“You watched us have sex?” I ask again, this time more firmly.
“I thought you could see me, tricky gypsy,” he says with a shrug. “To my knowledge, you knew I was in the room. You even glanced at me several times. I was quite turned on by it. The ghost possessing your body never glanced at me.”
“You watched all of it?” Vance asks as he pinches the bridge of his nose, standing in the middle of the room while wearing nothing but a soft gray robe.
I’m still naked on the bed with the jackass who watched us have sex.
“You’ve forgotten you could see me, and you never bothered to tell me how while the memory was there,” Damien goes on like this misunderstanding is all my doing.
“Why can’t I remember?”
“Arion,” they both answer at once with a dry tone.
I drop back and pull the sheet over my head.
“What’s your past with my family?” I ask from under the sheet.
“Complicated,” they both say, though Damien’s tone is far more amused than Vance’s.
I peek out from under the sheet to stare over the edge of the bed, finding Anna’s ripped dress on the floor. I knew she’d ask him to rip her clothes off.
Wrestling the sheet back around me, I feel the threads whirring as I quickly make a toga out of the sheet. It’s all wrong, but that’s my normal, so I carry on, looking for the…outrageously high heels I forgot Anna wore.
“Can Margie give me a lift home?” I ask Vance, reality hitting hard and quick now that the magical moment is shattered.
“Margie can’t drive. She has panic attacks behind the wheel,” Damien drawls.
I can feel his grin at my back.
“I’ll drive you,” Vance answers, reaching for me as he glares over my head toward Damien.
I let him take my hand, but Damien clears his throat. “Dorian is in Shadow Hills, but he’s not the one who turned those lovely girls you killed yesterday,” Damien states.
Vance’s grip tightens on my hand as I remember to breathe. We just had sex, and my body is still not quite ready for detachment, especially when provoked by even the simplest of touches.
Wait…what did they say?
“You killed—”
“I killed monsters who wanted to die. Anything out of his mouth right now is to sour you toward me. Damien doesn’t like for me to enjoy any moment of pleasure in my life,” Vance quickly informs me.
“On the contrary,” Damien says, that same wry amusement sticking to his tone, “I fully intended to allow you to continue. It’s that battle axe housekeeper you have who interrupted this lovely and entertaining evening.”
They’ve apparently forgotten I’m even standing here, still arguing like it’s all they know how to do.
“You’ve crossed a line,” Vance growls.
“This is my bedroom, as of today. I thought she was aware of me and perfectly content to let me have my moment of voyeurism. I see no lines being crossed, aside from the very big one you crossed,” Damien goes on.
Yep. They’ve truly forgotten I’m even here.
They continue arguing in vague terms, their history clearly more complicated and intricate than I can fathom in one day.
I’m more concerned with the fact a vampire…whose name is once again eluding me…Arion! It’s Arion. I’m more concerned with the fact he’s making me forget things, and I don’t know why.
Neither of them seem overly concerned with helping me solve that puzzle, too wrapped up in arguing about things that likely don’t even really pertain to me. All arguments devolve into old, unresolved arguments when there’s too much bitter history between people.
That’s one thing my mother stressed for reasons that now seem to make more sense.
I turn and walk out, and neither of them even notice. The rug under all the shattered glass quickly flips as the threads dance around me, scattering the glass away to clear a semi-safe path for me to walk.
I need to get back to Anna to see if we’ve found a temporary or permanent fix to the sickness. Hope dares to flutter as I hurry down the stairs and by Margie.
My moment of feeling like a normal woman is now as shattered as all the fragments of glass I’ve had to avoid.
I don’t hesitate to open the door on Damien’s pearl Range Rover, and since the keys are in it, I decide to drive it, considering Anna opted to walk, apparently. Though how she managed to walk here in those heels is beyond me.
No one stops me from stealing Damien’s vehicle. Most of the men moving things into the home don’t even bat an eye at the toga I wore when I streaked by.
Trying not to let Damien ruin this day the way Vance said he was, I hurry home, park, and leave the keys in the ignition. Then I dart in and lock the door.
As I start checking to make sure all the windows are also locked, I call out to Anna.
“I don’t know if I love you or hate you for that, so we’ll stick with my usual answer: I hate you so hard right now.”
I hurry to the next window, checking them all in sequence to ensure Damien doesn’t get to slip in again without sounding an alarm. I find a few I know should be locked but aren’t, and I remedy that, while continuing to call for Anna.
“How are you feeling? Still lucid? Any hallucinations—”
I stop short, and my heart starts pounding in my chest when I see a pile of salt in front of my fireplace. My knees slam hard against the floor, signaling I’ve dropped, as I stare blankly at it.
