“Yikes.”
His lips nearly curl into a smile, but his expression remains grim. Maybe he went to Vampyre territory and managed to see his mate. Maybe he’s angry that I’m what he comes home to these days. Can’t blame him.
“Do you think . . .” After having been an instrument of politics for a decade, I’ve done my best to pretend it doesn’t exist. But I find myself wanting to know. “Will they stick? These alliances?”
He doesn’t reply, not even to say that he doesn’t, cannot know. Instead he looks at me for many, many moments, as though the answer might be written on my face, as though I am the key to unlock this.
“If Humans knew of Ana’s existence,” I say, thinking out loud. “That Humans and Weres can . . .” I let the thought dangle. She could be a powerful symbol of unity after centuries of strife. Or, people could decide she’s an abomination.
“Too unpredictable,” he says, reading my mind and bending to take his sleeping sister from my lap. Lowe’s hands brush mine in the exchange. When he stands, Ana instantly snuggles in his arms, recognizing him by scent even in her slumber. Babbling something that sounds too heartbreakingly close to Mama for comfort.
I want to ask him why I found a jar of creamy peanut butter in my fridge. If he’s the reason the house is now three degrees warmer than when I arrived. But I somehow can’t bring myself to, and then he’s the one to speak.
“By the way, Misery.”
I look up at him. “Yeah?”
“We have sharper knives.” He points at mine with his chin. “That one isn’t going to do shit to someone like me.”
“It’s not?”
“Third drawer from the fridge.” I listen to his heavy steps, and once the door to my room clicks closed, I pick up my book and start reading again.
Thanks for the tip, I guess.
CHAPTER 12
The burden has been feeling lighter, but he lies to himself about the reason, attributing it to habit, and the fact that he’s growing into his role.
It reminds me of a sketch in a comedy show, so absurd that I lean against the doorframe of Lowe’s office and observe it in silence for a few minutes, amused by the visual.
It’s the big man. And the way he handles small gadgets, frowning down at them like they’re poisonous spiders. The way he types at the keyboard with one single finger. And the way he doesn’t seem to be able to follow simple instructions, even though Alex is explaining stuff to him in the tone of someone who’s ready to bungee jump out of his own life.
“—won’t be activated until you enter this line of code.”
“I entered it,” Lowe rumbles.
“Exactly the way I wrote it here, on this piece of paper.”
“I did.”
“It’s case-sensitive. Alpha,” he tacks on. Reminding himself that Lowe’s his boss. His very stubborn boss.
“The problem is this fucking machine.”
Lowe lifts his hand, ready to hit what has to be an expensive piece of technology. Which leads to Alex chanting with a Dostoyevskian level of dread, “Oh my God, oh my God.” Which, in turn, leads to Lowe promising, “It’s stuck. I’ll punch it once and it’ll fix itself.” Which, of course, leads to Alex, whom Lowe does not pay enough, suddenly being on the verge of tears.
That’s when I take pity on both of them and say, “I don’t think percussive maintenance is the answer to a coding error.”
They both turn to me, saucer-eyed and vaguely embarrassed. As they should be.
“Alex, are you really teaching Lowe how to code?”
“I am attempting to.” Alex gives both of us a look. He’s usually more at ease with me when Lowe’s around, but he must know he’s momentarily on his Alpha’s shit list.
“How many times have you guys been over this?”
“A handful,” Lowe mutters, just as Alex says, “Sixteen.”
I whistle. “Big hands.” My eyes flick to Lowe’s.
“It’s fine. I’ll figure this coding thing out when I’m there. I can improvise.” He stands, and Alex and I exchange an incredulous look, the words digital illiterate floating in the air between us in Papyrus. Lowe’s incompetence might be healing the rift between us.
“I’ll call you. You’ll guide me on the phone,” he tells Alex, this time with more gravity.
“I’m concerned for your safety. There could be traps.”
“I’ll deal with them.” Lowe puts his hand on Alex’s shoulder, reassuring. I’m about to break my none-of-my-business rule and ask what this is about when Mick appears.
“Dinner is ready. Ana . . . cooked.” He says the last word with a small wince. “And requested everyone’s presence.” He looks at me. “Yours included.”
I frown. “Me?”
“She asked specifically for Miresy.”
“Is she aware that I don’t eat?”
Lowe folds his arms on his chest. “You do, in fact—”
“Shhhh.” I gesture frantically at him to shut his yapping mouth and turn to Mick. “I’m coming. We’re coming. Let’s go!” Lowe’s smirk can only be described as evil.
Ana is delighted to see me. She runs to me, a blur of sparkly pink cotton and unicorn ears, and wraps her little arms around my waist.
“We don’t always have to hug,” I tell her.
She squeezes harder.
I sigh. “Fine. Sure.”
It’s been nearly a week since the full moon, and the cumulative time I’ve spent with my husband since then wouldn’t be enough to bring a kettle to boil. But Juno came to visit one night and brought a deck of cards, and came back two nights later and brought a movie and Gemma and Flor and Arden, and both evenings felt similar: odd, but fun. I’m with Alex all the time, and Cal’s daughter Misha asked to meet me to see “a real-life leech,” and a couple other seconds stopped by because they were in the area, just to introduce themselves, and . . .
It’s unexpected, especially after my rocky start. I should be a pariah, I am one, but I don’t think I fit in this place anymore poorly than I did among the Humans, or the Vampyres. In the past seven days, I’ve had more social interactions than ever before. No: more positive social interactions than ever before. The Weres are being surprisingly amicable, even though they know I’m a Vampyre. And I’m being surprisingly relaxed with them, perhaps because they know I am a Vampyre. It’s a new experience, being treated as what I am.
And now I’m sitting at a table with Lowe, Mick, and Alex, while Sparkles watches us from the windowsill and Ana serves goldfish crackers, heavily implying they are seafood. I hear their heartbeats mix together like an out of tune symphony, and the stray thought hits me that Lowe is my husband, and Ana is my sister-in-law. Technically, I’m having the first family dinner of my life. Like those human sitcoms, the ones with twenty minutes of banter about snap peas that only sounds funny because of the laugh track.
I let out a befuddled snort and everyone turns to me curiously. “Sorry. Carry on, please.”
I’m proud of the way I cut my meatloaf and move the crackers around the plate to mimic a half-eaten meal. But I’m not very good at using cutlery, and the context—a meal, shared—is as foreign to me as crocodile wrestling. Ana, of course, notices.
“Why is she acting like that?” she whispers theatrically from the head of the table, pointing at my ramrod straight spine, the way I lift and lower my fork like an animatronic puppet.
“She’s just not very good at this. Be kind,” Lowe murmurs back from next to me.