Accidental Sire (Half-Moon Hollow #6)

Ben pulled a face. “Good point. Please, on with the story of your much smarter and socially savvy father.”

“Dad apparently came from one of those old horse-farming families, the people who train racehorses for Churchill Downs? Well, they weren’t thrilled with their son joining the military in the first place. They were even less thrilled when he started dating a girl who worked at a gas station, a girl whose parents were . . . Mexican,” I said, whispering the last word dramatically. “I guess that’s the way they said it, because every time my mom told me the story, she whispered, ‘Mexican.’ Also, my mom’s parents were Guatemalan, so the Keenes weren’t even accurately racist. Anyway, they ran a background check and found out about Mom’s brief stint working as a waitress at Cheekies—you know, the sports bar where they wear the short shorts? Mom only worked there for a month, but they called her ‘that stripper’ after that, which made for a very awkward toast at my parents’ wedding. They were not the type of people who were so charmed by their new grandchild that it changed their hearts. He called to tell them I’d been born, and they actually told him he’d ‘never be free of that stripper now.’ He didn’t want me to hear them talk about my mother that way. He didn’t know what they would say to me, how they would try to manipulate me with gifts and money, like they’d tried to control him growing up. He did know that they would treat my mom like crap while he was deployed in Afghanistan, and there would be nothing he could do about it from thousands of miles away. So he cut them off entirely. They made a big scene at his funeral, called my mom some names, scared me until I cried. I thought that rich people were supposed to be above that kind of behavior. But I guess rednecks are rednecks, no matter how big their house is.”

“How old were you?”

“I was four. It was rough, but my mom got us through it. She just refused to give up. She worked so hard, gave up a lot. And there were some army friends of my dad’s who helped us sometimes when the car broke down or the roof leaked.”

“And you’re speaking of her in the past tense,” Ben noted sadly.

“I was fifteen. She was driving home from her second job and fell asleep at the wheel. Even though I had heard all the stories about my grandparents, I still kind of hoped that they would have a change of heart, would want to take me in after my mom died. But they told Family Services that they had no interest in me. They only wanted to know where they needed to sign so they wouldn’t have to take responsibility.”

“What about your mom’s family? Couldn’t they help?”

“Her parents were almost seventy by the time I was born. They were great, just good, sweet, loving people. They died when I was around ten, within a month of each other. When Mom died, it would have been possible to send me to the extended family back in Guatemala. But I’m pretty damned American. I didn’t think I would do well over there, so I went into foster care.”

Ben didn’t say anything. He just looked mildly horrified.

“Yeah, I know, I’m the saddest sad sack who ever sacked.”

He shook his head. “It just sucks that you’ve lost so many people.”

“It’s safe to say I have some pretty significant abandonment issues. Also trust. And impulse control, on occasion, but that’s only if a pumpkin spice latte is involved. Which I don’t think applies anymore, since I’m dead and can’t have pumpkin spice.”

“It does explain a lot about how you’ve reacted to Jane. Her trying to mother you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re qualified to analyze all of this,” I said, waving a hand at my head.

“I won’t try,” he promised.

“So can we start over?” I asked. “Meagan Keene. Total stranger and your sire.”

“Yes,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “Ben Overby, occasionally judgmental doofus.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too. So, how do you feel about expensive imported bloods?”

“Is that some sort of line? Is this your attempt to improve on your ‘approach’?”

Ben grinned. “No, but I just happened to see a bottle hidden in the back of the fridge with a great big gold bow on it, which probably means it was an expensive gift from a visiting vampire dignitary.”

“And it’s probably poisoned,” I noted. “There is no such thing as a free bottle of gourmet blood . . . and that is officially the weirdest sentence that has ever left my mouth.”

“Nah, I talked to one of the security guards at work, the ones who keep us from leaving the building like regular people? And he says that all of Jane’s and Dick’s gifts have to be scanned for poisons and contaminants before they’re delivered. After what happened to Gigi, they have a whole poison-scan policy.”

“What happened to Gigi?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you when we crack open that very expensive-looking bottle of blood.”

“Is this some sort of attempt to get me into trouble?” I asked. “Cat-butt face revenge?”

“No, I just don’t want Jane to feel like her job is too easy. We have to cause her a little trouble.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “But you’re taking the rap for this, Golden Child.”

“Don’t call me that, and I will accept full bottle-cracking responsibility.”

I never did get to hear what happened to Gigi. We’d just managed to pull aside the foil labeled “House of Rothschilde, Rh phenotype, 1968” and pop the cork when the kitchen door opened. Jane and Gabriel walked in, carrying shopping bags. They did that weird parent thing where they’re smiling and talking and then they see what you’re doing and that happy noise slowly dies off. When it’s not your parents doing it, it’s sort of hilarious.

“Is that the bottle of Rothschilde we were saving for our anniversary?” Gabriel asked.

“He did it,” I said, pointing at Ben, who was nodding.

“I did it.”

True to form, instead of laying down some serious sire discipline on Ben, Jane just rolled her eyes. “Pour everybody a glass, you reprobates. Consider it pregaming. We’re expecting company.”

“Company?” I asked, eyeing the bags, some of which were carryout from a restaurant called Southern Comforts.

“It’s girls’ night. Or, as Iris and Gigi refer to it, Tommy Night, in which they make Bloody Tom Collinses and then we watch something with Tom Hiddleston or Tom Hardy.”

“Oh, good, Gigi is coming,” I said, sipping the glass of blood Gabriel had handed me. It was dense and dark, with earthy hints of mushroom. I made a face and set the glass down. I was clearly not mature enough to appreciate vintage bloods. “I think I should maybe just go upstairs and finish my homework. Due diligence and all that. I’ve got a lot of reading to get done for my Econ class.”