Gabriel opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Maybe we shouldn’t answer it,” I said. “It could be Mama Ginger. She might try to throw remaindered sausage products into the deal.”
“I’m not going to hide from a middle-aged woman who cannot spell,” Gabriel insisted darkly, advancing on the front door. I held him back with a hand against his chest.
“Well, let me answer the door, at least. She’s much less likely to douse me in battery acid.”
It was not a pleasant surprise to find Ophelia Lambert, the scary forever-adolescent head of the local panel for the World Council for Equal Treatment of the Undead, at my front door wearing a man’s shirt and tie with a skirt that might have been originally marketed as a headband.
Ophelia oversaw my failed prosecution for several random killings and fires the previous year and ultimately decided that I was justified in dusting Missy the Realtor with one of her own yard signs. Despite her being reasonably civil to me and electing not to set me on fire, I still found 300 years’ worth of predatory grace wrapped up in a fifteen-year-old’s body to be extremely offputting. On her part, I think she found my convulsive antics charming, but she was afraid to admit it.
“I didn’t do it,” I blurted out after opening the door.
“Do what?” she asked, her brow arched.
“Whatever,” I said. “Whatever big suspicious badness brought you to my door.”
She smirked, her carefully painted coral lips quirking into a bow. “Some people believe that the best way to avoid suspicion is not to declare their innocence before they’re accused of anything.”
“Well, I played it your way last time, and we see where that got me,” I said, waving her inside.
“As I understand it, it got you a very nice triumph settlement,” she said, slinking into the living room and perching on the nearest settee. She nodded in cool greeting to my sire.
“So I keep hearing,” I muttered. “I’ll believe it when I see a black balance on my bank statement.”
Ophelia grinned, her fangs glinting from the low-burning firelight, and offered me a slip of paper. It was my bank statement, and the balance was black. Very, very black. Apparently, Missy’s holdings had been transferred into my checking account. And her holdings were a little more extensive than I’d estimated. But it made sense, considering how many vampires she duped, cheated, and murdered to get their property. Plus, she did charge a healthy commission on her sales.
I’d been raised to think of discussing money as vulgar and rude. So I’ll just say that I would not have to worry about money. Ever. I could live the rest of my unnaturally long life, sitting on a sofa stuffed with twenty-dollar bills, sipping dessert blood, and avoiding any form of effort, and I would still have a little left over to make sure my alma mater named a parking lot after me.
“I guess the council decided that I’ve learned my lesson about being a good little vampire and staying out of trouble?” I said.
“Something like that,” Ophelia said, smirking again.
“The council couldn’t legally hold on to the money any longer without charging me with something?” I suggested.
“Something exactly like that.” Ophelia grinned, delighted by my grasp of the situation. “What do you plan to do with the money?”
“I’m still in the ‘Yay, I won’t lose my house’ phase of processing this information,” I told her. “Give me some time.”
“That’s very normal,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Given the brevity of her skirt, it wasn’t exactly comfortable for any of us. Out of deference to me and continued indifference to Ophelia, Gabriel made a comprehensive study of the window treatments.
“We will be getting back to a long discussion of how exactly you came by my account information, by the way,” I said, avoiding eye contact with her lack of skirt. “Can I ask why you brought me this news in person? This sounds like the sort of thing that should be delivered by registered mail. I thought you were supposed to be a disinterested third party.”
“You interest me,” she said nonchalantly. “You’re very entertaining.”
“Like a dancing monkey,” I muttered.
Ophelia smiled nastily, her bone-white fangs fully extended as she threw her head back and laughed. When she was done, she wiped at her eyes and smirked at Gabriel. “Actually, I needed to see Gabriel as well. As much as I’d love to let you and your charming paramour return to … whatever it was that you were doing, there is something I need to discuss with you.”
Silence.
I looked from the ancient teenager to my sire. Gabriel stared at Ophelia, who returned his silver gaze, unmoved and unimpressed. Clearly, whatever it was, Ophelia was not going to talk about it in front of me. And neither of them seemed willing to ask me to leave. Apparently, that would be rude. Pretending I didn’t exist, however, was totally OK.
