Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(32)

Now this was the Lara I recognized. Even though she was snapping, however, she was snapping with me, not at me. She shook her head, but half-smiled at the same time. By God, we were making progress! At this rate, with a little positive manifestation and a sprinkle of mindfulness, we’d be making friendship bracelets and inventing handshakes by New Year’s.

Footsteps at the entry to the alley made us both look up. Juliette and Niamh had found us, their heels clattering on the concrete.

“I was texting both of you,” Juliette said. “Where’d you go?”

Lara stood up and folded her arms. “Wasn’t feeling the vibe in there. Call me old fashioned, but I’d take a house party over a group of schoolkids getting high off sugar. Kind of juvenile, don’t you think?”

“Lara, in case you haven’t noticed, this night isn’t about you. We’re here for Ollie. Can’t you pretend to have a good time for an hour or so?” Niamh snapped.

Juliette blinked, looking shocked. Even I was a bit taken aback. Niamh had been pretty quiet toward Lara ever since the great mashed potato incident of 2019, but I hadn’t expected her to openly confront her

Lara and Niamh faced off. It seemed like they might throw down. That, or Lara might even apologize. Instead, Lara pulled her flask out of her pocket, took a deep swig, then handed it to Niamh. I guess it was a gesture of peace, even if it wasn’t exactly an apology. “Why pretend?” Lara asked.

Niamh studied the flask, her face stony.

“Come on, you two,” I said in a quiet voice. “Talk it through, or let it go. Holding grudges isn’t going to solve anything.”

Lara folded her arms. “I’m not the one who—”

Juliette and I both gave her a sharp look, and she cut off midsentence.

Niamh sighed, turned the flask around in her fingers a couple of times, then brought it to her lips and tipped her head back.

Juliette and I glanced at each other with relief. A temporary truce, sealed with a vodka shot. I didn’t even have to break into a solo performance of “Give Peace a Chance.” I counted this as a win, if there ever was one.





12


“Dylan, come out of the water right now,” I said, in what was supposed to be a “firm parent” voice. It had a tinge of panic in it, though, and was probably a touch too high-pitched to strike fear into anyone’s heart. I was torn between not wanting to take my eyes off him in case he drowned, and trying to watch what I was doing with Crista. It’s hard to delicately clean approximately twenty pints of blood from a mystery wound without glancing at your hands every now and then.

“No.”

“Dylan!” So help me God.

“Wanna play! Wanna swim!”

“Ouch, Ollie,” Crista yelped through her tears, pushing my hand away. “Stop.”

“I have to get the blood off.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“It’s only gonna sting for a second, I promise.”

“You’re not cleaning it right. You can’t clean blood with a napkin. It’s going to get sepsis.”

Well, a napkin was all I had. And how the hell did she even know what sepsis was? I ignored her, and turned back to the lake. “Dylan Thomson, if you don’t come here in the next five seconds …” I didn’t finish the threat, because I didn’t know what an appropriate punishment for someone who wasn’t even three years old was. This was only my third day here, and my first day looking after my cousins without an adult nearby. Usually I’d threaten to grab Aunt Linda or Uncle Roy. But they were out God-knew-where with my parents. So here I was, trying to run a dictatorship while my two citizens were staging a coup.

The napkin began to fall apart. It was dark red, and so were my hands, and I was starting to think I might vomit. What the hell had Crista done? Should I take her to a clinic? Would she lose her leg? Should I call Aunt Linda? Or 911?

A shadow fell over us, and out of nowhere, someone was kneeling by my side. “Hey,” the someone said. “Do you need a hand? It doesn’t look like the napkin’s gonna cut it.”

Crista and I glanced up as one. Our Guardian Angel was a guy about my age, with thick dark hair that curled a little at the ends, light brown skin, and a first-aid kit.

I said something that didn’t even slightly resemble English.

“Dad forces me to bring the kit every time I take Kane here,” the guy said, unzipping the bag and fishing through various wipes and bandages. “That’s my little brother. He’s right over there, in the water. This is the first time the kit’s come in handy, though.”

Speaking of firsts, this was the first time I’d ever seen Crista shut up. She was staring at the guy like he’d ridden in on the back of a unicorn. I had a nasty feeling I was looking at him in the same way.

The guy held up a pack of disinfectant wipes. “Is this okay?” he asked.

Was water wet? Was the day hot? Were his freckles perfect? Of course it was okay. Nothing had ever been more okay in all of human history. Someone needed to write a ballad about how okay this was. I needed a picture of this, to submit to the Oxford English Dictionary, to substitute in for the definition of “okay.”

I think I managed a faint nod.

“What’s your name?”

He wasn’t asking me, unfortunately.