I step in closer, baring my fangs. “But hear me,witch, the candle may preclude me from harming you, but not your human friends. If I’m called by anyone else, don’t be surprised when I drain them dry. I am not somethingto be lent like a cup of sugar.”
She holds up both hands. “Understood, Advocate. This is the last time I request your services… for a friend.”
Disgusted and hardly satisfied, I break into shadow and return to the darkness, desperate to distract myself from the taste of the woman that still lingers on my lips.
4
Hindsight and Hangovers
ELOISE
In the dream, I sit on the edge of our property, wind battering the sandstone cliffs and churning the river below. Mom yells something, but I can’t make her out over the deafening rush of wind and water. My father hurries toward us, our old dog Max at his side. Max reaches me first and pokes me with his nose —harder and harder— until I can’t ignore him any longer.
I wake to a slippered toe delivering a hard nudge to my ribs. “Owwww!”
Grams leans over me, blinking rheumy eyes that nearly match the turquoise turban she's wearing. “Are you an alcoholic, Eloise?”
I rub my side. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’re sleeping naked in the middle of the parlor next to an empty bottle of rosé.”
My eyes widen. Last night comes back to me in a maddening rush of images and sensations. Mortified, I slide out from under her and snatch my bathrobe from… where it’s folded under my head? Weird. I wrap it around myself, doing a double take when I see the wine bottle is empty. I definitely left at least half the bottle. It seems my vampire advocate has helped himself to the rest.
Not a vampire. Why didn’t he want to be labeled with that term when he so obviously fits the description?
My hand shoots up to rub the spot where he bit me, but the skin is smooth. I check the slope of my neck in the decorative oval mirror on the wall. Perfectly intact.
I whirl. The symbol is gone. The floor is clean, although the rug is still rolled. The candle and the knife are not where I left them. The box is squared on the mantel. Did he put them away? I rub a hand down my face.
“You’re awfully jumpy this morning. What’s going on? And why is the carpet all rolled up like that?” Grams folds her skinny arms over her French terry sweater and pops out her hip.
“You look good today,” I say, hoping to redirect the conversation.
“Well, once they take you off the chemo, all you have to deal with is the cancer, not the damn side effects.” She sighs. “Today is a good day.”
“Let’s have breakfast.” I place a hand on her shoulder and turn her toward the kitchen.
“Don’t try to distract me, Eloise. What the hell went on here last night?” She points a knobby finger at the carpet.
I don’t like lying to my grams but, if I told her the truth, she’d probably have me committed. “Just something I’m trying. Um, exercises to help me manage stress. You know, getting in touch with nature and my inner warrior.” When Grams stares at me blankly, I add, “It was Maeve’s idea.”
That seems to appease her. “Well, that explains it. Crazy follows thatwoman wherever she goes.”
“She’s a highly accomplished lawyer. She’s representing me, you know.”
Grams shuffles toward the kitchen. “Don’t get me wrong, dear. I was crazy, too, when I was your age. All my favorite people are.”
A ball of lead forms behind my sternum. Do I have a responsibility to tell Grams that Tony is suing me for the house? After all, if things fail to work out with thisadvocate—my God, I don’t even know his name— she should be prepared for what will inevitably happen next. She deserves to know the truth.
I hide my mouth behind my hand as a yawn splits it wide open and make a beeline for the coffee machine. I’ll break it to her after breakfast. No sense ruining what is left of her meager appetite. “I’ll put the parlor back together later. Good as new, I promise.”
“No rush.” Grams gives a deep, choppy chuckle as if she’s heard a dark joke. “It’s not as if I’m expecting guests. Not while I’m alive to greet them anyway.” I cringe but she keeps going. “I do love that room. It reminds me of my father-in-law. He used to photograph séances there, you know. Everyone in town wanted an invitation to one of his spirit soirees.”
I avoid addressing her earlier comment and latch on to the soirees. “Do you think he really believed in all that stuff?”
“Oh, he believed. It was all the rage in the ’20s. Photography wasn’t overly sophisticated then, and there were often artifacts in the old photographs that people assumed were ghosts. And when would there be more ghosts in the room than during a séance?”
“Creepy.” I poke the coffee machine button as if it willmake it brew faster. Poke, poke, poke. I mumble a warning to it about buying a Keurig.
