“Chocolate and booze,” she said. “You do know how to woo a girl. You’ve got mail, by the way.” She bobbed her head toward the side table, then headed for the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I mumbled after her, picking up the pile. Apparently the post office hadn’t completely caught up with my change of address. I set aside magazines, interesting catalogs and bills, and dumped credit card offers addressed to “Merit, Vampire” into a pile for shredding. There was also a wedding invitation from a cousin and, at the bottom of the stack, a small crimson envelope.
I flipped it over. The envelope was blank but for my name and address, both written in elegant white calligraphy. I slid a finger beneath the flap and found a thick, cream-colored card tucked inside. I pulled it out. It bore a single phrase in the same calligraphy, this time in bloodred ink:
That was it. No event, no date, no time, and the back was completely blank. The card contained nothing but the phrase, as if the writer had forgotten, mid-invite, exactly what party she’d been inviting me to.
“Weird,” I muttered. But the folks my parents hung out with could be a little flighty; maybe the printer was in a hurry, couldn’t finish the stack. Whatever the reason, I stuffed the half-finished invite back into the pile, dropped the pile back on the table, and headed for the kitchen.
“So, my boss,” I said, “is kind of an ass.”
“Which boss did you mean?” Catcher stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He glanced back at me. “The asshole vampire or the asshole sorcerer?”
“Oh, I think the name applies pretty well to either.” I took a seat at the kitchen island.
“Don’t take Darth Sullivan personally,” Mallory said, twisting a corkscrew into the wine like a seasoned expert. “And really don’t take Catcher personally. He’s full of shit.”
“That’s charming, Mallory,” he said.
Mallory winked at me and filled three wineglasses. We clinked, and I took a sip. Not bad for a last-minute quick-stop find. “What’s on the menu for dinner?”
“Salmon, asparagus, rice,” Catcher said, “and probably too much talk about girly shit and vampires.”
I appreciated the light mood. If he could leave our issues in the Sparring Room back in Cadogan House, I could, too. “You are aware that you’re dating girly, right?” I asked. Mal may have loved soccer and the occult, but she was all girly-girl, from the blue hair to the patent leather flats.
Mal rolled her eyes. “Our Mr. Bell is in denial about certain issues.”
“It’s lotion, Mallory, for God’s sake.” Catcher used a long, flat spatula and the tips of his fingers to flip salmon in his sauté pan.
“Lotion?” I asked, crossing my legs on the island stool and prepping for some good drama. I could always appreciate being the audience for a domestic squabble that had nothing to do with me. And God knows Mal and Catcher were a constant source—I’d been able to give up TMZ completely, my need for gossip sated by Carmichael-Bell disputes.
“She has, like, fourteen kinds of lotion.” He had trouble getting out the words, his shock and chagrin at Mallory’s moisturizer stockpile apparently that intense.
Mallory waved her glass at me. “Tell him.”
“Women moisturize,” I reminded him. “Different lotions for different body parts, different scents for different occasions.”
“Different thicknesses for different seasons,” Mallory added. “It’s pretty complicated, actually.”
Catcher dumped a cutting board of trimmed asparagus into a steamer pot. “It’s
lotion
. I’m pretty sure science has advanced to the point that you can buy a single bottle that will take care of all that.”
“Missing the point,” I said.
“He’s missing the point,” Mallory parroted. “You’re totally missing the point.”
Catcher snorted and turned to face us, arms crossed over a Marquette T-shirt. “You two would agree that the world is flat if it meant you could gang up on me.”
Mallory bobbed her head. “True. That is true.”
I nodded and grinned at Catcher. “That’s what makes us awesome. A force of nature.”
“What’s bad about this conversation,” Catcher said, pointing at Mallory as he stalked toward her, then waggling his finger between their bodies, “is that we’re dating. You’re supposed to side with me.”
Mallory burst out laughing, just in time for Catcher to reach her and nab her glass of wine before Cabernet sloshed over the top. “Catch, you’re a boy. I’ve known you for like a week.” Two months, actually, but who was counting? “I’ve known Merit for years. I mean, the sex is great and all, but she’s my BFF.”
