He switched off the engine. “Is that all you want to do?”
I smiled nervously. “Not really. Let’s eat.”
When I stepped out of the car, I turned in a circle to check out his property. Glass lived in a respectable neighborhood, albeit an aging one by the looks of the oversized trees and the cracks in the sidewalk. The houses were all two-story homes with wood siding. A tire swing hung from the tree next door, and the house across the street had a minivan parked in the driveway with one of those family decals of two kids and a dog. Glass’s house was grey with white trim around the windows, and instead of a boxy look, it had triangular points above the windows and near the top. A low hedge bordered the house from the driveway to the small porch. It was a historic home, and I’d guess one built in the early nineteen hundreds. Maybe older. The exterior had been recently modernized to keep up with the overall look of the neighborhood, but I was willing to bet that not all the houses along this street were as old as this one.
“Is this where Chitahs live? I thought you guys had bigger houses because all the siblings lived together.”
He led me toward the front door. “This is a human neighborhood. My family didn’t like to be around other Breeds.”
“Why?”
He scratched the back of his neck as we stepped onto the brightly lit porch. “They were just private people. My mother was old, sick, and set in her ways. I don’t mind. The humans keep to themselves and barely notice each other.”
The key made a grating sound as it slid in the lock. The first thing I noticed when we stepped inside was the strong smell of lemons.
Glass hung his coat on a hook. While I closed the door, he strolled forward and switched on a lamp. The yellow light illuminated a painting directly over it, but I couldn’t see what it was at my angle. Beyond the recessed wall to my right was a room with the door halfway open. To my left, a spacious sitting room with shadows lurking on a red area rug, chaise lounge, and one of those old wooden globes that conceals liquor. The garage must have been on the other side of that wall, and ahead to the left was a staircase. I realized that despite there being six bedrooms, they must have been of modest size.
“The kitchen’s just ahead. Do you want something to drink while I cook dinner?”
“Drinks would be great. Maybe just a beer if you have one.”
He straightened his brown shirt. “Be right back.”
Glass noisily strode across the wood floor and switched on a light when he reached the back of the house. I could see the edge of a kitchen table just to the right, but he walked left and began rattling pans.
I drifted toward the lamp and admired the oil painting. It was an older woman sitting on a gold chaise, a forest-green dress covering her feet and a pearl necklace adorning her wrinkled neck. Despite her resplendent surroundings and attire, her face was bereft of color—stark and expressionless. She had white hair pulled back tight so that your eyes were drawn to the emerald earrings on her ears. The painter hadn’t made any embellishments; he’d painted her just as true as she must have looked in life: her earlobes slightly long from the weight of the gems, her translucent skin revealing the dark veins that were mostly raised on her hands, her withering lips tinted with a rose color meant for a girl in her prime.
I set down my purse and turned around, realizing she was sitting in the same chair as the one in the sitting room. “Is this your mother?” I yelled out.
Glass’s footsteps echoed in the hall as he joined my side and handed me a bottle of beer. “Yes, that’s her.”
“She’s a dignified woman.”
He gazed at the image. “She was well-bred, with exceedingly high expectations, so when my father squandered most of her inheritance, it changed her. I think she married for love, but they were together a good many centuries before I came along. It’ll be a few minutes before dinner’s ready, so make yourself comfortable. Just don’t go upstairs,” he said, heading back to the kitchen. “I’m in the middle of remodeling.”
“Must be why I smell all the cleaning products.” I turned in a circle. Glass had held on to his mother’s antiquated style after her death, but it was good for him to finally gut the house and make it a place of his own. It had a lot of potential.
“Hope you like steak!” he shouted.
“Sounds great.” I took a swig of beer and grimaced.
If Glass lived in the human district, it made me wonder how many neighbors I’ve had who were immortals. I could see the allure of privacy, but it seemed like a hassle having to deal with property tax and human laws. Even though I was once human, I wouldn’t live with humans if I didn’t have to. I’d rather live in an isolated place, like Keystone. No homeowners’ association to worry about, no tax, no neighborhood watch, I can sit on my roof without someone calling the police.
I poked my head through the open door of the front room and switched on a light. Nothing to see but damask wallpaper in vintage green, crown molding, baroque furniture, and dozens of china plates with painted flowers sitting inside a curio. I could imagine Glass’s mother sitting in the chair, cross-stitching and gazing out the front window at children playing in the street.
This place looked like a museum—as if his mother had never left. Hopefully the remodeling upstairs would move this house into the current century. Everything I’d seen so far looked like something out of a Jane Austen book.
I took a leisurely stroll toward the kitchen and passed a short hall on the right. There were three doors on each wall—the one at the end leading to a bathroom. I peeked inside the two rooms and saw nothing but storage boxes. Glass didn’t come from a big family, yet the house made me think they were holding out for grandkids.
While Glass was busy in the kitchen, I turned around and went to the table where he’d laid down his wallet. You could learn a lot about a man by what he carried in his wallet and glove compartment, and since I didn’t have the keys to his car, my nosy self wanted to go through his personal things.
I stroked my fingers over the black leather. Would I find family photographs? Nudie pics? Business cards? Fast-food coupons? Some of the men I’d killed kept a list of women’s phone numbers written on paper or the back of a business card. Pretty old fashioned. Most Breeds only needed one credit card with their alias that worked in all Breed locations. I suppose part of me just wanted to make sure he wasn’t a jerk who had booty-call numbers tucked away with a condom.
“Raven?”
I snapped my hand back and glanced up. Glass stood in the hall with a butcher knife in his hand.
“Yes?”
