All Just Glass

Here some of the non-English titles seemed familiar, like a long-ago memory she couldn’t quite place.

Jake’s influence.

She had just reached for one when Nikolas appeared behind her. Sarah snatched her hand back guiltily, as if expecting Dominique to chastise her for seeking such a frivolous waste of time. She had listened to music at home, but it had always been whatever happened to be on the popular-music station on the radio; she had never bothered to consider what her tastes might be.

“Well, I have news you’re going to like, and news I think you’re going to like a lot less,” Nikolas announced with a rueful expression. “Which do you want to hear first?”

“Good news, I guess,” she said. He didn’t look upset, so she imagined that the less-good news was probably one of those vampire-related things she just didn’t like talking about, and not any kind of disaster.

“Kendra confirmed she does know Michael, and that though they do not have an explicit arrangement, he has always been careful not to break her rules. Also, she has four box tickets to Wicked. She thinks you will appreciate some of the themes in it.”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah said. She had never heard of it, so she could only hope that wasn’t the bad news. On the other hand … “Why do we need four tickets?”

“Because she wants to meet you, and has suggested the four of us should attend together.”

So much for Kristopher’s idea of a light, low-pressure evening.

“I assume that’s the news you figured I wouldn’t like as much?” Sarah asked.

Nikolas shook his head. “I may have accidentally mentioned your other problem. Kendra is a woman of great class and style.”

He didn’t say it; he didn’t need to say it. Like some kind of ancient, bloodthirsty mother-in-law, Kendra wanted to get to know the newest member of her line. What better way to do so than a shopping trip?

Goddess help her. She would rather face the hunters.

CHAPTER 21

SATURDAY, 5:31 P.M.

ZACHARY STORMED UP the familiar weathered steps, his fingertips trembling and his breath coming quickly in what anyone who knew him would call a shockingly uncharacteristic loss of control. A streetlamp nearby flickered, and he realized he was throwing off so much wild energy he was disrupting the electrical currents.

Before putting his hand on the knob of the front door, he took a moment to pause, close his eyes and hold his breath until he stopped shaking and his heartbeat calmed. Above him, the lamp flickered once more and then died, leaving his side of the street dark.

Then, eyes cold as steel, he pulled open the door—it wasn’t locked; it was never locked—and moved into the front parlor of the small apartment.

The familiar room made his throat tighten with emotions he preferred not to analyze too closely. From the worn suede love seat and ottoman and the soft velvet curtains to the throw rug and a Tiffany lamp that cast muted light the color of roses and gold about the room and into the small kitchenette, everything was warm and welcoming. Embracing.

There were three doors from the living room entrance; now one of those doors opened and Olivia padded out, clothed in pajama pants and a camisole top of creamy silk.

Through the doorway he could see the human she had left behind on the bed. His name was Vick, and he was a hard-core blood junkie who had been living with Olivia for months. He and Zachary had met and even talked some—enough for Zachary to know he did not want to talk to him more. Vick had no family, no past he was willing to talk about and probably no future at all. His wasn’t bloodbonded to anyone, but that was only because no one had claimed him so permanently. His entire existence consisted of being passed from one vampire to the next, with no desires of his own except to bleed for them.

Vick didn’t even twitch when the door opened. Olivia took one look at Zachary and sighed heavily. “This again?” she asked him. She drifted closer, pausing only to close the door behind her. “After we had such a nice visit earlier.”

“You took pictures?”

She smiled, just slightly. “Not me. But Jerome does love that camera of his.”

“Adianna saw them.”

“So that’s the reason for today’s tantrum.”

She had moved close enough that now she could lay her palm against his cheek.

“Darling,” she whispered, “if you intend to try to kill me, it would help if you drew a knife.”

He jumped at the reminder, his hand going to the knife handle at the back of his neck. The movement was slower than usual as he fought learned reflexes.

Olivia moved her hand from his cheek and across the back of his reaching arm until her palm lay over his hand, at the back of his neck. The motion he had attempted stalled as muscles reacted to a more familiar position, relaxing and arching his throat back.

“Or,” Olivia suggested, “we could do something more enjoyable.”

“No.”

But he couldn’t make himself shove her away.

“So, what? You’ll kill me?” she asked. “And then you’ll go home, having destroyed the one place where you don’t have to be the perfect, flawless Zachary Vida. You’ll have destroyed the only person who welcomes you no matter what.”

She slid against him and stretched her petite form so she could kiss his throat. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he leaned back against the wall, his eyes closing. It was the same reflex that had shut him down at the end of the fight with Sarah.

“Did you really come here to kill me?” she purred.

“Yes.”

She ran a hand up his chest. “You aren’t doing a very good job. No, hush, love,” she said, laughing, when he tried to protest. “It’s okay.” Abruptly, she drew back, pulling a small sound of protest from his throat as she said, “Come. Sit and relax a while. We’ll figure out what you can say to your dear cousin. Was she the only one who saw?”

He took a seat on the plush couch, wondering even as he did what the hell he was doing.

He had come here, once again, to kill her. He had resolved to do so dozens of times, if not hundreds, but every time she calmed him and set him off his guard.

At first, it had just been the fights. The frustration and fear and pain from the battle and any resulting injuries had faded away in the peace that a vampire’s bite could bring. At that point, he had normally woken up in an empty house, long after the vampires had left.

The first time he had woken up with her still there, he had stormed out, refusing to say a word but lacking the courage to attack her.

The next time, she had woken him with a home-cooked meal and apologized that they had taken too much. I can take care of you here, or I can take you to the healers. Your choice. He hadn’t wanted to go to the witches. He would have had to admit to them what had happened.

So he had stayed, and they had eaten breakfast together.

And it had evolved from there, over the course of what had to have been almost two years.

He enjoyed watching her as she moved about the kitchen, her feet bare and her hair down, softly humming some song he thought maybe he knew from the radio as she set a kettle on the stove to boil.

“Why haven’t you killed me?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder as she portioned loose leaves into an old-fashioned tea ball. “I don’t care for killing. I’ve done it when forced to,” she admitted, “but this is nicer. Why? Did you want me to kill you?”

“I don’t know.”