Blessed (10 page)

Yet, despite the extensive damage, I had no trouble snapping my fingers, typing on a keyboard, holding a pen. Evidence of Miz Morales’s formidable healing skills.

“When Ruby staked him . . . do you think any of my uncle’s soul was left?”

“It’s possible,” Miz Morales confirmed. “In which case God could still forgive him if —”

“We stake his heart, cut off his head, and stuff his mouth with garlic?”

She covered my hand with hers. “We don’t have to have an open casket.”

I thought about it, about what my parents would’ve wanted. “Uncle D was Daddy’s little brother.”

She patted my hand, the smooth one. “I’ll call Detective Zaleski and see when the body will be released. The police may want to keep it longer than usual, for study.”

Dissection, she meant.

“Okay,” I agreed. “Closed casket.”

From Kieren’s bedroom window, by the full moon’s light, I spied Miz Morales, still in human form, playing with the mama shepherd and her puppies in the backyard.

Meara hadn’t even begun her shift yet. I had plenty of time.

I ran downstairs to the kitchen, barefoot in my oversize Longhorns nightshirt.

Roberto had picked up a twelve-pack of chicken legs at the grocery store this week. I could defrost a couple in the microwave and suck the juices dry.

I’d hardly reached for a plate, though, when Miz Morales came back inside, buck naked. Damn. Her shift had been a quick one. I could hear the dogs barking outside.

“Quincie?” she asked.

“Just grabbing a snack. You’re in early.”

Meara rolled her shoulders. “I’m afraid I panicked Angelina and had to reverse the shift. I’m not sure if it’s the change in my scent or the sound of the bones cracking, but they’ll get used to it. Dogs always do. Brazos . . .” She shook her head. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” I said, hoping she’d assume I’d eaten while she was out, trying desperately to decide what to say next to Kieren’s very naked mother. Talk about awkward. “Is it hard,” I began again, “always staying in control?”

Of the shift, I’d meant. Kieren had told me how difficult it had been to regain his wits once he’d begun that partial transformation on the railroad bridge. And on our last night at Sanguini’s, for a second there, I’d thought his Wolf might tear me apart.

“You can’t be too afraid of making a mistake to be yourself,” Miz Morales said, splashing off her face at the bar sink, “to do what comes naturally. But you also have to consider the consequences of completely giving in to the moment.” Reaching for a towel, she added, “You know, love, if you ever have any questions or find yourself in a difficult situation . . .”

“About shape-shifting?” I asked.

“About sex,” Miz Morales clarified in a matter-of-fact voice. “I remember Sophie saying that the two of you had had the Talk when you were twelve, but now that you’re a young woman —”

“Oh! Oh, no, not right now, thanks. I don’t need that kind of talking.” I almost admitted that, despite my and Kieren’s feelings for each other, we’d never really gone there. But I didn’t want Miz Morales feeling sorry for me or —

Wait. Why was
she
thinking that
I
was thinking about sex, anyway? How mortifying. Not that I never thought about it. I was sleeping in Kieren’s bed, after all, but it’s not like he was there with me.

Whatever. I had no interest in discussing the issue with his mother.

“We’re both tired,” Miz Morales said, drying her hands. “But that’s a standing offer. Me, Roberto, Meghan, we’re your family now. I know that Kieren’s leaving is an adjustment, for all of us, and you’re also dealing with the loss of your uncle and the horror of what he became. But please know that you can come to me with anything.”

Miz Morales was a first-rate mom, a champ among moms. But I had a feeling that “anything” didn’t include my craving for chicken blood. Let alone human blood. Or that I was trying to prevent the deaths of hundreds of innocents, not to mention their subsequent rise as fiends who might not settle for fowl.

I mumbled “Thanks” and took a step toward the door.

“Quincie . . .” Her predator eyes shone in the darkness. She gestured toward my chest. “That’s Kieren’s.”

The crucifix. It had escaped from under my nightshirt when I ran downstairs. Hadn’t it been his grandfather’s? What would she and Dr. Morales think if I told them I’d fetched it, discarded, from an empty lot?

Before I could explain, Miz Morales grinned wide. “Looks good on you.”

Uncle D had managed to doze through Sunday services without flaming into a human torch, so I suspected I could safely return to my home church or hit Mass with the Moraleses. But instead, because of my “mild flu,” both morning services and my afternoon “study date” with Clyde and Aimee had been nixed, and I’d spent most of the day alone in Kieren’s bedroom, researching.

I’d settled on the white Berber carpet — beneath the window against the far wall — so the back of my open laptop faced the door, just in case someone with Wolf vision strolled in.

I’d wasted quality time online reading up on anemia, catalepsy, porphyria, HIV, hepatitis, Ebola, bubonic plague, and the effects of smoking on blood pressure. Then there was the folklore about bites to various body parts, burial practices, and the dangers of the dead being leaped over by a black hen. Searching
buy blood,
I found a handful of posts on fish bait and a few more by “living vampires” (human wannabes), most of which suggested making friends with the local butcher.

