Accidental Sire (Half-Moon Hollow #6)

Ben was laid to rest, so to speak, in the guest room two doors down from the one that would be my own. Jane set him down on the big brass bed and pulled a blue-and-white log-cabin quilt up to his chin. There was something distinctly maternal about the way she brushed his hair back from his forehead. And then she hit a button that brought two heavy-duty metal shutters sliding over the windows with a distinct click, which read more Bond villain than mom.

In terms of random guest rooms I’d been assigned to, mine wasn’t the ugliest I’d ever slept in. That title belonged to a basement rec-room-turned-bedroom that was wallpapered in green shag carpet. These walls were painted a light purple. The bed was wide, topped with a fluffy white duvet and throw pillows in different shades of purple. There was a neat desk next to the window that during night hours allowed me a beautiful view of the garden behind Jane’s house.

The room did have the highest rate of unicorn infestation of any room I’d ever slept in. Shelf upon shelf was filled with unicorn figurines—glass, pewter, brass, crystal, cheap ceramic, and I think one was made from smashed-up bits of other unicorn figurines. It was a Frankencorn. I could feel their beady little eyes following me around the room as I counted them. (Forty-two. Who has forty-two unicorns in their house, much less in one room?) I was going to have to turn all of them around before I went to sleep in here.

Jane must have spotted my horrified expression, because she said, “Yeah, I collected unicorns growing up, mostly from assorted relatives who were unaware that I was not perpetually five years old and a wannabe fairy princess.”

“How long were you ‘collecting’?” I asked.

“My uncle Corky gave me a unicorn-shaped candy dish for a wedding present.”

I shuddered.

“Believe it or not, this is the best of my collection. I threw the rest out.”

“Wow. If I stare too long at them, will they devour my soul?” I asked her.

She frowned at me.

I shrugged. “It’s a fair question.”

“The sun will be up in about an hour,” she said. “I recommend getting into bed and being ready to be unconscious for twelve hours, because it should hit you pretty hard.”

I shook my head. “I’m not tired. But I can just read or something. You did stick some of my books in my bag, right?”

Jane smirked at me, like I’d just said something really stupid. Probably because most kids my age had an iPad, and I was reading paper books like a broke jerk. “Suit yourself. Do you feel like you need to feed?”

“I think I’m OK, which is a little weird, because I didn’t really drink that much from Ben.”

“I’ll bring you something as soon as you rise. And if you’re not up yet when I come in, I’ll leave a bottle on the warmer next to your bed, in case you wake up thirsty again.”

I glanced at my nightstand, which did indeed have a one-bottle warmer, like something you’d use to heat formula bottles, next to my Moonrise alarm clock. Jane was a very considerate hostess/jailer.

“Which reminds me, do you think you’re going to prefer bottled blood or live feeding from a human donor for most of your feedings? And I’m asking you this without a hint of judgment, because I really need to know in order to make the right arrangements.”

I shuddered, remembering the sensation of my teeth sinking through Ben’s skin. “You know, I think I’ll stick to bottled for . . . ever.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Get settled in. We’ll talk more when you wake up.”

I nodded.

“Fitz, get off the bed,” she commanded. The dog whimpered but rolled off the quilt and reluctantly joined her at the door.

Jane reached toward the light switch and pressed the button that brought down my own sunproof shades, shutting out my view of the garden. I shivered, feeling oddly claustrophobic, as if she’d shut my coffin lid. Jane gave me a little smile and closed the door. Fitz continued to sniff and scratch at the door from the hall but eventually gave up when Jane called him away.

I scrubbed my hands over my face. While Jane was a bit friendlier than she had been when I rose, things still felt pretty awkward with her. That whole “I hope we get along, but I think there’s a very real possibility you’ll try to make meth in my guest bathroom” vibe brought back unpleasant memories that weren’t exactly helped by the sight of my blue suitcase at the foot of my bed.

A contrary, almost petty part of my personality wanted to put off unpacking, just to prove I didn’t need Jane or her unicorn-ridden guest room. I didn’t need her generosity or her stupid bottle warmer. Hell, I could put off even opening the damn suitcase and just flop down onto the bed in what I was wearing.

But then I remembered that I’d basically murdered Ben in those pajamas.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I slid open the zipper, splitting the faded, slightly dirtied canvas down the middle. I let my hands probe among the familiar clothes until I found my My Little Pony pajama bottoms and a pink tank top. I changed quickly, throwing my dirty clothes into the hamper Jane had provided. I wondered what the laundry situation would be here. I’d gotten used to being responsible for just my own clothes while I was in school. I wasn’t looking forward to being regarded as live-in part-time help, if that was how Jane planned on making me earn my keep, but I would do it and not complain. I figured I was skating on pretty thin ice anyway.

Frowning, I reached for the suitcase lid, and my own neat block printing caught my eye. Inside the lid, in black Sharpie, I’d written the names of the seven foster families I’d lived with over the years. A lot of foster kids I knew did something like it, keeping track of the names somewhere they couldn’t be spotted easily. One girl I knew wrote them on the inside of the butt of her jeans, an indirect way of telling her foster parents to kiss her ass. It was like a monument to ourselves, reminding us that we were badass, that no matter what life threw at us, it was just another entry on the list until we aged out and could control our own lives. But on the other hand, it was also a warning not to get too comfy where we were, that our situation could change overnight. And if we got too attached to the family we were living with, it would be that much harder to pack up and leave.

It took me a while to learn this lesson. I’d been crazy about the first family I was placed with, a really sweet couple in their late thirties named Tom and Susan. They painted my room a sunny yellow and let me pick out my own bedspread as a “welcome home” gift. Susan took me shopping for my first pair of real high heels, and Tom made blueberry pancakes on Sundays.