Vlad was sitting at the dining table when I woke up the following morning. His laptop was open in front of him, casting the usual silvery glow over his pale skin. He had his chin in one hand and an American Red Cross mug in the other. The blood inside his mug had stained his lips a heady red.
“Morning,” I said as I plodded past.
“Hey. I made coffee.”
I stopped. I lived with two vampires and was hiding a werewolf in my Guardian’s apartment; few things stunned me in this life. Vlad, doing something for someone else—especially when that someone was little ol’ mortal me—truly stunned me.
“You did? Why?”
He kept his eyes focused on his laptop. “Auntie Nina said you had a pretty rough night.” He brought his mug to his lips, his eyes flicking up at me. They went round and saucer-wide. “Whoa.”
My hand flew to the short, shooting strands on my left side and I felt my face fall. “I’m assuming that expression means coffee won’t make this look any better.”
“Maybe if I’d made waffles, too.”
“Thanks, Vlad.”
He turned around in his chair as I went to the kitchen and poured myself my usual—half coffee, half sugar—and rooted around for a suitable breakfast.
“Hey, Soph?”
I swung around, coffee/sugar in one hand, Pop-Tart held between my teeth. “Huh?”
“Nina said you got stabbed the day before yesterday.”
My heart swelled. Vlad cares about me!
“I did, but just in the leg.” I pulled up my pajama pants to show off my neon-green bandage. “So it hurt, but I’m going to be fine. Totally not a big deal.” I offered him my most motherly smile. “Sorry to have worried you.”
“You didn’t. I was going to say you got stabbed and”—he gestured toward my head—“that. I was just wondering why you care.”
“Why I care?” I pulled out a paper towel, dropped my breakfast on it, and sat down next to Vlad. “What are you talking about?”
“These murders. A couple of people you don’t even know. A vampire that you never even spoke to. I mean, why do you risk”—he pointed to my shorn side—“everything—your hair, your life—for people you don’t know?”
I broke a piece off my Pop-Tart and nibbled around the frosted edge while I considered Vlad’s question. His eyes were still on me, black as tar, deep as night.
“I guess I just feel like I have to.”
“Like you’re some sort of superhero, vanquishing evil in all its forms?” Vlad smiled, the pointed edge of his incisors standing out stark white against his bloodstained lips.
I smiled back, but felt no joy. I thought of Mort—a half-breed, like me, his demonic side clearly visible as he stabbed and sliced at me through his hoarded stash. I thought of Ophelia, my own sister, who was murderous evil incarnate. And I thought of my father. The devil. Did I fight evil to right what was wrong in the world?
Or did I fight it because I knew, deep down, that I was part of it?
I took a long sip of my coffee and shoved half my Pop-Tart in my mouth. “Yep,” I told Vlad. “The superhero thing.”
Vlad grinned. “Don’t tell Nina. She’ll order you a costume off QVC.”
The bedroom door slammed open and there was Nina, black hair in fabulous, face-framing waves, her dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell Nina what?”
“That it’s Diamonique week on QVC,” Vlad murmured, going back to his game.
“You think I don’t know that?” Nina marched into the living room and swiped Vlad’s mug, downing the contents in one sip. “What I don’t know is when I can get out of this godforsaken house. Do you know what’s on daytime television? Eight hours of Dr. Phil and a parade of women trooping in a bigger parade of men who may or may not be their baby-daddies. It’s excruciating.”
“What happened to your novel?” I asked.
“Nobody ever makes any money writing novels. I’d have to die or cut my ear off for anyone to pay any attention to me.” She fingered her earlobe. “And I can’t do that. I’ve got too many earrings.”
“And it was Van Gogh who cut off his ear. Painter. Not an author.”
She shot me a death glare before flopping down on the couch, pushing out her lower lip. “ I’m going to die in this apartment. A recluse.”
“Neens, I’ve said it a million times: go out at night.” My stomach gurgled, the image of last night’s snarling wolf flashing before my eyes. “Or maybe try the fire escape.”
She turned her bitter stare on me. “Not helping.” She brightened, resting her chin in her palms. “So, what’s on the crime-fighting agenda today?”
I jammed the other Pop-Tart half in my mouth, feeling the crumbs tumble over my chin and sprinkle on my chest. “Walking the dog and grocery shopping. Not part of the crime fighting but very necessary.” I grinned and ChaCha yipped her approval.