by Molly Harper
Dick stared off into space for a moment, eyes slightly glazed over.
“Dick?”
“Sorry, I need a minute to collect myself,” he said, squirming uncomfortably in his jeans. “OK, I’m collected. I’d be fine with you just using me for my body. It’s mutually beneficial.”
“I knew you would be,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“So you’ll go to the wedding rehearsal with me?”
“Yes,” I told him. “If for no other reason than I think Jane’s got some sort of disaster brewing with Zeb and Zeb’s mom and the werewolf aunties. You know, she’s a generally nice person. Why do so many people get so mad at her?”
Dick shrugged. “It’s part of her charm. It’s sorta like goin’ to a drag race just because you want to see a crash.”
I pursed my lips. “You’re a horrible human being.”
“Not a human,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, but if we’re going to go on a date, you can’t do that with your mouth. It makes me want to do this.”
And with that, Dick gave me another long, lingering kiss.
6
You will find love again. You just have to be open to what life or undeath throws at you.
—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human’s Guide to Healing
I sat in Specialty Books at a heavy leaded-glass and maple desk that had been cleared of the many layers of dusty books in the last week, cataloguing the shop’s ceremonial athames. Mr. Wainwright had stocked an alarming number of knives for a bookshop.
The former shopkeeper’s funeral service had been quiet and unorthodox. He’d asked to be cremated and sprinkled into the Ohio River, so he could spread out into the Gulf of Mexico and circulate all over the world. Even odder, Mr. Wainwright was attending his own funeral as a spirit. I couldn’t see him or hear him, but Jane assured us he was there and was enjoying the proceedings immensely. He’d agreed to stay in town for the foreseeable future to build that relationship that Dick craved so badly. Also, he’d taken a liking to Jane’s deceased Aunt Jettie, who was haunting Jane’s house.
There were stranger romances in Half-Moon Hollow, but I couldn’t come up with an example off the top of my head.
The reading of Mr. Wainwright’s will had been full of surprises. I’d received a token from the old sweetheart: a silver claddagh ring that had belonged to his lost love. I’d only attended the reading to support Jane; I’d never dreamed that he would leave me a remembrance. Dick was none too pleased that said remembrance would burn and blister him upon contact, but I liked the idea of keeping him on his toes.
We were keeping the new developments between the two of us . . . between the two of us. Jane would find out that we were edging toward coupledom soon enough. She had plenty on her mind, what with her grandmother being engaged to a ghoul and Mr. Wainwright leaving her the shop. The bequest had knocked her flat on her rear. She’d expected a rare book or two, but her former boss had changed his will and left her the whole shop.
Jane was overwhelmed and grateful and had been agonizing over what to do with the place for days. The shop had just barely broken even the last few years, and Jane had no significant retail experience. But she also knew how difficult it was for vampires to find employment in the Hollow, particularly vampires with such book-specific skills. Jane also anticipated some resistance from Emery, the nephew languishing in South America under the impression that he was Mr. Wainwright’s sole heir. But ultimately, after a very stern heart-to-heart with him, she’d decided to keep the place open.
I was happy for Jane, who was currently upstairs in Mr. Wainwright’s former apartment getting another pep talk from her ghostly mentor. With most of the dust and debris cleared, I could see the potential in the place. There weren’t any independent bookshops in the Hollow, so with the right product and personal touches (and by somehow convincing the customers that there was no adult bookshop next door), Jane could do very well.
Meanwhile, I had my own employment issues to work out. At twilight, as I was leaving for the shop, I’d opened my front door to find Sophie standing on my stoop wearing jeans and a sweater. I’m not sure if it was the casual wear or the appearance of someone so closely associated with my recent violent trauma, but I recoiled at the sight of her. And wished desperately that Dick hadn’t decided to stay away for a few days to “give me some space.” Damn his considerate, but absent, ass.
“Sophie!” I cried, stumbling back into my apartment. “What are you doing here?”
