(Don’t Fear) The Reaper - Blue Öyster Cult
“Who’s that?”
Tucked behind a textbook, Neev peered over it and her glasses at the street below. Her comment had me glancing up from my own book.
We were currently sharing my reading nook as, a new and unexpected perk of almost dying, Neev was being clingy.
It came as quite a surprise that I enjoyed her hanging around me like a bad smell.
“I don’t know.”
“Fancy car.”
Understatement—the fanciest of fancy. It looked like the type of car some royal family member would use as a runaround.
“Might not even be coming to our house.”
Smirking when the intercom sounded, she took on Ma’s Irish accent like a pro: “I have the Sight, dontcha know?”
Tiredly, I clambered to my feet because my morning Pilates class had worn me out, Currau had been a pain in my ass, and ER training didn’t magically predispose me for geriatric care no matter what Stan thought.
Mid-stroll into the living room, I tugged my hair into a high ponytail, only to pause when I saw the man himself, hair askew, cowlick firmly in business, yawning as he hit the buzzer then offered our visitor dead silence.
“Um, hello?”
“What?”
“Is this Mr. Valentini’s residence?”
More silence.
“Excuse me?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My employer?—”
“Who’d that be? Irish? Russian? Chinese?”
“Um, American?”The other guy cleared his throat.“Miss, you’re American, right?”
“Born and bred.”
The speaker, a woman this time, had Stan scowling. “What’s her name?”
“Ms. Brackton?—”
“Anastasia or Yseult?”
“Ms.”He zuzzed the ‘s.’
“Fine. I’m coming down.”
“Ilya’s stepsister?” I inquired as he released the intercom button.
Stan frowned at me over his shoulder. “Thought you were reading?”
“Thoughtyouwere napping.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “What’s going on, Stan?”