So far, the only thing all my reading had accomplished was to heighten my appetite. I hadn’t had a blood fix since Friday, and a YouTube video of chumming for sharks actually made me salivate.

Checking my phone, I found a text from Dr. Morales, saying the family would be home after brunch with Sergio and Raúl on Lake Travis and asking if I wanted them to bring me home a snack. I passed, but replied that I was feeling better.

Mindful of the dogs barking outside, I resolved to thaw something juicy from the freezer well before the Moraleses got back and then returned my attention to research.

Just ten more minutes. Surely, I could concentrate for that long.

“Bradley Sanguini” had been a stage name. My former chef had gone by Henry Johnson when we’d first met. I keyed that in, trying to replicate a search Kieren had done.

On Sanguini’s opening night, he’d confronted me with a printed list of Web links — some leading to articles that dated back to the 1920s — all attributed to Henry Johnson. I hadn’t taken my Wolf man seriously. Forty-eight hours later, I was undead.

Today a handful of sites pulled up, but
The Gothic Gourmet
listed “Beyond Sashimi and Tartare: Culinary Expressions of Neovampirism” as “no longer available,” and both
Eternal Elegance
magazine and
Underworld Business Monthly
required registration.
Demonic Digest
offered only a preview of Brad’s article.

Hearts at Stake: Gender Politics Arising Post Vampyric Infection

by Henry Johnson

Though an unholy union, the relationship between an established eternal and his neophyte consort mirrors that of traditional human marriages in matters of dominance, fiscal responsibility, and daily management as well as the setting of sexual expectations.

“Miss me?”
a masculine voice whispered over the air-conditioning.

I stiffened, certain I was alone in the room.

The dogs! From outside in the backyard, the mama shepherd sounded wild, barking and snarling. What had set her off?

Moving the laptop aside, I turned, rising on my knees to peer out the window at the sprawling live oak and surrounding historic neighborhood.

Nothing. God, my whole ordeal with Bradley had made me crazy, paranoid.

Then a fist popped up to knock on the window, and I screamed.

Clyde raised his head into view and screamed, too. Then he glared at me and yanked Aimee up beside him on the massive tree branch.

Glad I didn’t have enough blood in my system to blush, I raised the window.

“Little jumpy?” Aimee asked, falling forward onto the carpet.

Climbing in after her, Clyde looked like hell. His lower lip was split and swollen, his cheek and jaw bruised.

“What happened?” I whispered, though the Moraleses weren’t home yet.

Staring at the largely emptied room, the Possum waved me off. “I heal fast.”

“A werewolf slugged him,” Aimee explained, sitting up.

Clyde limped to the desk chair, and with his injuries, I wondered how he’d made it up the tree. “Kieren wasn’t the only trained Wolf scholar in Austin,” he said.

I should’ve thought of that. The city had a loose-knit shifter community made up of runaways and the banished, plus a few werepeople who’d decided to, say, study architecture or business at the University of Texas.

Sinking to perch on the denim comforter, I prompted, “And?”

Clyde’s claws sprouted, retracted. “Let’s just say you shouldn’t quiz a lone Wolf about vampirism if you haven’t made up a really outstanding lie to explain why you need that information.” He blew out a breath. “Mr. Accommodating wasn’t impressed with ‘uh’ for an answer.”

“You didn’t find out anything?” I pressed.

“Nah,” Clyde said. “I think I was barking up the wrong Wolf. I’d bet my tail that when it comes to decoding supernatural crap, Kieren’s the alpha puppy in the Lone Star State. Or at least, he used to be.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say. But I couldn’t help wondering, had Kieren left Texas altogether? Had he confided that much about his destination to Clyde?

God, I needed Kieren so much. Not only did I love him, but I needed him on a practical level. I was failing at the very thing he’d spent his whole life preparing to do.

I slipped a hand over my rumbling stomach, hoping the sophomores hadn’t noticed. Hoping they didn’t realize their arrival had further piqued my thirst.

I mentioned that the Moraleses weren’t home yet.

“We didn’t
have
to climb the tree?” Aimee exclaimed.

“Nice,” Clyde said. “I’m going to grab some ice from the freezer for my lip.”

“Any leads at the library?” I asked Aimee as he ambled out.

“Yes and no,” she replied. “There was the usual victim blaming. Apparently, sinners, alcoholics, suicides, witches, sorcerers, seventh children, highwaymen, plague victims, and the unpopular are more likely to rise undead.” She shrugged. “I did fill out a form for an interlibrary loan on an interesting-looking book published in the 1860s by some Hungarian professor. But it’ll take at least six weeks for it to come in. Then we’d have to find a translator.”

We didn’t have six weeks. We had, damn, less than three. It wouldn’t help to whine about it, though. Nope, I was the one in charge. I had to maintain the morale of the home team. Speaking of which . . . “What’s wrong?”

Aimee had begun quietly crying. “My cousin and I — she’s a food critic for
Tejano Food Life,
we hit the Sanguini’s launch party on Friday night. I only went because Travis was supposed to be working, and . . .”