“Alex? The blond guy?” I haven’t seen him since the Max incident. I’m assuming it was filed as “under his watch,” and got him plucked out of jailer rotation.
“Yes. We steal cars and talk with the beautiful ladies. But Alex says that Juno isn’t supposed to know.”
“You play Grand Theft Auto with Alex?”
She shrugs.
“Is that appropriate for a . . . three-year-old?”
“I’m seven,” she declares haughtily. Holding up six fingers.
I let that slide. “Not gonna lie, pretty proud that it was within my range of estimation.”
Another shrug, which seems like her default response. Relatable, honestly. She settles on the bed next to me and I’m briefly worried that she might pee on it. Does she have a diaper? Is she housebroken? Should I burp her? “I want to play,” she repeats.
I’m not a soft person. After living the first eighteen years of my life in function of a long list of very nebulous others, I perfected assertiveness. I have no issue with producing a firm, final no and never revisiting a request again. So I must be suffering a major cerebral event when I sigh, and pull up my editor, and quickly use JavaScript to whip up a Snake-like game.
“Is this edu . . . Edu . . . ?” she asks, after I’m done explaining how it works. “Edutacional?”
“Educational.”
“Juno says it’s important that the games are edu . . .”
“I don’t know if it is, but at least no major felonies are involved.”
There is something disarming about the way she leans against me, soft and trusting, as though our people haven’t been hunting each other for sport in the last couple of centuries. Her tongue sticks out between her teeth as she tries to snatch apples, and when a dark curl slips in front of her right eye, I catch myself with my fingers hovering right there, tempted to fold it behind her ear.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling back my hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I trap my arms between my back and the wall, horrified.
It feels like the middle of the night when Ana yawns and decides it’s time to go back to her room. “My cat is waiting for me, anyway.”
Wait. “Your cat?”
She nods.
“Does your cat happen to be gray? Long hair? Smushed face?”
“Yes. Her name is Sparkles.”
Oh, fuck. “First of all, he’s a boy.”
She blinks at me. “His name is Sparkles, then.”
“No, his name is Serena’s damn fucking cat.”
Ana’s expression is pitying.
“And he’s actually my cat.” Serena’s. Whatever.
“I don’t think so.”
“You do realize that he arrived when I did.”
“But he sleeps with me.”
Ah. So that’s where he disappears to all the time. “That’s just because he hates me.”
“Then maybe he’s not your cat,” she says, with the delicate somberness of a therapist who’s letting me know that I don’t have a diagnosable disorder, I’m just a bitch.
“You know what? I don’t care. It’s between you and Serena.”
“Who’s Serena?”
“My friend.”
“Your best friend?”
“I only have the one, so . . . yeah?”
“My best friend is Misha. She has red hair, and she’s the daughter of my brother’s best friend, Cal. And Juno is her aunt. And she has a little brother, his name is Jackson, and a little sister, and her name—”
“This is not The Brothers Karamazov,” I interrupt. “I don’t need the family tree.”
“—is Jolene,” she continues, undeterred. “Where is Serena?”
“She . . . I’m trying to find her.”
“Maybe my brother can help you? He’s real good at helping people.”
I swallow. I just can’t with children. “Maybe.”
She studies me for several seconds. “Are you like Lowe?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, but no.”
“He doesn’t sleep, either.”
“I do sleep. Just during the day.”
“Ah. Lowe doesn’t sleep. At all.”
“Never? Is it a Were thing? An Alpha thing?”
She shakes her head. “He has pneumonia.”
Seriously? When did he get it? He seemed healthy to me. Maybe for Weres, pneumonia is not a big— “Wait!” I call when I see Ana heading for the window. “How about you go through the door?”
She doesn’t even stop to say no.
“It would be more fun. You could stop by Lowe’s room on your way,” I offer. Because if this child dies, it’s on me. “Say hi. Hang out.”
“He’s not here. He’s gone to deal with the lollipops.”
I trail after her. “With the lollipops.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no way he is dealing with— Do you mean the Loyals?”
“Yes. The lollipops.” She’s already climbing upward, and spider monkey doesn’t even begin to describe how agile she is. But still.
“Don’t. Come back! I . . . forbid you from continuing.”
She keeps scaling. “You’re a Vampyre. I don’t think you can tell me what to do.” She sounds more matter-of-fact than bratty, and all I can think of replying is: “Shit.”
I follow her progress, terrified, wondering if this is motherhood: anxiously picturing your child with her skull cracked open. But Ana knows exactly what she’s doing, and when she has hoisted herself on top of the roof and disappeared from my view, I’m left alone with two separate pieces of knowledge: I’m befuddlingly invested in the survival of this tiny pest of a Were.
And Lowe, my husband, my roomie, is gone for the night.
I slip inside the bathroom, find one of my hairpins, and do what I have to do.
CHAPTER 7
The scent is growing into more than just a problem. It invades. It swirls. It travels. It sticks to his nose. It concentrates, sometimes.
They rarely touch. When they did, her wrist accidentally brushed against the front of his shirt, and he found himself tearing off the piece of fabric where her smell was most intense. He slipped it in his pocket, and now carries it everywhere.
Even as he leaves to avoid her.
Breaking in takes longer than I expected, but not by much. The lock clicks and I stop, wondering if my guard—a no-bullshit Were named Gemma, I believe—will check in on me. After a minute I decide that I’m safe and push the door open.
Lowe’s room is as beautiful and interesting as mine, the accent wall and beamed ceiling setting a snug, mellow atmosphere. It has less furniture, though, and even though Lowe must have been living here far longer than me, I see two moving boxes stacked in a corner, and a couple of framed paintings leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up.
The soles of my feet are cold as I step on the herringbone hardwood floors. I know exactly what I’m looking for—a phone, a laptop, possibly a diary titled “That Time I Abducted Serena Paris” with an easily breakable lock—but can’t help indulging in some snooping. There are several shelves, lined with classics, fiction, but mostly art books, tall and thick and glossy, the pages full of beautiful sculptures and odd buildings and paintings I’ve never seen before. The bathroom is spotless all over, except for the corner where a unicorn toothbrush, strawberry toothpaste, and no-tear shampoo have been placed. His closet is martial in its orderliness, every shirt monochrome, every pair of pants neatly folded, always khakis or jeans. The sole exception is the suit he wore at our wedding.
My husband, I discover, wears size fourteen shoes.
I search for electronics, to no avail. I really did not need to know that Lowe Moreland hates clutter, that he’s immune to the inevitable accumulation of useless trinkets we’re all subject to. He owns what he needs, and all he needs seems to be one charger, a million pairs of interchangeable boxer briefs, and a bottle of silicone-based lube. I find it in his bedside nightstand, pick it up, and immediately drop it like it’s a nest of wasps.
Okay. I didn’t need to know that he . . . But his lady is off frolicking with my people, and . . . okay. It’s perfectly normal. I’m not going to think about this any longer.
Starting now.