into the bowl.
“Where would be the fun in that?” Patrick asks, rolling his shoulders. His eyes are bright, his hair is mussed, and he’s practically bouncing on his toes.
“How much did you eat?” I ask, raising a brow.
“So much,” Patrick grins. “Reilly suggested I drink more than I usually would, just for the next couple of weeks.”
I shake my head, though I can’t help but smile. “You’re going to be blood-drunk for a week? God help us all.”
“Speaking of drunk, Emilio put tequila in the pantry for you.”
“He did?” I ask, perking up and heading straight for the pantry, pulling t
he door open and scanning the shelves. “Where is it?”
Patrick reaches around me and snags it off the top shelf. “You’re worse with alcohol than your cat is with her treats.”
“I am not!” I object as I unscrew the bottle and take a swig. It burns, but Emilio got some top notch stuff, so it’s also smooth as tequila can get.
A couple of neckers walk by the kitchen, whispering when they see us.
“Let’s go sit outside,” I say, already walking toward the back door. Patrick jogs after me.
We walk out into the backyard, past the weird little garden of night blooming plants, and into the maze of hedges. My breath puffs out in little clouds as we walk.
I take another swig, choosing random directions until I think I might actually be lost. The tequila already has my head feeling fuzzy.
“You sure you should be drinking that much before the funeral?”
I stop and throw a glare over my shoulder. “I think I can decide for myself, thanks.”
Patrick raises his hands in front of his chest. “Just making sure.”
“You normally encourage bad behavior and decisions. Who even are you?” I plop down on the ground, leaning back against the hedge. The leaves are prickly and cold. I shiver and take another drink to warm up.
“I don’t even know anymore,” Patrick says sitting down beside me and resting his head on my shoulder. He looks at the bottle enviously. “I wish I could drink tequila still.”
“Ugh, remind me to never become a vampire. If I couldn’t have tequila I’d rather be true dead than undead and immortal.”
Patrick snorts.
We sit quietly for a few minutes. I stare up at the sky, spinning the bottle listlessly between my fingers.
“Did I ever tell you why I chose to take the bite?” Patrick asks, picking at the seam of his jeans.
“No.” I set the bottle down between my legs. “Why did you?”
“I was sick all the time. Not anything serious, just a cold that would always turn into bronchitis, and sometimes pneumonia. Or the flu. Or whatever might be going around.” He shrugs and readjusts his head on my shoulder. “I was just sick and weak and useless.”
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