“Thank you. I swear I’ll prove worthy of your trust. As Spade said, Bones would have expected no less. Mencheres?”
He tilted his head. “Yes?”
“What’s next?”
“We’ll hold an assembly in the near future for those under Bones’s line to formally acknowledge you. After that, the focus is the same. We are at war.”
“Why in the near future? Is there a mandatory waiting period?”
Mencheres wrinkled his forehead. “No, but in light of this sudden, tragic event, you have time—”
“Bullshit. I’m not going to get any cheerier, so let’s get this out of the way. Bones’s people will be freaking out with him dead, and the longer they’re in limbo, the stronger Patra gets. What’s the soonest this thing can be arranged?”
Mencheres looked taken aback. I ignored that and tapped my foot for punctuation.
“Well?”
“Tomorrow night. I will notify the proper leaders.”
“Tomorrow night, then.”
The question was, what in the name of God was I supposed to do with myself until then?
After several comments that I hadn’t slept, I went upstairs to one of the bedrooms just to shut everyone up. But as soon as I stretched out on the bed and felt the gaping emptiness next to me, I gave up and took a bath instead. For two hours I sat in the tub, staring at nothing.
Mencheres was in the doorway when I came out of the bathroom. “I have something for you,” he said, and held out a small square box of carved antique wood.
“What is it?”
“Bones gave this to me several months ago to hold for you, in case anything happened to him.”
“Set it on the bed.” My voice was a rasp. I was afraid to take it, because there was a trembling in my hands that hadn’t been there before. “And leave.”
He did as I asked, and I was alone in the room with the box. It took me over twenty minutes before I had the courage to open it, and then I bit back a cry.
Pressed into the lining of the box’s lid were pictures. The first was of the two of us last summer. Bones and I were on our swinging porch chair, his face in profile as he whispered something to me. Whatever it was, I was smiling.
The second photo was of me naked on a very tousled bed, clutching a pillow while lying on my side. My mouth was open, and I was sleeping with a sensual, lethargic expression on my face. One breast was visible while the other peeked out from the covers, as did the red curls between my legs. Somewhat embarrassed, of all things, I put it down and then noticed the writing on the back.
I took this one morning. You looked so lovely I couldn’t resist. It makes me smile even now to imagine you blushing as you see it.
A strangled noise emerged from my throat at his familiar, elegant scrawl. I couldn’t do this. It hurt so much I started to breathe in ragged, irregular gasps.
There was a folded note lying on top of whatever other items were in this box, with the words My Beloved Wife written on it.
Instantly the letters blurred, because my eyes welled with tears that almost burned to get out.
Something in me knew if I read what was in that note, my delicate emotional control would disintegrate and I’d go insane. I shut the box and slid it under the bed. Busy, I had to keep busy. With warped resolve I dressed in the first pair of pants and top I found, not even seeing if they matched, and nearly ran out of the room.
Doc picked his head up as I entered the basement. He’d been twirling his two six-shooter guns. Most vampires were into knives, swords, or other archaic weapons, but Doc had a fixation for guns. He was never without them.
“Reaper,” he acknowledged me.
“How old are you?”
If he was surprised by my sudden question, he didn’t show it. Although I’d been around Doc off and on for a week, we hadn’t spoken at length.
“A hundred and sixty, living years included.” He had a pleasant Southern drawl that made each word sound more polite. Briefly I wondered if his colors had been blue or gray.
He held out one of his guns. “Want to give her a whirl?”
I’d run as if chased about forty miles in the woods, done two hours of solitary swordplay and more thinking than could ever be good for me. Guns? Why not?
“Your guns are female?” Asked as I took the piece. It required cocking to load. Mine were semi-automatic or fully, depending on what the situation warranted.
“Because, Cat, it’s the feminine persuasion that’s always the deadliest.”
Dark humor. Under other circumstances, I could appreciate that. I twirled the gun on my fingers, cocking and aiming it in a blur of motion. Knives might be my favorite weapon, but that didn’t mean I was an amateur with firearms.
“Very good,” he noted. “That wall has only dirt on the other side of it. How’s your shooting?”
In reply I unloaded the barrel into the designated area in a succession of six shots that echoed like only one. Doc smiled at the triangle outlined in holes. I didn’t return it, not knowing if my face could form that expression anymore.