For the first time since I’d known Catcher, he was speechless. Oh, he sputtered a little, tried to get something out, but Mallory’s pronouncement stopped him short. He looked to me for help. If I hadn’t been amused, the desperation in his eyes would have moved me.
“You’re the one that moved in, Slugger,” I said with a shrug. “She’s right. Maybe next time you should do a little of that famous Bell investigatory work before you sign up for the full ride.”
“You two are impossible,” he said, but wrapped his free arm around Mal’s waist and pressed his lips to her temple. Just as I was visited by a pang of jealousy that tightened my stomach, I heard a car door shut outside.
“Morgan’s here,” I said, uncrossing my legs and bounding off my stool. I glanced back at both of them and pressed my hands together. “Please, for the love of God, have clothes on when I get back.”
I smoothed my hair as I traveled the hallway, then pulled open the front door. He’d parked an SUV in front of the brownstone.
Correction, I thought, as Morgan popped out of the passenger side—Morgan’s driver parked the SUV. I guess Morgan preferred to be chauffeured these days.
I stepped outside, hands on my hips as I waited for him on the stoop. He strode toward the house, dressed in jeans and a couple of layered T-shirts, a shamelessly happy grin on his face, a paper sleeve of flowers in his hand.
“Hello, Chicago’s newest Master.”
Morgan shook his head, grinned. “I come in peace,” he said, and bounded up the stairs. He stood on the step below mine, which put us nearly at eye level. “Hello, beautiful.”
I smiled down at him.
“In the interest of détente between our Houses,” he said, leaning in and lowering his voice to a whisper, “and to celebrate this historic meeting of vampires, I’m going to kiss you.”
“Fair enough.”
He did, his lips soft and cool against mine, the length of his body warm as he pressed in. The kiss was sweet and very, very eager. He nipped at my lips, whispering my name as he did it, hinting at the depths of his desire. But before we’d gone further than propriety would have allowed, given that we were standing on the stoop in full view of the street, he pulled back.
“You look”—he shook his head as if in awe—“outstanding.”
He grinned up at me, dark blue eyes alight with pleasure . . . and what looked like pride.
“Thank you. You don’t look half bad yourself. I mean, you’re a vampire, but that’s not really your fault.”
Morgan clucked his tongue and leaned around me, gazing through the open door. “You should be affording me the Grateful Condescension I’m due. Is that salmon?”
I appreciated that the boy’s love of food was nearly as big as mine. “That’s what I hear.”
“Sweet. Let’s go in.”
We made it as far as the hallway before he stopped me, before he sidled me against one of the few parts of the wall that weren’t covered in Carmichael family photographs. Then he tucked his index finger into a belt loop on my jeans and tugged me closer.
He leaned in, smelling of bright, grassy cologne. It was kind of an odd smell on a night-dwelling vampire.
“I really didn’t get a chance to say hello and good night properly,” he murmured.
“I think you were gearing up for the salmon.”
His voice was barely audible, a sultry rustling of sound. “Exactly. I got distracted, and I really don’t think I gave it my best.”
“In that case . . .” was all I got out before his lips found mine. This kiss was just as eager as his last had been, his mouth hungry and urgent, tongue teasing and insistent. His hands slid around my back, enveloping me in his arms and his spring-green scent. He sighed at the contact.
“Hey, did Morgan ever—Oh, dear God.”
Morgan’s head popped up, and we both looked to find Mallory just outside the kitchen door, hands over her eyes. She waved.
“Uh, hi, Morgan. Hi. Oh, God. Sorry,” she sputtered, and
immediately turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen.
I grinned happily. “And
now
she knows what it feels like.”
“Except we were actually clothed,” Morgan pointed out, then looked back at me with a knowing smile. “But we could remedy that pretty easily.”
“Yeah, getting naked to teach Mallory a lesson ain’t real high on my priority list.”
He barked out a laugh, leaning back with the force of it, our bodies still pressed together at the hips, then smiled down at me, eyes bright, grin wide. “I missed you, Mer.”
