“Nice job.” She waggles her eyebrows and invites us both over for cookies next week. “I figured we get the gang back together. Turns out Manimal is my sister’s mailman.”
“And there I thought he lived in one of those caves in the foothills.”
“See him every day and he’s as horrible as we suspected. I even tried to sweeten him up with cookies.”
“Some people just don’t know what’s good for them.”
When we part with a promise of a recipe exchange and to keep in touch, Grey chuckles softly.
“Are you amused by my ability to coax older women out of their best-kept secrets?”
“Cookie secrets? You’re quite popular,” Grey says.
“The talk of the town,” I say facetiously.
“You’re friends with young and old.”
“And in between.” My phone beeps.
“And you get a constant stream of text messages.”
“Those? Pshaw. They’re spam, and I don’t mean the meat-like product in the can,” I say dismissively.
“Do I want to know what a Manimal is?”
“A man-animal hybrid, obviously.”
“And I’m a Viking.”
“I had to keep myself entertained on the airplane.”
I tell him the story about meeting Goodie and the Manimal in the seat between us, leaving out the part about how my Viking warlord sketch rode in to save me. We soon figure out we were on the same flight and our conversation opens from there, with us chatting about travel.
Wrapped up in the fact that Grey is talking to me like a human and not a reanimated cave beast, I forget that we’re about to embark on a trip until later that night.
As I repack my suitcase, my chest feels unusually achy. The forecast predicts rain. I’ve noticed that weather changes bring on a dull, almost arthritic pain along my breastbone. The doctor said I may sometimes experience phantom sensations.
Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten rid of the vampire-spider-ghoul from my past. However, I haven’t heard from Todd since earlier today and am relieved. He probably found something else to occupy his time—a mistress, a business scam, or other sketchy dealings done under the guise of the prestige given to his family name and job.
It’s already dark, but the night is pleasantly mild and the moon rises in the sky. I’m about to settle in when I remember I put off picking up the prescription at the pharmacy. I slide on the metallic ballet flats, head outside, and hurry along the lantern-lit path.
Thankfully, I get there minutes before they close. Prescription in hand, as I return to the lane that leads to Blancbourg, a figure enveloped in shadow approaches from the other side of the street.
Where is the sun or a silver bullet when I need it?
As I near the gate to the manor, I glance over my shoulder. The man takes shape. He’s slender, pale, and his eyes are dark. Could be a vampire. But no, it’s the Spider.
I hasten, but it’s too late. There is no avoiding Todd, my ex-fiancé.
18
GREY
Ipad through my room in Blancbourg manor, admiring the vista of the moon shining off the lake in the distance.
My career has taken me around the world. Unexpectedly, I feel at home in Concordia. I snort at the notion offeeling—I felt the warmth of the sunshine on my skin earlier. The cold of the ice cream on my tongue and something I cannot name when with Everly. I guess that’s progress.
The only two other places where I experience rootedness and belonging are on the football field and Isle Royale, north of the Upper Peninsula in Michigan. It could be the silver tint to the light that both places have in common so far north, the hint of crispness in the air even in summer, or something else altogether.