“I’ll just go check on … something,” I said, scurrying into the kitchen with as much dignity as possible.
“All the way outside, Jane,” Ophelia called after me.
Well, there goes that.
I would like to say that I stood on the porch and enjoyed the pleasant evening air, contemplated the fullness of the moon and my place in the universe, giving not one thought to what was being said in my own house and how it might affect me. But I crept around to the front door and used my vampire hearing to eavesdrop.
I’m a deeply flawed person.
It should come as no surprise that I am not good with stealth. Ophelia and Gabriel obviously knew I was doing it because they spoke in hushed tones that I strained to hear. All I could make out were furious whispers and Ophelia saying the words “unhinged,” “nightmare,” and “Jeanine.”
There was that name again. Who the hell was Jeanine? I stepped closer to the door, catching the wrong porch board and sending an ear-splitting creak directly into their ears. They were now more than aware that I was standing outside listening. Ophelia snickered and said in a louder voice, “This is your problem to deal with, Gabriel. But if you cannot handle the situation, the council would be happy to step in.”
I could hear Gabriel’s insistent, almost desperate whisper in return, but I could not understand his response. I think he was speaking Chinese. I could only speak bad high-school Spanish. Ophelia, clearly exasperated at his pretense, responded with a rather impressive tirade that I could not understand. But then again, everything sounds sort of angry in Mandarin.
Realizing that further listening was pointless, I spent the next few minutes tossing a beloved but much-abused tennis ball to Fitz. He was in hyper-doggie heaven, running at me and making playful nips at my jeans. I heard the front door open and watched with dread as the ecstatic “New person!” expression flashed in Fitz’s eyes. I could hear myself yelling “Nooooo!” in slow motion as Fitz ran at Ophelia. My brain had just enough time to calculate exactly how much time I would be spending in the council clink if Fitz ruined one of Ophelia’s indecently expensive outfits or, worse yet, if Ophelia would leave Fitz with all of his appendages intact.
Instead of the canine carnage I foresaw, I was shocked as Ophelia smiled warmly at my loping mutt. She held up one finger and said something soft in German. Fitz skidded to a halt directly in front of her and plopped obediently on his butt. She smiled again and gave another command. Fitz held up his paw, and she deigned to shake it, scratching him behind the ears with an expression of … well, it was the first genuine expression I’d ever seen on Ophelia’s face, so I can only describe it as “young.” For a moment, the centuries fell away, and she was just a beautiful girl standing on my lawn, petting my dog.
I’m pretty sure my jaw was resting on my chest, because when Ophelia looked up at me, all traces of the young human faded like smoke. Her face hardened into more familiar lines. She narrowed her eyes at me. I raised my hands in defense.
“I didn’t see a thing,” I promised her.
She arched her eyebrow, gave Fitz one last pat on the head, but said nothing. Gabriel came out the front door, leaning against the porch post as Ophelia made her way toward her sporty red Corvette. I’m sure the act of driving that down Main Street made her an object of obsession and envy, but frankly, I found it rather obvious in terms of jail-bait appeal.
Ophelia opened the door, tilted her head, and considered me for a moment, her piercing blue eyes glowing at me through the shadows. “I am very glad that Missy’s money has landed in your hands. I think you’re going to do far more fascinating things with it than some tawdry housing development.”
“So, now isn’t the time to tell you about the Dracula theme park I have planned for the back fifty acres?” I asked brightly. Gabriel snickered but covered it by a hearty clearing of the throat.
“For both of our sakes, I’m going to assume that was a joke,” she muttered, climbing into her car and giving us one last flash of thighs.
Ophelia departed, leaving my head spinning with the possibilities of Missy’s money. I would never have to worry about paying the property taxes. I would be able to keep the house up for centuries to come. The Early family legacy, such as it was, was secure.