All of Sophie’s slick Euro-cool charm had disappeared as she glared across the threshold at me. What the hell? She couldn’t be pissed at me over the Darla incident. I hadn’t told a soul besides Dick. And I was hale and healthy thanks to my undead nurse, so it’s not like there’d be repercussions for her. So why was she giving me the face-melting death glare?
From behind Sophie, a tall, slender brunette teenager stepped out of the darkness. She was wearing velvet hot pants, a peasant blouse, and a floppy straw hat. Because head Council official Ophelia Lambert believed that a jailbait-worthy outfit wasn’t an outfit unless it had a theme. I’d never actually seen Ophelia commit an act of violence. The rumor about her use of an enemy’s femur to club said enemy and then stake him out for sunrise was enough to secure her reputation among undead and living alike. She only had to look at a vampire sideways and they hopped to do her bidding.
And considering the additional rumors about Ophelia’s past entanglements with Dick, I had to wonder whether I was about to suffer some vampire version of a spurned ex-girlfriend beatdown. That still didn’t explain Sophie’s jeans, though . . .
“Sophie, I believe you have something to say to Ms. Byrne?” Ophelia prompted her, while leaning against my porch railing.
Sophie sighed. “It seems I was hasty in dropping you off at your home the other night. I didn’t follow protocols to secure your health and well-being before leaving you. And for that, I owe you an apology.”
This speech was delivered with all of the energy of Matthew McConaughey on Quaaludes.
“And?” Ophelia said, nudging her with an elbow to the ribs.
“And please accept this extremely exorbitant check as a symbol of my sincere regret,” Sophie deadpanned as she held out a creamy linen envelope.
I reached out tentatively to take it, fully expecting her to grab me in some sort of wrist hold and rip my throat out.
Sophie gave me one last glare before asking Ophelia, “Am I done now?”
Ophelia gave her a frosty smile. “Quite. I’ll see you at the next meeting.”
Sophie strode off the porch without so much as a backward glance. I turned toward Ophelia. “What just happened?”
“I’m sorry that Sophie dropped the ball so dramatically. She knows better,” Ophelia told me. “But she’s always been a bit oblivious to human needs. I doubt she realized you were in danger of being drained until you were nearly dead. And she figured as long as you were walking around, you’d be fine. Also, she had a dinner party she was trying to get to and didn’t want to be held up.”
“Yes, how inconsiderate of me, taking up so much of her evening,” I muttered.
“She’s been removed as Darla’s foster sire, if that makes you feel any better.”
“That does, actually.”
“Dick arrived at the Council headquarters after your disastrous appointment, angrier than I’d ever seen him. When my secretary tried to stop him from marching into my office, he tossed her desk into a wall and walked right in. I’d never seen him show anything but oozing charm toward a female, so I had to admit I was intrigued. After explaining the state he’d found you in and how Sophie was responsible, he informed me that I needed to ‘put my boot up Sophie’s ass’ or he was going to do it for me.”
“Hence the begrudging apology and the ‘exorbitant’ check?”
“And she’s on probationary status as a Council o
fficer for the next three years. Before you mock the check, you might want to count the number of zeros,” she said, smirking at me.
Brows quirked, I opened the envelope, scanned the check, and pronounced several elaborate curse words I’d only heard Jane say when she’d gotten her hand caught in one of Mr. Wainwright’s bite-y relics.
“There you go,” Ophelia drawled.
Sophie had given me enough money to take a very nice vacation . . . for the next several years. It wasn’t exactly retirement money, but I certainly wouldn’t have to worry about the Council keeping me on retainer. My savings and cozy apartment were safe as long as I kept some reasonable income stream.
“And Mr. Cheney says that you’d like to limit the number of surrogate appointments you keep with the Council’s constituents. Actually, I believe he said, ‘She’s never going to risk her neck for one of your frickin’ appointments again,’ but I thought you’d like to clarify for me. We would hate to lose you as a surrogate.”
“Isn’t it sort of counterintuitive to try to get me to stay in your employ right after handing me a big fat check that eliminates my need to keep a second job?”
