Uncertain, he glances at Christine, who’s sitting next to him.She scoots a little closer, touches his arm, and says softly, “Please.”
Goddamn it, she’s gorgeous. And of course, he can’t say no to her any more than I can, so as soon as we’ve paid our check, we’re out the door. We decide to take my vehicle to the hoedown, so we move Christine’s things to the back of my truck, leaving her car in the diner lot. She seems anxious about the car being stolen, which I secretly think would be a mercy, but Erik reassures her that he’ll buy her another one if that happens.
While I drive, I can’t help mulling over our collective financial situation. Christine is practically broke, and once I sever ties with my family, I will be, too.
Erik is in better shape than both of us. He primarily relies on the bank account left to him by his summoner, but this morning, he told us that he also did some online gambling in the early days after his summoner left him. Erik says it was “easy” to outwit the games and make money. He has now been banned from a number of those apps and sites, but not before he collected a hefty payout from each one.
He also told us he intends to keep the blackmail money. Christine didn’t protest, probably because it came from Firmin Richards, who’s a pervert and an asshole.
Erik has put most of his money in a high-yield savings account, and he invested the rest of it in mutual funds. Both Christine and I nodded like we knew what the fuck he was talking about. Maybe she understood, but I’ve got only the vaguest idea what mutual funds are.
It’s my own fault. I’ve avoided researching and learning some things. Maybe I didn’t want to appear too savvy and tempt my sister to rope me into the financial side of the family affairs. Maybe I figured that after all the pain I’ve suffered, I deserved to focus only on the things that bring me pleasure, like musical theater and songwriting. But I’m starting to feel hungry for more. Erik’s insatiable desirefor knowledge is kind of contagious, I guess.
As it turns out, the event we’re attending is more than a hoedown. It’s part rodeo, part flea market, and part harvest festival. There’s a big barn open to the afternoon air on three sides—clearly adapted for events, not cows. The second I jump out of the truck, the jaunty music coming from the barn teases my ears, filtering through the roar of trucks, the occasional lowing of a cow, the clanging bell of a strongman game somewhere among the festival tents, and the chatter of the people wandering among the booths and livestock pens. My sensitive wolf’s nose picks up a hundred different scents—sunbaked straw, oiled leather, clay dirt, weathered wood, violin rosin, animal musk, sour sweat, hot spun sugar, furniture polish, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne.
I circle the truck to see Christine hopping down without waiting for a hand. Erik climbs down more slowly. His face looks almost incomplete to me without the mask. I love that Christine was able to close those magical wounds of his, but it’s going to take me a little time to get used to seeing all his features at once.
It’s got to be hard for him, showing up here with his face exposed, especially when he’s not used to being around people. His eyes are wide and hard, his jaw tight and his lips compressed. Taut discomfort shows in every line of his body.
Christine, on the other hand, is more keyed up than I’ve ever seen her. She’s practically bouncing in place. “We need boots if we’re going to dance. Mine are in the back with my stuff, but you two will have to buy some.”
“Perhaps we should not dance at all,” Erik suggests.
“Oh no.” She waves a finger at him. “You’re not getting out of this. It’ll be good for you. You pushed me out of my comfort zone—I’m just returning the favor. Raoul, tell him we need boots.”
Of course I have a couple pairs at home—I wouldn’t be a trueson of Nashville if I didn’t. But they are inaccessible right now, and I know what Christine is trying to do isn’t just about a particular style of footwear.
“We absolutely need cowboy boots,” I confirm.
Erik looks at us both tragically but doesn’t complain any further. After Christine finishes putting her own boots on, she leads us toward a big booth with several tables of beautifully crafted leather boots. She selects a black pair with silver thread for Erik and a brown pair with scarlet stitching for me.
“Hats next,” she says.
I groan. “I don’t do cowboy hats.”
But when Erik picks up a black hat and sets it on his dark curls, I suddenly find myself losing my words and rethinking my aversion to cowboy headgear.
“Told you,” Christine murmurs, nudging my arm with her elbow.
“How is he so fucking gorgeous in anything he wears?” I mutter.
Erik’s mouth quirks in a half smile, and when he plops a cowboy hat onto my head, I leave it there.
The music from the barn had stopped temporarily—bands switching places, maybe—but now it spills across the fields again, catchier and more compelling than ever, and I can’t help tapping the toe of my new boot while Christine plants a crimson cowgirl hat on her head. When she turns to face us, her white skin, red lips, and black hair look more striking than ever. My brain immediately starts compiling sentimental couplets that compare her to Snow White.
Since we left the truck, she’s been staying in the shadow of the tents, careful not to walk in the sun for too long. She doesn’t make a big deal of it—the caution is natural for her, an instinct born from years as a vampire. From the little I know of vampires, they don’t ignite in the sun, but they’re sensitive to it. Sunshine can graduallypoison them, like a terrible kind of sunstroke that eventually leads to death if the exposure is prolonged.
I remember Christine’s confession—how her parents tried to transform all their children into vampires and ended up killing her siblings. Sometimes, I’ve wished Philippa dead. I’m not proud of it, but then again, she was never much of a sister to me. She was the favored one while my dad was alive, and then she became a manipulator, a dictator, a jailer in some sense. I can’t remember ever actually loving her, and I’m not sure if that’s her fault or mine.
Christine cared for her siblings, and their loss wrecked her. I can’t imagine the pain of watching two loved ones die. When I think of her or Erik dying in front of me—
“What is it, my pet?” Erik’s voice, cool and gentle, at my side. “You seem distressed.”
A couple of guys in the boots tent glance over at us, their brows furrowed with disgust at the term of endearment he used for me.
“Don’t call me ‘pet’ so loudly,” I mutter. “Pay the vendor, and let’s go.”
With the purchase taken care of, I hurry Erik out of the tent. Christine follows us, then dances ahead toward the source of the fiddle music and the stomping feet.
