Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(39)

“My house. Seriously, it’s overflowing here, all my cousins came up. We’ve had to move things outside with, like, three tables. But our back porch is enclosed, and we’ve got heaters, so you wouldn’t even be cold. Kane would love to see Crista. I told him she lives nearby and he’s always asking to see her. We have so much food, just so much, it’s ridiculous, you have no … am I babbling?”

I grinned to myself and leaned against the car door. From the inside, Crista banged against the window with a closed fist. “Kind of.”

“Yeah, I thought I might be. I’m a bit nervous. Because I’m not sure if you still hate me a little.” He laughed. “But if you don’t … seriously. Please don’t say you’re busy now that I’ve asked you to come over, because that’d be really embarrassing for me. Sorry to put you on the spot, but, for real.”

There was no way this was real. Never in a million years had I expected this. I tipped my head back and let it hit the car. I wanted to say yes. So badly. “The kids really wanted McDonald’s.”

“So tell them you forgot it’s illegal to eat McDonald’s on Thanksgiving. You’d barely be lying. It should be illegal.”

Eurgh. He was making it so easy. Way too easy. “Don’t you live out of town?”

“Twenty minutes, max. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’d have to check with their parents.”

“They remember me, don’t they? It’s not like I’m a stranger.”

“Still.”

“Yeah, still. Look, ask them, then if you’re out of excuses send me a text to give me an E.T.A., okay?”

“Okay.”

“It sounds like you’re smiling.”

“I’m not.” I smiled.

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

He hung up on me before I had time to change my mind. I looked inside the car. Crista shrugged up at me, splaying her hands out like a sassy thirteen-year-old. Dylan was still wriggling in his car seat, tapping his hands on his knees.

Maybe if I bribed them with an order of fries to share and the promise of seeing Will, they’d be down.

My chances seemed good.





14


“Ollie, why aren’t we driving anymore?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t die. That last one was particularly important. Don’t die.

“Ollie?”

“Yeah, uh. We’re here, that’s why.”

“Oh. Why aren’t you getting out, then?”

Excellent question, Crista. Kids were full of excellent questions. How could I explain to a seven-and three-year-old that I was afraid to get out into this too-dark street, walk up that too-long driveway, and ring the too-loud doorbell?

Maybe I could put it in a way that was accessible to them? Like, this is the cortisol that’s flooding the blood, that flows in the veins, that leads to the heart, that’s pumping too fast in the chest of the guy, who’s too scared to knock on the door of the house where Will lives.

I only had three options. Option one, turn back and drive all the way home with two cranky, hungry kids rightfully complaining in the backseat. Ruin their night, let Aunt Linda down, but avoid having to knock on Will’s door. Pros, cons.

Option two, get out and knock on Will’s door.

Option three, sit here for a while longer, and explain calmly to Crista and Dylan all about the cortisol that’s flooding the blood that flows in the—

Okay, fine. Fine. I’d do it.

Dylan, who was still squirming in his car seat, reached up as I unbuckled him and hoisted him out. Crista had no such issues, unclipping herself and quite literally leaping around on the road. Part of me wondered if she’d smuggled some of the leftover vending machine loot into her pockets and eaten it on the drive. I’d seen her do craftier things in my time—she was capable.

Will’s house was pretty much a clone of the houses in Collinswood, with a large, green front lawn that met stairs leading up to a spacious front porch. The house was two stories (of course), and covered in navy weatherboards, with white trimming on the Victorian-style arch windows.

He’d said everyone was outside eating. What if they’d already started? They might not hear a doorbell or knock. Then how would I know how long to wait before trying again? What if Will hadn’t asked permission for us to come, and his parents answered the door and sent us away? Or, worse, what if Will decided he didn’t want us there after all?

I stopped under a streetlight and placed Dylan down to stand. “Let’s wait here,” I said. “I’ll just send Will a text, then he’ll come to get us.”

At least, I hoped he would. If he was allowed his phone at the dinner table, that was. I sent a quick plea to the Great, Ethereal Being that he’d see the message quickly. It was freaking freezing, even for late November, and our breath was opaque enough to reflect the streetlight. By my knee, Dylan started grumbling before I’d even finished the text.

Apparently frigid air was a good prayer conductor, because Will flew open the front door and trotted down the steps within seconds. “What are you doing all the way out here?” he asked. “Come on. It’s ridiculously cold.”

Will looked even colder than I felt, actually. Even in a hoodie and a denim jacket he had his bare hands tucked under his armpits. Dylan grabbed my hand as we started toward the house, but Crista planted herself by Will’s side. She was as determined to claim him as ever.