“Well, the big fat check was the polite thing to do,” Ophelia protested primly. “Also, it hit Sophie where she lived, so it was a fitting punishment. I don’t want to hold financial security over your head, Andrea, though I will admit that would be the quickest and simplest solution. I want to provide the best for the vampires living in my region, and you’re the best. And that requires your willing and enthusiastic participation in the process.”
“Thank you, that’s very—”
Ophelia continued, “Because I’m bound by a host of very annoying human laws about your safety and well-being.”
“It was so close to being something nice,” I told her. Ophelia shrugged, and I continued, “I would like to limit my appointments . . . to nearly nothing. To be honest, I’m not sure if I want to continue at all, but if I do, I’d like to help out in the occasional special case. And only under Dick’s direct supervision or yours.”
Ophelia’s dark brows drew together. “You have become close to Dick, haven’t you?”
I wasn’t going to comment on that. For all I knew, the whole conversation was a trap. Instead, I just continued on my rant. “And I will also stop seeing my private clients, though I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself—both for professional discretion and because it’s going to take me a while to work up the nerve to tell Jane.”
“She’s going to be completely obnoxious about it, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” I said. “I appreciate all of the kindness the vampire community has shown me over the years, but the risk has just become too much for me.”
“I can’t say that I blame you, or that I’m not disappointed. I’ll do my best to work with you to find clients and keep you safe. Call my office and we’ll set up a meeting to discuss parameters,” she said.
“That is very generous of you,” I told her, and she preened a bit. “I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“Why was Sophie wearing jeans?”
Ophelia burst out laughing, which was somehow also terrifying. “Before he stormed into the Council office, Dick snuck into Sophie’s house, stole all of her pantsuits, and ran them through an industrial wood-chipper.”
Well, that explained where Dick went while I was sleeping. He’d had a very busy evening trying to out-supervillain me.
Now, sitting at the Specialty Books register counting pointy objects, I didn’t know what to make of Ophelia’s offer. I knew it was a considerable concession for her to be that flexible. And I appreciated the “blood money” the Council had forced Sophie to hand over. But honestly, I didn’t know if I could continue working as a blood surrogate at all after the Darla experience. I’d had close calls on appointments before but nothing like this.
The one thing I had no doubt about was the fact that I’d spent a very enjoyable evening in the arms of Dick Cheney. Dick had shown me a whole new side of himself, taking care of me, showing such concern and consideration. Hell, he’d mentally counted down from ten to keep his fangs under control. I wouldn’t tell him right away, but at the moment, I trusted Dick more than ninety-nine percent of the vampires I knew. (Jane and, to a lesser extent, Gabriel excepted.)
I scrubbed a hand over my face, carefully applied makeup be damned. I needed a coffee, desperately. Between the occupational stress, the occasional Darla-fueled nightmare, and reliving the delicious kisses courtesy of Dick Cheney, I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep all week. But I’d seen the coffee pot in the recently unearthed break room. I wouldn’t drink anything made in that pot even if I was immortal.
I craved a latte but figured it’d be a poor show of support for Jane to abandon her to her doubts while I ran to Starbucks.
“Andrea, you OK?”
At the sound of Jane’s concerned tone, I steeled my mind against any potentially alarming thoughts. I mentally checked off the list of things I shouldn’t think of lest Jane pluck it from my mind—making out with Dick, vocational doubts, nearly becoming vampire kibble. And I closed a mental shield around my brain to keep her out. It was nothing personal. She just didn’t need to know about any of that stuff until I was ready to share it with her.
I smiled at Jane as she approached the cash register. “You look tired,” she said.
Apparently, I hadn’t applied the under-eye concealer quite as effectively as I’d hoped. “I’m fine,” I told her. “I’ve just been working a lot lately. Two jobs, you know, lots of commitments.”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jane said.
