Whatever I’d been expecting from her, that certainly wasn’t it. “What?” I asked, some of my lightheartedness falling from my voice.
“You’re acting off.” She paused. “Almost as if you’re upset—”
“I’m not upset,” I flatly said.
She bobbed her head twice. “Okay.” She twisted to look back at her teammates. The werewolf was still muttering into the radio, but the vampire was watching us.
Jade gave them a thumbs up, then turned back around to face me. “Is trouble coming? A vampire war or something?”
“No,” I said.
“Then, it’s personal?”
I had to actively force my lips to keep a smile so I wouldn’t frown. “It’s nothing.”
She’s good with fighting, but how is she so keyed into me that she can tell I’m… off? She doesn’t even like me as Ruin!
Jade was motionless—which meant she was thinking. I couldn’t have her thinking too hard because who knew what she’d figure out. It was time for a distraction.
I invaded her space, moving in close to her. “Is that concern I hear in your voice, Slayer?” I asked.
“I’m always concerned when a vampire of your caliber is… off,” was her dry reply. “Because that means it could potentially harm my city.”
Ahh, that explains it.
“I see how it is—you’re concerned for the humans and supernaturals you’re forever endangering yourself to protect.” I had moved so close to her that my arm brushed her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she confirmed.
“You’re not concerned for me?”
She was still again. “Well. I would be, if I thought there was a supernatural that could beat you.”
That made my smile real. “Stop it, Slayer. You’ll make me blush.”
Jade looked back at her teammates again. “Have a good night—please don’t do anything illegal.”
“I never. Rarely.” I thought for a moment. “At least, I never do anything involving humans.”
“Good night, Ruin,” Jade flatly said before she turned away, heading up the street with her team once again. Her long strides matched with her lean, athletic build—the work of her weighted runs and endless workout sessions no doubt—gave her a delightfully deadly air.
I watched for a moment and considered following her, but the interaction had settled my irritation and despite the allure of entertainment, I was still dedicated to maintaining emotional distance.
Never get attached. I turned on my heels and slipped my hands into the pockets of my trousers, the ring brushing my finger as a timely reminder. Losing Ambrose was enough to teach me that.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Jade
The oven dinged and I pulled out the cookie tray, the delicious scent of warm Worcestershire sauce washing over me in a wave of nostalgia.
I set the cookie tray down on the hot pads I had put on my counter, then frowned down at my attempt to recreate my great aunt Patsy’s famous “Party Mix”.
Most of the mix was comprised of corn, wheat, and rice cereal with some pretzels and nuts for added crunch. Worcestershire sauce, a handful of seasonings, and butter were then poured over the top and baked in the oven. It was supposed to come out as a salty snack—one that I particularly remember my Great Aunt Patsy serving my brothers, cousins, and me in the fall when we came to her house for our class about wizards and ways to defeat them, that she taught, and hand-to-hand combat training with her husband, Great Uncle Thomas.
In theory, it was one of my family’s easier recipes. But my Party Mix didn’t look right. The seasonings hadn’t stuck on as well as they should have, and some of the cereal pieces were getting burnt.
“How did it come out?” Connor crowded me, peering over my shoulder. “Woah. All my years of life didn’t prepare me for this surprise: it looks edible! Congratulations, Appetizer.”
I carefully picked up a few hot pieces and ate them. “It’s not right,” I said. “It’s not flavorful enough. I don’t think the garlic and onion powder stuck to it because it doesn’t taste like much besides…cereal.”
“You’re just being too pessimistic,” Connor said. “We should be celebrating this new achievement: edible!”
I flipped the mix with a spatula, as if hoping (in vain) that by stirring it the seasonings would magically stick. “Would you try some?”
“Not on your life.” Connor ambled across my apartment, seating himself on my couch with his legs bumping the coffee table. “While this is the first thing you’ve made that looks decently edible, there’s a good chance there is still something wrong with it, and it’ll end up making me sick.”
I ate another handful of warmed, barely salty cereal. “What happened to ‘being too pessimistic’?”
“I’m not being pessimistic,” Connor informed me. “Just realistic. You do not have a history of winning at baking.”
“You’re not wrong.” I slipped the cookie tray off the severely stained hot pads in hopes it would cool faster. (I may as well call it quits as I didn’t think the cereal would magically pick up more seasonings. If I wanted to pack the snack up, I’d need it to cool first.) I plucked up my phone and shuffled over to the couch.
When I got within an arm’s distance, Connor gently took my hand and yanked me down on the couch to join him.
For a second my instincts warred within me to resist but Connor was my friend, so the impulse cleared in a moment, and I let myself collapse on the couch next to him.
“Cheer up. It’s still an improvement.” Connor held up my clasped hand, rotating it, as if he was admiring the freckles on my arm—though it was possibly my veins visible through my pale skin that had his attention.
“Yeah, I was just hoping if I went for something easy like this, I could share it with our neighbors.” I tugged my hand from Connor’s grasp so I could start a text message to my Great Aunt Patsy.
“I think you can still share it,” Connor said. “You just have to choose your audience carefully.”
“Who would be the ideal audience?”
“Old people,” Connor said without hesitation. “Particularly nice, old people. They’ll be touched you took the time to make something and thought of them. Also, they’re less likely to notice the lack of flavor.”
I pressed my lips together and considered his suggestion. “That might actually work. Give me a second, I’m going to text my aunt to ask her a question about the recipe.”
Connor fell back into the couch. “Is your aunt an O’Neil?”
“Yep.”
Connor chuckled for some reason—vampires laughed at a lot of things randomly; I suspect it came with the age—but I ignored him and typed away.
Hi Patsy. I have a question about your Party Mix recipe—this is it, right?
I attached the image of the recipe card Nan had sent me when I’d asked her for the recipe last night, then set my phone aside.
“How’s work been?” Connor asked, an amused slant in his eyebrows.
“Fine.”
“No violent visitors?”
“Nah.” I said, trying to keep things vague.