He blinked his eyes furiously, hugged his notebook again. He lifted his chin—a smaller, less-stubborn version of his mother’s. And he left.
AMBER TROTTED UP THE STAIRS DOUBLE TIME AND waved to me as she went past. I heard her knock, then open a door. “You need to clean up, too,” she told her son. “You don’t have to eat with us—there’s a plate in the microwave—but I don’t want you scuttling around trying to be unseen, either. You know how that irritates your father. So comb your hair, wash your hands and face.”
I stripped off my clothes and pulled on the purple dress. It fit just fine—a little tight in the shoulders and snugger in the hips than I preferred, but when I looked at it in the full-length mirror, it looked just fine. Amber, Char, and I had always been able to trade clothes with each other.
The heels were higher than was comfortable, but as long as we were staying in the house, they should be all right. Char’s feet had been smaller than Amber’s and mine. I brushed out my hair again, then French-braided it. A touch of lipstick and eyeliner, and I was good to go.
I wished it was Adam I was about to eat with instead of Amber, her jerk of a husband, and some important client. It was enough to make me wish I had a plate in the microwave, too.
6
NEITHER OF THE TWO MEN WHO ENTERED THE HOUSE was handsome. The shorter man was slightly balding, with plump hands that had three thick gold rings on them. His suit was off-the-rack, but the rack had been expensive. His eyes were pale, pale blue, almost as pale as Samuel’s wolf eyes. The resemblance made me want to like him. He stood by almost shyly as the other man hugged Amber.
“Hey, sweetie,” Amber’s husband said and, to my surprise, there was honest warmth in his voice. “Thank you for fixing dinner for us on such short notice.”
Corban Wharton was striking rather than good-looking. His nose was too long for his broad face. His eyes were dark and wide-set—and smiling. There was something solid and reassuring about him. He was the kind of person that you’d want beside you in a courtroom. When he looked at me, he frowned briefly, as if trying to place who I was.
“You must be Mercedes Thompson,” he said, holding out his hand.
He had a good handshake, a politician’s handshake—firm and dry.
“Call me Mercy,” I said. “Everyone does.”
He nodded. “Mercy, this is my friend and client Jim Blackwood. Jim—Mercy Thompson, my wife’s friend who is visiting us this week.”
Jim was talking to Amber and took just an instant to turn his attention back to Corban and me.
Jim Blackwood. James Blackwood. How many James Blackwoods were there in Spokane, I wondered in dumb panic. Five or six? But I knew—even though the strong cologne he wore kept me from scenting vampire—I knew I wasn’t going to be lucky.
He’d think I smelled like I had dogs, Bran had assured me. And even if he didn’t, even if he knew what I was—I was just visiting. He couldn’t take offense at that, right?
I knew better. Vampires could take offense at anything they liked.
“Mr. Blackwood,” I greeted him, when he looked away from Amber. Keep it simple. I didn’t know if vampires could sense lies like the wolves could, but I wasn’t going to say, “It’s very good to meet you,” or something similar when I was wishing myself a hundred miles away.
I did my best to keep a social smile on my face while stupid thoughts began to pile up. How was he going to eat with us? Vampires didn’t. Not that I’d ever seen. What were the chances of a vampire’s showing up and it not being some plot of Marsilia’s?
Blackwood hadn’t sounded like a vampire who would do anyone’s bidding.
“Call me Jim,” he told me, just a hint of a British accent shading his voice. “I’m sorry to intrude on your visit, but we had some urgent business this afternoon, and Corban insisted on bringing me home.”
His round face was merry, and his handshake was even more practiced than Corban’s had been. If it weren’t for that little talk I’d had with Bran, I’d never have known what he was.
“Shall we go eat now?” Amber suggested, calm and in control now that the preparations were finished. “It’s ready and not going to get better if it sits around. I’m afraid I kept it simple.”
Simple was pepper steak over rice with salads and fresh rolls followed by homemade apple pie. Somehow, the food disappeared from the vampire’s plate. I never saw him eat or touch his plate—though I kept half an eye on it with morbid fascination. Maybe a little hope. If I’d seen even a single bite go in his mouth, then I’d have believed him to be just what he seemed.
I stayed quiet while the men talked business—mostly contract language and 401(k)s—and I was very happy to stay unnoticed. Amber slipped in a sentence here and there, just enough to keep the conversation going. I heard Chad sneak by the dining room and into the kitchen. After a while he left again.
“Very good meal as always,” the vampire told Amber. “Beautiful, charming—and a fine cook. As I keep telling Corban, I am going to steal you one of these days.” I felt a chill go down my spine—he wasn’t lying—but Corban and Amber just laughed as if it were an old joke. Just then, he looked at me. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Corban tells me you went to school with Amber and you’re from Kennewick. What is it you do there?”
“I fix things,” I mumbled to my plate.
“Things?” He sounded intrigued, just the opposite of what I’d hoped.
“Cars. Meet Mercedes the VW mechanic,” said Amber with a touch of the sharpness that had been her trademark in the old days. “But I bet I can still get her going on the royal families of Europe or the name of Hitler’s German shepherd.” She smiled at James Blackwood, the Monster who kept his territory free of vampires or anything else that might challenge him. A coyote wouldn’t be much of a challenge.
Amber chatted on ... almost nervously. Maybe she thought I’d jump up and tell her husband’s valuable client that they’d brought me over to catch a ghost in the act. She wouldn’t be worried about it if she knew what he was. “You’d have thought with her background—she’s half-Blackfoot ... or is that Blackfeet? ... Anyway, she never studied Native American history, just the European stuff.”
“I don’t like wallowing in tragedy,” I told her, trying desperately to sound uninteresting. “And that’s what Native American history is mostly. But now I just fix cars.”
“Blondi,” said Corban, “was the name of the dog.”
“Someone told me she was named after the comic strip Blondie,” I added. That supposition had led to many arguments among the Nazi trivia buffs I knew. I was hoping the conversation would devolve to Hitler. He was dead and could do no more harm—unlike the dead man in the room.
“You are Native American?” asked the vampire. Had he tried to catch my eyes?
I was very good at keeping my gaze from meeting other people’s unless it was on purpose—a useful skill around the wolves. I looked at his jaw, and said, “Half. My father. I never knew him, though.”
He shook his head. “I’m very sorry.”
“Old news,” I said. Deciding that if Hitler wasn’t going to distract him from me, maybe business would. It always worked with my stepfather. “I take it Corban is keeping your company safely out of the courts?”
“He’s very good at his job,” said the vampire with a pleased and possessive smile. “With him beside me, Blackwood Industries will stay afloat for a few more months, eh?”
Corban gave a hearty, and heartfelt, laugh. “Oh, I think a few months at the least.”