The lump in my throat doubled in size and then tripled, as the first tear slides down my cheek. My lungs almost feel to be stuck in a vacuum, as my gaze slides over a red envelope with my name on it.
With numb movements, I manage to move close enough to lift the envelope that I struggle to open with my shaky hands. The second I manage to pull out the letter concealed inside, I feel the tears water before the words start to blur.
Secretive Violet,
I’ll regret never earning all your secrets before I had to go. Hopefully, if all goes according to plan, you’ll have had a sensational night, and someone will be there with you to cushion this blow. Because more than anything, I don’t want to feel as though I’ve left you alone.
I stop reading to angrily bat away the tears. I was gullible enough to believe in miracles, and I stayed with Vance while she died alone, too prideful to let me be here with her. No matter if it’s the one thing I asked her for in return.
I needed this closure, and she left me with a cheap goodbye letter instead. My mother did the same thing in the form of a legal will.
“Damn you,” I say on a huff as I stand, gathering my breath and shaking my head as I continue to read on.
You’re likely very angry with me, and I don’t blame you. You never really asked me for anything at all but this. However, you don’t need to suffer to feel closure. You just need to hear the truth. I wish I could give you that, but we both know I can’t.
Unfortunately, the big bad Van Helsing will have to serve as a consolation prize.
I roll my eyes, grinding my jaw as I glance over the next words.
“We so had a three-way. I say this with confidence because we both know you like sex just as much as any other woman. But like all your anger, you bottle it up and give people what they need instead of taking what you want.
If you’re really a vampire-slaying, undying, threading savant, then it doesn’t even matter that you’re horrible at fashion. You’re still possibly the most incredibly interesting person I’ve ever known. I hate you for that, because it makes me envy you.
I’ve only ever envied one other woman, and I hated her unreasonably. But you…I hate you in the best possible way, because I’ve never wanted to be anyone so much in all my life. And you’ve given me a day.
It’s a gift I can never possibly repay, so instead, I hope you take a minute to do things just for you. No matter the consequences. No matter the cost. Do things just because it makes you happy, and to hell with everyone else for just a minute.
Then maybe, just perhaps, I can feel like I’ve given you the only thing I had that was better than you. Because you’re a soft bitch like that, just so you know.
Deuces, my favorite-ever person.
Hate you always and forever,
Anna.
PS—when in doubt, ask “What would Anna do?”
I crumple the paper in my hand as I struggle to catch my breath and swallow back the emotion. I pull it back to throw it in the fire, and change directions at the last second, hitting the wall with it instead, as I hiccup out a sob.
Whispering to nothing, I laugh a little bitterly as I let my head thump back against the wall, sitting on the floor. “I hate you too.”
Something thumps overhead, and I bounce to my feet as my heartbeat thuds in my chest. I didn’t lock those windows yet.
Batting away my tears, I silently chant the salt dance song as the remains of Anna skitter across the floor, slipping into the metallic red urn she picked out.
All the while, I carefully slip up the stairs, reaching for the shotgun I have there. When my fingers just brush the wall over and over, I finally dart a glance over, finding my shotgun gone.
A door swings open from the second floor, and I look up to see a familiar face and a knowing, unimpressed look.
“I’ve spent the day patching that hole in the roof, and decided to retire the shotgun, since your idea of handling that situation was to duct-tape a sheet of plastic over it.”
“It kept out the snow,” I say as if on autopilot, blinking at my father standing before me like it’s perfectly normal and we see each other daily.
He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head in disapproval. “Your house was like a block of ice. It took me hours just to get through the snow in town, or I’d have been here last night. Are you staying in a hotel or something?”
I blink again, still trying to process.
“No. I was…at a friend’s house for most of the evening. I’m sorry, but did I know you were coming?” I ask him, confused.
“No, but I figured I’d come inspect your new home, since you missed yesterday’s call. Then realized I needed to patch the hole before inspecting the home,” he goes on. “That wall in the bedroom is going to take me a day or two to fully repair, and then I’ll have to paint the room. Did it come like that?”
I think that’s more words than he’s used in our past three conversations combined.
“Hi, Dad,” I finally say, laughing under my breath.
His look softens, and he clears his throat. “Hey, kid. You don’t look so hot.”
“A friend of mine just sort of…left town,” I tell him, smiling tightly.
He nods like he gets it, and we both just stand awkwardly.
“So…I see you’re still trying to make your own clothes,” he finally says, and I glance down, reminded I’m inconveniently wearing my walk-of-shame outfit in front of my father—who’ve I’ve not seen in at least eight months—and am in desperate need of a post-sex shower. “Shouldn’t you have worn a jacket?” he adds.