“Said you take the weight of the world on your shoulders…and then a little more after that. That you think everything that goes wrong is your fault somehow.”
“Isn’t it?” Nikita asked, only half-joking.
Kolya tipped his head to the side, growing serious. “I’m sorry about Sasha.”
Nikita looked away with a disgusted sound. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Do you all think he’s already dead?” Through the numbness, his stomach gave a painful twist. Oh, God, please no, please no– Before he cut it off and let the last bit of frost close over him.
“No. Sasha killed Rasputin and Monsieur Philippe all by himself. I have to think he’s only gotten stronger since then. I don’t think he’s dead,” he said. “I’m sorry because I think that rescuing him is going to damage you. I think it probably already is.”
Nikita snapped a sharp look toward him, searching for the lie.
Kolya stared back, sympathetic. “The people who took him from you will wish they hadn’t by the time you’re done with them.”
Nikita felt a cruel, humorless smile steal across his face. “Are you sorry for that, too?” he asked, mocking.
“No. Never for them.”
“I’ll burn that place to the ground,” Nikita said, hand tightening on the bell until his hand ached, growl threading through his words.
“I figured,” Kolya said. “I wish you luck.”
*
“I think that went well, don’t you?” Dottie asked, pulling teacups down from their shelf in the kitchen.
Trina accepted them from her and arranged them on a tray. “Well?” She noted the way her grandmother’s hands shook, teacups chinking together. “Is that what you’d call it?”
Dottie pursed her lips, determined. “Yes.”
“There was a Romanian prince in your living room, Grams. It’s okay to be freaked out about it.”
More cups came down.
But when Trina had them all lined up on the tray, Dottie gripped the edge of the counter hard, skin parchment-thin over the bones of her knuckles.
“I’ve hosted more séances than I can count,” she said, softly, gaze trained on the backsplash. “There have been a few times that – there were…murmurings. Voices. Once it felt like someone touched my arm.” She smoothed a hand down the sleeve of her dress. “But I never–”
She turned to face Trina, eyes wide, full of wonder. “Have you ever believed in something for so long, and then, suddenly, you have proof?”
Trina smiled gently at her. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Dottie sighed. “I feel like a girl again.” She shook her head, smile dreamy, and then sobered. “But you have to tell me.” She opened up the tin on the counter and started plucking out tea bags. “What’s going on with you and Lanny?”
Trina groaned and laughed with surprise. “Grams. Bigger fish to fry.”
“No, no, no. I know you – you can multitask.”
“That’s not important right now.”
Dottie paused to give her a sharp look. “Trina. You’ve been pining away for him for years now. The man shows up here as a vampire, and you think there’s bigger fish to fry? Try again.”
Before Trina could answer, the back door opened and her mom poked her head in. “Knock-knock,” Rachel called, stepping in with a cling-film-covered plate propped on one hip. “I brought cookies.”
“Good,” Dottie said. “Trina was just about to tell us what’s been going on with her and Lanny.”
Trina groaned again, louder this time.
“Why do you think I brought cookies?” Rachel asked, setting them on the counter. “How’d the séance go, but the way?”
“Valerian,” Trina started.
“Fine,” Dottie said. “Now. Trina.”
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at her in a way that made her want to squirm. She felt thirteen, suddenly. “There’s nothing to tell,” she said.
“Yes there is,” they said together.
Trina turned her back to them and resumed putting the tea things together, anger swelling in her throat.
Or, at least it felt like anger. There was a good chance it was desperation, or fear, or some other, much more dangerous emotion that she did not have time for right now.
“We didn’t know he was sick,” Mom said, gentler now.
Trina breathed a sound that tried to be a laugh. “Neither did I. He told me when he was drunk, so there’s a good chance he was just never going to tell me at all.”
“Oh, honey.”
“But he’s fine now. So.” This time she knew the sound she made wasn’t a laugh, just a forceful push of air that hurt her throat. “We can go back to the way things were.”
“Honey, no.” Mom and Grams moved to flank her, supportive hands on her shoulders.
“Mom,” Trina sighed, turning to her. “Are you honest to God encouraging me to be involved with a vampire?”
Rachel blinked. “Well it just sounds stupid when you say it like that.”
25
Farley, Wyoming
Fresh from a touch of Red’s power, Rooster had strength in reserves. A little stiff in his bad knee when he crouched down, but nothing he couldn’t grimace against and go on through. For the first few minutes, after Jack’s wife – a plump, motherly sort with the kind of smile that made him think of sweet tea and fresh cookies – took Red into the house with her, he panicked a little. Standing in the center of the carriage house, opening and closing his hands into fists, breathing raggedly through his mouth. What if that woman had–? What if Red was–?
What if, what if, what if. He ran a dozen disastrous scenarios, blood humming, drawn as if by hooks toward the house, his charge, his responsibility. His girl. His…
Everything.
“She’s safe,” he chanted. “She’s safe, she’s safe.”
And she was. He could look across the fairytale garden yard and see her through a window in the kitchen, rolling out dough with a big wooden rolling pin alongside Jack’s wife, Vicki.
It was…it was okay. It was good, even. Red had never had a mother, or an aunt, or a grandmother, or hell, even a friend. She deserved the chance to make cookies with a kind woman. She deserved more–
But he couldn’t let himself go down that road. Not now. He had a job to do.
She he tugged on the worn leather gloves Jack had left him, picked up a hammer and crowbar, and started pulling up rotted floorboards.
It was hard work. Good work. Productive, and steady. Not frustrating. He had no idea how long he was at it, but when Jack’s footfalls announced his arrival with two frosty longnecks hanging from one hand, the shadows lay long and distorted across what was left of the floor.
Rooster wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and realized he was sweating all over, his jeans and t-shirt glued to his skin. He felt tired and heavy in a pleasant way, buzzing with positive exertion.
Jack whistled. “Makin’ some progress, I see.”
“Trying to.”
And this was easy: falling back into casual camaraderie with someone. He hadn’t known that it would be, but it didn’t take any effort to move to the carriage house porch, accept a beer and sit down next to his host.
“Hmm,” Jack hummed. “I haven’t been able to do shit like that in years. It’s hell to get old. I appreciate it.”
Rooster took a long sip of his beer, and didn’t answer. He felt like he didn’t need to. They sat side-by-side on the porch, legs dangling over the edge, songbirds trilling their final chorus before the crickets took over.
Peaceful. Rooster knew peace never lasted.
“Your girlfriend,” Jack started, and there it was. Tension. “She’s a sweetheart. We don’t have any granddaughters, so you’ll be lucky if Vicki gives her back.” He chuckled like it was funny, but Rooster gripped his bottle so tight he thought it might shatter.
Jack noticed. He lowered his beer, shooting Rooster a sideways look.
“She’s not,” he said, breath catching. “She’s not my.” He cleared his throat. “Girlfriend.”
“Ah,” Jack said, smiling. “So that’s the problem.”
“What?”
“You’re in denial.”
Rooster curled his free hand into a fist on top of his thigh.
“Oh, come on,” Jack said. “A man doesn’t tie himself in knots over a woman he doesn’t love.”