The access code for your chambers has been changed. 1109—your foster daughter’s birthday. Now only you and I know . . . unless you share this information.
—M
I handed the note to Johnny as we climbed up the stairs. He read it, smirking, until, at the upper landing, we discovered brown paper bags sitting atop a large cooler. “The groceries,” I said.
We put the food away. I was happy with the pasta and frozen vegetable selections, but Johnny mumbled about needing more than salt and pepper for spices.
There were still questions from earlier rolling around my brain. “Can I ask you something?”
“Just did.”
I hit his arm with the box of spaghetti. “Beau said he hadn’t seen you in years. Is he not normally around?”
“If things are still like they used to be, he has a shop, but keeps odd hours there. When he’s not at the shop, he’s at the bar.” Johnny headed for the door to get the cooler. “It’s me who hasn’t been around in years.”
Ig had used the words “come back,” hadn’t he? “Why? If Ig’s like a father to you . . .”
“Like most fathers and sons, Ig and I had our words. He’s wanted me to be his second since he met me. He wanted me to learn how it works, to be ready to, one day, take full authority. But I wanted to front a rock band. We butted heads.” He set the cooler down at the end of the bar and took a deep, deep breath. “He’s still adamant that I lead his pack. Only now, I can’t just assume the role through rank, I’d have to kill him for it.”
I was only a little stunned to have this bit of waere culture confirmed. “How does murder fit into the equation? Wolf packs in the wild don’t work that way, do they?”
“No. But people are people.” He transferred lunch meats and cheeses to the refrigerator. “Strength leads. If one will yield, the fight is over. But that doesn’t happen much.”
“And Ig won’t yield because he wants to die.”
Johnny nodded. We finished up the chore in silence.
Then I couldn’t help it anymore and had to ask. “Why hasn’t this Todd killed him for it?”
“Everyone loves Ig. Anyone who killed him for power would be hated by the rest of the pack. Who would want to rule where everyone hated him?”
I leaned on the counter. “But you can wait, then fight Todd?”
“I don’t want it.”
I showed him a soft and patient countenance. He’d have to take his place of power eventually. Just like I would, too.
“What I do want,” he purred, coming toward me, “is a kiss.”
I quickly jumped up to sit on the counter. “Just a kiss? I still feel cheated from last night.”
He unashamedly assessed the height of the counter, put on a thoughtful expression, tapped his chin, and reevaluated the distance before nodding approval.
“Come here.” I put emphasis on the words so they wouldn’t sound like a dog command but like a lover’s suggestion. It won me the boyish smile I adored.
When he neared, I hooked my ankles behind him. “You’re trapped.”
“That’s what you think.” Johnny backed up, hauling me to the edge of the counter. I threw my arms around his neck to keep from falling. His hands cupped my bottom and he asked, “Who’s got who?”
“You win,” I said, punctuating it with a victory kiss. “You have me.”
He put me back on the countertop and changed the victory kiss into the passionate kind, beginning to—
His fingers brushed the bandage on my neck and, immediately, he broke away. “Yeah. Just a kiss.”
“Johnny.” My heels hit the cabinetry with a dull thud. He was heading for the door. “You’re just locking that, right?”
“Nope.” His voice had just a hint of tightness.
“Where are you going?”
“To see if the Beholders will award me any brownie points for helping out.” The door shut behind him.
Sigh.
It made sense to make friends with the vampire’s underlings, build camaraderie and all. But that subtle tension in his voice suggested Johnny had some emotional stuff he intended to sweat out. I still thought my idea was the better one, but that implied tender emotions. He wasn’t able to accept my affection until he had released the angry emotions roiling inside him, and for that, he needed to perform sweaty man work. There weren’t any trees to cut down and chop up for firewood here, but there were plenty of hammers to swing and nails to pound.
Bored and meandering around the room, I pulled my laptop out of my backpack and placed it on the desk. Columnist work.
For over an hour, next week’s column was my center of attention. No more being late. It was number four in the series on waere parents, and my thoughts kept drifting to Ig and Johnny. I’d already roughed out the basic article, but added a new slant: how the waere community can come together like a family to protect the newly—or unknowingly—infected, and thereby protect the community at large. I couldn’t send it to Jimmy Martin, my editor, yet, but I needed to take a break and then read it with fresh eyes, so I made notes for the following week’s column and checked email.
Out of habit I checked the local weather hoping Beverley had remembered her jacket this morning. The link was the Channel 43 page, which also gave me area headlines in bullet points. The line “Vampire Court Growing; Bad News for Local Family” caught my eye. In seconds the video loaded and I hit play.
After the channel’s news intro, the screen filled with footage of Nana standing on our front porch, leaning on the rail. Not surprisingly, a cigarette burned between her fingers. She was in need of a visit to the hair salon. The snow-white beehive had to go. It aged her in the worst way.
Back before Hallowe’en, Beverley had commented that if Nana would dye her hair black and put a buckle belt around her head, she wouldn’t even need a witch hat. That one comment had said more than I could have in weeks of pointing out older celebrities on TV and saying, “That style would be good on you.”
The camera zoomed in on Nana, but the reporter’s voice-over was talking about Menessos moving his haven to Cleveland, saying, “While that’s good news for the local economy, it is bad news for one family in particular.” The station’s logo and DEMETER ALCMEDI appeared underneath her and the reporter went on. “Today you learned that your granddaughter is set to become the Court Witch of the Regional Vampire Executive, Menessos. The Vampire Executive International Network public relations people tell me the position is one of prestige and power, an honor. Conversely, the Witch Elders Council PR department tells me it is a misuse of power and a position of shame. What is your reaction?” The reporter’s microphone shot into frame, in Nana’s face.
“Persephone has always been strong-willed, always made her own decisions. But this one . . . I can’t abide. She’s abandoned me, like her mother did.”
Like my mother? My chest tightened with actual pain.
“She’s gone to gallivant with bloodsuckers, to use her power in service to the undead. Witches should respect the life of their power more than that. She, most of all.”
“‘She most of all’? Why do you say that, Ms. Alcmedi?”
Nana put the cigarette to her lips, then blew smoke into the wind. Her hands were shaking.
“Ms. Alcmedi?” the reporter prompted.
She didn’t acknowledge him, but her voice came small and thin when she spoke. “That Hallowe’en Ball the other night, up at the Covenstead . . . that was her smashing that guitar on stage. That was my Persephone! I taught her better than to squander her gifts on the whims of a gods-be-damned vampire.” They beeped her words out, but I knew what she said. She stubbed out the cigarette on the porch rail and then fixed the reporter with grim resolve. “She better never come back here.” She measured him up and down with a sneer as deep as the Grand Canyon. “Same goes for you.” She shuffled inside and shut the door.