Hah. Crisis-free days...
Oh, well. A girl could dream, anyway. Yearning for a lull in the ongoing deadly danger so I could cast demon-repelling knives from salt and epoxy was yet another way that being a vampire had changed my entire outlook on life. Or on undeath, rather.
Whatever.
Rans checked the bike over and climbed aboard. I swung up behind him, balancing my bag solidly against my back and wrapping my arms around his stomach. I couldn’t help thinking back to the first time I’d ridden with him like this—dazed and half-starved, reeling from a kidnapping attempt by the Fae. In reality, it had only been weeks ago. It felt like years.
The engine roared into life, the bike rumbling between my legs. In no time, we were exiting the private underground garage, speeding toward the unfashionable little bungalow where I’d grown up.
Please let Dad be all right, I thought. Please let him not have made the worst mistake of his life.
* * *
My house—which was technically still Dad’s house—was starting to give off that unkempt ‘abandoned property’ vibe. I had no doubt that the city would be sending me nastygrams about weed ordinance violations and the like before long, assuming they hadn’t already.
Rans parked the Triumph on the cracked pavement of the driveway, and I dismounted. Steeling myself, I squared my shoulders and marched toward the front door. I was only a few steps away when an unexpected feeling of aversion washed over me.
Why did I want to knock on this door again? The place was disgusting. It probably had rats. Or cockroaches. Or those little... silverfish things that scuttled around in the bathroom. My feet stuttered to a halt.
Rans approached from behind me. “Something wrong, love?” Then he came level with my shoulder, and he stopped as well. “Ah. I see.”
Despite the threat of creepy-crawlies and a germ-fest of epic proportions for anyone foolish enough to get closer to the house, he strode forward with an expression of distaste and pounded on the door.
“Edward!” he called. “I know you’re in there, you old charlatan. Open up!”
A few moments later, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing Nigellus’ octogenarian butler framed in the entryway.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me, sir. Miss. Enter and be welcome, Ransley Thorpe... Zorah Bright. You must forgive my little parlor trick—I wasn’t sure who might show up, or what their intentions might be.”
The odd feeling of disgust had faded the moment Edward welcomed us, and I realized belatedly that it must have been the result of a spell like the one he’d used to hide Nigellus’ house in Vallecito. The entire situation was beyond awkward—not only did I have affectionate feelings for Edward because he was a sweet and likable person, but he’d also literally died to protect my father from Myrial in Hell. The demon had torn his body into bloody, unidentifiable pieces of meat, and only the fact that he was magically bound to Nigellus had allowed Edward to be miraculously healed and revived afterward.
For that reason, it was difficult to be mad at the guy. Difficult... but not impossible. Not until I got some answers, anyway.
“Where’s my father?” I snapped.
Edward didn’t miss a beat in response to my less-than-friendly tone. “In the spare bedroom, miss, unless the commotion woke him up.”
I brushed past him, peripherally aware of Rans asking, “Where is Nigellus?” and Edward replying, “Still in Hell, sir.”
The second bedroom was at the back of the house. On my way there, I tried to come up with a calm, rational way to open the conversation with my dad. Seriously—I did. After all, I was a grown woman, and screaming at him in frustration was not a productive way to approach the situation we now found ourselves in.
Hey—I could do rational.
I’d just raised a fist to knock on the door when it swung open, revealing my father backlit in the doorway, a ratty old bathrobe tied around his waist. “Edward, what—” he began, only to cut himself off as he took in my presence. “Zorah! You’re here. Good. I need to tell you—”
“What the ever-loving fuck were you thinking!” I yelled in his face.
SIX
AND... I MEAN... that was a rational question, wasn’t it? Totally rational. On the list of logical questions you asked someone after they’d just sold their soul to a random demon, it was right at the very top.
Dad froze, his mouth hanging open, as though he somehow found the question surprising. I supposed an argument could be made that this exchange was a little out of character for the two of us—normally I was more of a quiet arguer—one who eventually caved because I hated conflict, and then went and silently cried in a corner somewhere afterward.
His jaw snapped shut, and he looked at me with apparent consternation. Which, of course, only made me angrier. We were saved from a further downward spiral in the conversation—if you could call it that—by the arrival of Rans and Edward.
“Perhaps we could continue this somewhere more comfortable?” Edward suggested diplomatically.
I scowled. “Will being comfortable make me any happier about what I’m going to hear?”
“Almost certainly not,” Edward admitted. “But it’s been a very long day, and these old bones could use a soft place to sit down while everyone yells at each other.”
I was seriously pissed off... but not quite pissed off enough to begrudge an old man a chair to sit on. “Fine,” I grated. “The sofa’s not in great shape after the cops trashed the place a few weeks ago, but the armchair should be usable.”
“Very good, miss,” Edward said, and led the way to the living room.
I shot Dad a dark look and followed. The demon-bound butler helped himself to a seat, but Dad hovered. I was too mad to even consider sitting down, knowing there was likely to be
