Page 49 of The Reveal
That makes me think about Franklin Hendry. Does he really want this house? Or does he have a bone to pick with Gran herself? And while it’s difficult to imagine so unimaginative a creature as Franklin Hendry believing that a woman with a deck of cards could tell his future, I wonder if she told him his. And he didn’t like it, so he figured he’d change it. Through me.
I shake all that off as I get ready for my shift. I strap on my weapons, run my fingers through my hair, and congratulate myself for the ten-thousandth time that I was smart enough to cut it all off.
When I go down to the kitchen, I’m shocked to find Savi already there when the sun isn’t so much as an inkling in the sky. There’s nothing but faith to suggest it might ever rise again, that’s how dark it is out there. And despite the warm days, October is coming in fast, so the house is cold this early in the morning. The kind of cold that, in happier times, made me think of getting cozy by a fire with nothing to worry about except how many pumpkin spice lattes I might drink.
Savi is sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in another matching set that is one more sumptuous example of luxury textiles. Her silky dark hair is piled on top of her head, making her cheekbones look more pronounced and her eyeseven moreintense from beneath her bangs.
She is sipping daintily from a mug, and I can smell from the doorway that it’s not coffee. Some kind of tea, I imagine. Or, who knows, atinctureof some kind, the sort that you could always find for sale in the Ashland Farmers Market in cloudy brown jars from witchy women dressed in earth tones. It’s strange the things you miss.
“I’m delighted to see that you’re alive,” she says as she regards me.
I blink at that. “Was there that much doubt? Because last night I was under the impression that everyone seemed to think I could just waltz into Archangel MMA without weapons and be fine.”
“And you were.”
I shoot looks her way as I set about preparing the coffee I’ll take in the truck with me. I remember the way she and my grandmother interacted, as if they knew each other. I think about all the things she told me yesterday and the fact that she’s not a werewolf. Or a vampire.
But that doesn’t mean I know what she is. I just know she’s not quite human.
“Exactly how did you come by all this knowledge about the civilized behavior of the local vampire king?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but it’s a bit early for that. “Because I’ve known about him for years, but I certainly couldn’t describe his habits to anyone.” I clear my throat. “Were you one of his students?”
I’m convinced that’s amusement I see in her gaze when I glance over. “All ancient and immortal creatures have something to teach us,” she says. “If only about the different costs of longevity. Personally, I like to consider myself someone who is always open to a lesson. And I’m happy that in this case, the lesson was not as grisly as some.”
I decide not to tell her that motivational speaking is clearly not her strength. “Me too,” I say. I don’t share with her that there are some lessons that are worse than dying.
They involve living with what you did. And daydreamed about all night. And would almost certainly do again, no matter what I might try to tell myself—all this while, for all I know, he’s got Augie secreted in one of those dark rooms I walked past on the way in.
Maybe the lesson is simple. I’m a terrible person.
“What exactly did he want?” Savi asks, and I recognize that casual tone because I just used it myself. It makes those little alarms ring inside me. I was digging. That means she’s digging now. But I still can’t figure out what she’s diggingfor. “Because if it was to kill you, you would be dead.”
“I’m still puzzling out what it is he wanted,” I tell her, and it rings true because it is true. “I would describe him as ... opaque.”
I see that gleam of amusement in her gaze again. “Vampires do love a mind game or two.” She says this the way I might once have said, offhandedly,puppies love treats, or something else so obvious that it hardly requires comment.
“You know so much about him,” I say, making myself sound admiring. Or that’s what I’m going for. “Or maybe it’s vampires on the whole? I guess I was under the impression that anyone who got close to them ends up as dinner.”
I’m relieved to finish speaking. I’ve never been any good at small talk. Or pretending I don’t know the things I know.
“I’m a very good listener,” Savi tells me. She takes another sip of her drink, and for a moment it’s like I can hear that chanting, though her mouth doesn’t move. Her smile is almost self-deprecating, but I don’tquite believe it. “I listen, I remember. I’ve learned a lot this way. It’s a very underrated talent, I think.”
I am not even remotely satisfied by this answer, but I fill up my favorite travel mug and make myself smile at her when I leave. Then I take myself off to the coffee stand, and it feels deeply and surprisingly good to focus on tasks I could do in my sleep. Opening up the stand. Getting everything ready for the morning rush.
And then spending the rush pleasantly unable to think about anything else but coffee drinks.
Coffee drinks and my instant assessment of the customers in each vehicle. Because I have to decide at a glance whether to hand each drink to the drivers or leave them on the shelf because they look like they might chew off my arm.
Something that was always true about feral caffeine addicts in the Pacific Northwest, it has to be said.
There is finally a lull a few hours later. The smoke has settled in hard after the usual ray or two of sunlight. I use the slower periods to clean up inside, deal with the garbage, and then barricade myself inside the stand once more.
At noon, my coworker’s car pulls up to the drive-through, which is standard procedure. We like to see each other before we let someone into the stand. Just to make sure that no one is, say, sporting a new set of fangs.
That was an example of a lesson learned the hard way.
I smile and start to say hello, but Birdie Jones—who I’ve known since we went to kindergarten together and have been friends with since roughly four seconds after we were dropped off at that Montessori school—lifts up her hand to give me the palm.
“I heard a rumor aboutyou, Winter Bishop,” she says.
