Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(26)

Will raised his eyebrows, amused. “Sorry. I thought you heard me come in.”

Eurgh. He looked particularly good today, and the bar was set high to begin with. He wore this figure-hugging long-sleeved shirt that was somewhere between maroon and plum, with equally tight khaki chinos. On top of that, the sweet, musky smell of his cologne reached me from across the room. The same one he’d worn all summer. If only smells didn’t trigger memories, I might’ve been able to keep my feelings off my face.

I gave my head a little shake like I was an Etch A Sketch and—my face a blank slate again—returned to my bass playing. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Juliette told me you were here.”

That traitor. “I can’t imagine why she thought that’s something you should know.”

“I asked her where you’ve been. You disappeared.”

Just keep playing. The instrument is way more interesting than Will could ever be.

He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure if it had something to do with me. I can ask the guys to stay away from your table, if it helps.”

I stopped playing. “It has nothing to do with you,” I snapped. “I haven’t been able to practice at home, so I had to get it in somewhere.”

Will dragged over a chair from the wall and sat on it backward, folding his arms on the back. Right. He was settling in, then. Good thing he hadn’t asked for an invitation, because I wouldn’t have given one.

“How come you can’t practice at home?” he asked.

“Crista and Dylan are around every night. Don’t get a chance.”

His face went all soft. “How are they? I miss those kids.”

“They’re fine.” I started playing again. If anything would make it clear I was too busy to talk, this would.

“How’s your aunt?” he asked gently.

I didn’t expect it, but my throat closed over, and my heart started thudding like it was trying to break out of my chest. I could taste bile. My fingers stopped moving on the bass.

Will looked stricken. “Is she … ?”

“She’s alive,” I croaked.

Will studied me. He tended to hold stares a bit longer than most people to begin with, but now it was like he was afraid to blink. He seemed to be cataloguing every one of my skin cells. Like they were telling him what I wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded like he meant it.

For a second I thought he was going to get up. To come over to me? Or to leave? He didn’t, though.

I wanted to thank him for caring. I wanted to tell him I hadn’t really told anyone else here about Aunt Linda, because I didn’t want them to feel uncomfortable. I wanted to ask him to hug me and convince me it’d be okay. “Be careful,” I said instead. “Someone might see you in here alone with me. Who knows what they’d think.”

Will shrugged one shoulder. “I doubt it. No one ever comes down here. We’ll be fine.”

Wrong answer. My skin prickled cold again, and I returned to the guitar.

Will sighed. “I can’t stand how things have been between us. I’m sorry for how I acted at the party that night. I am. Tell me how I can make it up to you and I’ll do it.” Honestly, if he thought I was still angry about the party, he was too far behind to get why I was pissed now. Besides, I shouldn’t have to ask him to stop being ashamed of me. If I had to beg for him to acknowledge me in the hallways, it wouldn’t mean shit if he eventually did. It had to come from him, or else what was the point?

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Whatever. I came here to practice, so I’m trying to focus on that.”

Will nodded carefully, and all at once I wanted to take it back. No. Don’t leave. Say something that’ll make me cave. Say something to convince me I shouldn’t be hurt anymore. “I’ll leave you to practice, then,” he said instead. My shoulders slumped. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I’d insisted he go away, after all. “If you wanna practice at night anytime, though, bring the kids over. Kane still remembers them, and I’m sure he’d love to play with them. You can use our basement, or my room. You can be alone, if you want.”

That was surprising. “Thanks. Maybe.”

He offered me a sheepish smile, and closed the door behind him.



The next Monday, he showed up in Music Appreciation. As casual as anything, like he belonged in there.

Then he settled himself into a spare desk a couple of rows over from me, and, oh crap, he did belong in there. He must have transferred. What in the hell? Since when was he the type of guy to take a music class? My first reaction was to glower. How dare he come in here to ruin my class? If he acted up, I was going to corner him after the lesson and force him to transfer right back out again. This class was important to me. I wasn’t going to let him make it a joke.

I kept trying to catch his eye through the whole class, but he didn’t glance at me once. He kept his attention on the teacher and the textbook. No comments, no laughing, no wry looks around the classroom.

This was exactly the kind of joke the Great, Ethereal Being liked to play on me to keep things interesting. I could picture it up there with dozens of other mystical figures from every religion in existence, watching this on a magical television in the clouds, laughing themselves silly at the bewildered look on my face.