I tried to keep my face neutral, because it was possible—though unlikely—that Jane didn’t know about that mental checklist of no-no subjects. I wondered which topic I’d have to have an awkward, defensive conversation about: Dick, biting, or money. And then I stopped wondering, because I didn’t want Jane to overhear me.
“What would you think about working here at the store with me?”
My eyes went wide. That was not what I expected.
“Ahh . . . goo-he-ber,” I stammered.
“Well, that was less eloquent than usual.” Jane giggled. “What was that?”
“I don’t know, I just—why?”
“Because you have retail experience,” she said. “I know how to put books in people’s hands, but I don’t know about the more practical parts of running a shop. You know inventory systems and the scary financial tracking programs. You could be my assistant manager, if titles are important to you. You’d make your own hours, and we can discuss pay scale . . . as long as you’re willing to handle those scary financial programs. Because I do not do math.”
I mulled that over. I liked Margie. I didn’t particularly enjoy working at the gift shop, but it was stable. For all I knew, Jane could decide to close up shop next week. Then again, I had Sophie’s hush money padding my pockets. Maybe it’d be worth the risk to be part of something unique and to work with my friend.
“Can you let me think about it for a few days?” I asked her.
“Sure. It took me a couple of days to decide to keep the shop open, so you take a few to decide whether you trust me with your financial well-being,” she said. “No pressure.”
“Funny,” I muttered.
“Also, just so you know, since you’re still able to eat solid foods, you’d run the coffee bar.”
Once again, I had to wonder whether Jane had overheard my thoughts and latte lust. I nodded, pointing to an area of the shop currently housing an off-putting collection of anatomically correct fertility idols. I could visualize a big, beautiful dark wood bar with a shiny brass espresso machine and comfy stools. But given Jane’s tendency to break nonbook valuables, I’d have to throw myself between her and the delicate machinery and demitasse cups. Frequently.
&n
bsp; “A coffee bar is a good idea. You have to have a coffee bar if you’re going to have an independent bookshop. People need a reason besides books to come here.”
Jane frowned. “That makes no sense, but I’m going to trust your judgment.”
7
Try to think of your first postrelationship date as an adventure, within reason. A key rule of thumb: Fun, sexy adventures generally don’t result in emergency room visits.
—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human’s Guide to Healing
Zeb and Jolene’s wedding was exactly the sort of spectacle you’d expect from nuptials involving a giant Styrofoam iceberg and a fourteen-table buffet. And, of course, this followed a rehearsal that had been interrupted by a penis cake, brainwashing, and threats to and from the mother of the groom involving Precious Moments figurines.
According to Jane, this was actually pretty standard for Hollow weddings, with the exception of the werewolves and vampires.
The ceremony itself was held on the McClain pack compound, in the special pasture with the cow pond and the gently sloping hill. It was prettier than it sounded. And in fact, it’d taken quite a bit of fancy talking to get passage onto the compound for the human guests. And for the vampires, it had taken a signed “no-bite agreement” from both sides.
I wished the happy couple all of the luck in the world, but I was just happy to have survived their rehearsal. And I was grateful that the fistfighting and chaos prevented any first-date jitters I might’ve had. Dick was a perfect—if distracted—gentleman all night, between his wedding party duties and the fact that he’d had to drop me off early so he could assist Jane in a deprogramming rescue of the groom.
It still wasn’t the weirdest or worst first date I’d ever been on.
But now that Zeb was “un-whammied” and ready to get hitched, Dick was a devoted and attentive escort. He’d even brought me a white rose corsage to pin to my favorite floaty coral chiffon sundress, which warmed my pale skin and brought out the red tones in my hair. The dress also allowed me to wear a shawl that covered up the bite wounds and bruises on my neck, which were turning a lovely shade of purple-green. So far, Jane hadn’t questioned my above-average use of scarves and high-collared shirts in summer. But I feared that once she was no longer distracted by Zeb’s premarital woes and Mr. Wainwright’s bequest, she would notice my out-of-season accessorizing. I’d have to invest in some neck makeup, the kind strippers use to cover unsightly scars and tattoos.