by J. F. Lewis
“Sort of.” She smiled. “It was a gift certificate good for him to redo the interior of the Pollux when you rebuild it.”
“That’s awful nice of him.” He’d done the courtyard outside Lady Gabriella’s; there was no telling what he could do for the Pollux.
“He also sent a note.” She handed it over the seat to me and I took my hands off the wheel, let Fang drive himself.
It read:
My Dearest Eric,
I hope this missive finds you well. Thank you ever so much for all the fun you’ve provided me over the last few months. For that I feel I owe you many thanks as well as the following warning: I’ve bet against you in Paris.
Happy Holidays,
Winter
Months? That meant Winter had already been betting on me when I ran up against William and the other werewolves out at Orchard Lake.
Well, Merry Christmas to you, too, you son of a bitch. Fine, you know what, let him bring it. Let them all bring it. Because when it comes right down to it, I’m a badass vampire and I can take it.