I could travel. I could finally see all of the places I’d dreamed of seeing all my life. Edinburgh. Tahiti. Beijing. Granted, I would see them at night, but still, I could go. I would just have to talk to Gabriel about safety precautions and passport issues for the undead.
I could adopt one of those orphans on TV who make you feel so guilty. Hell, I could adopt a whole family. I would donate a catalogue full of children’s and young adult books to the library. I could secure funding for Half-Moon Hollow High School’s computer lab. (The students were still using Commodores.)
I would have to do all of this anonymously. You wouldn’t believe how quickly relatives come out of the woodwork when money comes into play. Lottery wins bring out kin you never knew existed, and they all have inventions to invest in, trailer payments to be made. My cousin Glory (who was, sadly, male) won a $10,000 scratch-off once, and within twelve hours, our great-uncle Stuart had moved his camper onto Glory’s driveway.
Of course, if my family found out I had money, I’m pretty sure I would die in a mysterious window-treatment accident, and Jenny would immediately claim it as my next of kin. And given my last couple of months, death by Venetian blinds was becoming more likely.
Note to self: Write a will. Leave everything to Zeb.
I squealed and hopped into Gabriel’s arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. Fortunately, he did not drop me. “You are now dating a very well-off woman. And I know it would be against your gentlemanly principles to ask just how well off. And it’s even further against my own good character to tell you. But let me put it this way, if you ever run into financial trouble, you don’t have to worry.”
“That’s sweet but unnecessary,” he said, pulling me against him.
“Maybe I’ll let you be my cabana boy.” I sighed.
“I will not dignify that with a response.”
He chuckled but held me to his chest with a sort of quiet desperation, pulling me so close that breathing would have been an issue if I needed oxygen. Obviously, his conversation with Ophelia had upset him more than he was letting on. Was this Jeanine an old girlfriend? A current girlfriend? What sort of “situation” would require the council to step in and interfere?
As Gabriel clung to me, I stroked his hair, knowing that no matter what I said or asked, it wouldn’t make either of us feel better. So I let him hold me and pretended that everything was fine. It was the loneliest I’d ever felt in his presence.
11
Over the past 100 years, female weres have embraced certain human mating rituals. Werewolf males who neglect to present their mates with meat or floral offerings on a birthday or anniversary can expect to sleep in an actual doghouse.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
I was a little nervous about what vampires get each other for Valentine’s Day, because, as far as I knew, it could involve actual hearts.
So, when I found a white box on my doorstep, tied with a huge red bow, I went into full-on spastic girlie-girlie mode. There was squealing. A lot of squealing. For just a minute, the inside of my head was like a living Lisa Frank poster.
The contents were … unexpected. For one thing, I didn’t know whether Gabriel was actually going to be in town on Valentine’s Day. And second, I’m usually a white cotton panties kind of girl, occasionally a black cotton panties kind of girl. But if Gabriel was game for the red satin bustier thing, I could give it a try.
Yes, giving your girlfriend naughty lingerie for Valentine’s Day is tired and cliché, and I’d spent years railing against the commercialism and crassness of a holiday designed by corporate America to compel men to buy their way into a lady’s affections and make single women feel pathetic and alone. Of course, at the time, I was pathetic and alone, so pardon me for taking the opportunity to feel smug for a day.
Gabriel’s gift was a modern twist on the classic Victorian corset, buttery soft satin in a perfect Valentine’s red, stretched over whalebone. It was some sort of miracle underwear, cinching my waist into a tiny point and giving me anatomically improbable cleavage, all without cracking my ribs. The hem of the bustier just barely skirted a pair of satin briefs, which were connected to a pair of lacy black stockings with the thinnest of red silk ties. I struck a languorous pose in the mirror and—despite looking pretty damned hot, if I do say so myself—felt a little ridiculous. I looked like a cover model for the romance paperbacks my mother read. All I needed was a title like The Tempestuous Schoolmarm spelled out over my head in an overcurlicued font.