I couldn’t help it—my smile faltered, and I hated myself for it. I hated that I couldn’t return that careless, joyous smile. I hated that I didn’t—or maybe just didn’t yet?—feel that same spark that lit Morgan’s eyes. I wondered if it could grow, with time and with nearness. I wondered if I was being too hard on myself, expecting too much to think that I could fall for someone after just a few weeks. Maybe I needed more time. Maybe I was vastly overthinking it.
Morgan’s smile dipped a bit at one corner. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just . . . It’s been a really long night.” That was entirely true, so it was really only a lie of omission.
“Yeah?” He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “You wanna talk about it?”
“Nah, let’s go get some food and make fun of Mallory and Catcher.”
He closed his eyes, a tightness at the corners. I’d hurt him, by not telling him about my night, by not sharing more of myself with him, and I slapped myself mentally for it. But when he opened his eyes again, his expression was forgiving, a corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile. “You’re going to have to help me out here, Merit. I can’t be the only one doing this.”
I gave him points for honesty, and for not saying that I owed it to him to try, given that Ethan had all but ordered our courtship. I half smiled back at him, simultaneously feeling a sense of relief, that at least he’d put the relationship issue out there, and a sense of foreboding, that I was going to be the one to bring that relationship down around us.
“I know,” I said. “I know. I’m really about as good at relationships as I am at being a vampire. I’m kind of a smart but surprisingly inept girl.” That was the entire truth.
Morgan laughed full out, then pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Come on, genius. Let’s eat.”
Dinner was ready by the time we made it into the kitchen, our fingers linked together as we walked. Morgan slipped his hand away and presented his bundle of red-tipped white tulips to Mallory. “Thanks for having me over.”
“Oh, these are gorgeous.” She enveloped him in a hug he didn’t look like he was expecting, but seemed inordinately pleased by. “And you’re welcome. We’re glad you could come.”
Mallory gave him a bright smile, and gave me a concealed thumbs-up, then set about finding a vase for the flowers while Morgan and Catcher said their manly hellos—consisting of a symbolic head bob from Catcher (of the “You’re in my lair now” variety) and a responding nod from Morgan (of the “You are clearly the king of this castle” variety).
A vase in one hand and the flowers in the other, Mallory paused at the threshold of the kitchen. “Merit, do you need blood?”
I didn’t even need to think about it. Although I hadn’t had a run of overwhelming bloodlust since my first week as a vampire—the First Hunger that had led me to nearly plant my fangs in Ethan’s neck, and a second bout of drinking roused by an unpleasant discussion with my father—I wasn’t going to
risk it, and tried to be preventative by drinking the
Canon
’s recommended pint every other day. Vampires were hardly the monsters we were made out to be in fairy tales and television shows. We were hardly different from humans, but for the genetic mutation, fangs, silvering eyes, and periodic penchant for blood.
What? I said
hardly
different.
“Yes, I need blood,” I told her, petulant as a teenager reminded to take her vitamins, and snatched a bag of Blood4You Type A from the refrigerator. Although Mallory, as a now-former ad exec, found the name embarrassingly sophomoric, she appreciated not being my lunch.
I glanced back at Morgan, waved the bag at him. “Hungry?”
He moved closer to me, gaze surprisingly possessive, arms crossed over his chest, and leaned down. “You realize that we’d be sharing blood?”
“Is that a problem?”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “No, no. It’s just. . . .”
He paused, and I blinked. Did I miss something? I tried to flip mentally back through chapter three of the
Canon
(“Drink Me”), which discussed some of the etiquette of vampire drinking. Vampires could drink directly from humans or other vampires, and I’d witnessed firsthand the sensuality of it when Amber had been Ethan’s beverage of choice. But the intimacy of drinking prepackaged blood in front of an audience escaped me. I’d seen Ethan do it just the other day.
On the other hand, Morgan was a Navarre vampire, prohibited from drinking blood directly from humans. The
Canon
didn’t get into the emotions of it, but maybe even drinking from plastic assumed a greater importance when it was the only way you could share the act.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
He must have reconciled my ignorance, as he finally smiled
back. “Must be a House thing. Yeah, I’ll take a pint. B if you have it.”