“I only got her a few weeks ago when I moved here, but she’s friendly,” Quin added.
Kit nodded tentatively. “Okay. I’ll put these”—he shook the flowers in his hands just that side of too hard, leading to a few precious petals falling to the ground—“in the house.” Kit was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving more petals in his wake. Quin poked his tongue into the side of his cheek to stifle his laugh.
Operation Apologise-to-Kit was, so far, going better than expected.
Quin walked back to the car, opening the door. “C’mon, Mabel. We’ve got a new friend for you to meet.”
By the time Quin got back to the house, Kit was waiting outside again, the vase gone. “You know,” Kit said, with an air of over-practised nonchalance, “part of me wondered if you’d made up the existence of a puppy to get me into your white van.”
Quin held tight to Mabel’s leash to stop her from jumping at Kit. “I wasn’t sure if you liked dogs,” he said. “And she’s not a puppy. Nor, for that matter, do I drive a white van.”
Kit crouched down, shuffling forward as he put one hand out for Mabel to sniff. “How old is she?”
“Five or so,” Quin said, pleased when Mabel gave Kit’s hand a few licks.
“You rescued her?” Kit asked as he changed tack, rubbing both hands over Mabel’s head as she basked in the attention.
“Her owner died, and the woman’s family wasn’t able to take her in.”
Kit looked up, horrified. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“They had kids and cats already, I think,” Quin said, touched by how offended Kit was on Mabel’s behalf.
“They should have got rid of them,” Kit said.
“The cats?”
Kit shot Quin a wicked smile that made his heart beat faster. “The kids.”
Quin chuckled, too loud for how late it was, but he didn’t care. Kit seemed thrown by the sound, but relaxed as he started in on Mabel’s belly when she flopped onto her back, demanding more rubs.
Quin dug around in the pocket of his battered old Barbour jacket. The crinkling packet he fished out had Mabel’s ears perking up, and she was on her feet in a flash. Dejection flitted over Kit’s face, but he schooled his expression back into placidity.
Quin held the treats out to Kit. “You can feed her a few of these. I’ll run it off with her tomorrow.”
Kit took the packet with care, sniffing. “They smell rank,” he said, even as he dived in for one of the mini bone-shaped treats and held it out for Mabel.
“They do.”
“Oh, so you don’t also partake?” Kit asked in such a deceptively neutral tone that Quin didn’t clock the insinuation at first.
Quin pointed to himself. “Werewolf.” Then he pointed to Mabel, who chewed on the treat and looked up at Kit with pleading eyes. “Dog.”
“Doesn’t answer my question,” Kit said.
“I’m not a literal animal.”
Kit shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met a werewolf before.”
“You’re the first vampire I’ve met, too,” Quin said, glad to be Kit’s first werewolf encounter. It made it more special. “And yet, I still know that you’re not a bat.” Kit was more like a feral street-kitten: all claws, mistrust, and defensiveness.
“How do you know, then? I could be a bat.”
“Okay, then. Turn into one right now.”
Kit stood up to his full height, which wasn’t very high at all, considering he only just reached Quin’s shoulder. “I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Never claimed you were a monkey,” Quin said. “But if we’re doing animal idioms?—”
