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He stepped out of range, hands raised. “I know I told you to be a nice hostess, but I don’t think this is the time for flower arranging.”
“Geraniums are chock-full of essential oils that stink to high heaven. If I go out there and stir a bunch of it up, maybe they won’t smell you.”
“Good idea.” His hands dropped, and his posture changed. He relaxed, as if he was so surprised by my saying something sensible that he forgot about the doom on wheels rolling up my driveway.
I exclaimed, “I don’t need your sarcasm right now!”
“No, really, it’s a sound strategy.”
“Well, then, I’m not sure how to respond to that,” I said, running my hands under the tap and scrubbing off the traces of his scent.
“The customary response to a compliment is ‘thank you.’ ”
I grumbled, “I’m working up to it.”
5
Vampires do not share emotions readily. Questions to avoid: “Why?” “Why not?” And “No, really, why?”
—The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires
By the time the Council reps unloaded themselves from Ophelia’s black SUV, I’d scrubbed my hands and face again, snagged a clean shirt from the laundry basket at the foot of the stairs, and clipped dead ends from a half-dozen geranium plants hanging from baskets on the porch. I crushed the leaves and flowers between my fingers, sending as much of the bitter green scent into the air as possible.
Offering a guileless smile, I waved like a polite little country girl. I’d only interacted with the Council members at the office. They were intimidating individually, but faced with them en masse on my home turf, I was practically twitching with nerves.
The first out of the car was a blond lady with a slight British accent, who went by Sophie. Despite the fact that even the most ancient vampires had adopted some form of last name to put on government paperwork, she just went by Sophie. She had a Barbie-doll type of beauty, unlined and unpainted, with a weird plastic sheen to her skin.
Sophie was a walking truth serum. If she was touching bare skin, she could yank the truth out of you like a loose tooth. I’d spent several unpleasant hours in her company during the Council’s screening process for humans who planned to work with vampires. That’s when I learned that you don’t refer to Buffy, the Winchesters, or even the Frog Brothers from The Lost Boys in front of Council officials. They do not have a sense of humor about that sort of entertainment.
Then there was Peter Crown, who, as far as I could tell, had never smiled. His special vampire talent seemed to be maintaining a really bad mood for centuries. Mr. Crown didn’t contract with my service, because, as he told me, he didn’t trust a human to get his dry-cleaning right, much less his complicated blood selection.
I didn’t like Mr. Crown.
A Colonel Sanders look-alike improbably named Waco Marchand was possibly the only person on the Council who didn’t creep me out entirely. He was a kind, grandfatherly sort of man, who just happened to have fangs. He smelled pleasantly of hair tonic and carried peppermints in his pockets. I was 90 percent sure I recognized him from a Confederate memorial statue downtown.
And last but certainly not least, Ophelia Lambert. The willowy brunette was wearing a red cardigan and plaid kilt that made me think of wildly inappropriate schoolgirl uniforms. She usually dressed a bit more outrageously, in carefully themed costumes. Her theme was most often “jailbait.” But since she’d started dating Jane’s ward, Jamie, she’d tried to appear a bit more like a nice girl. The femme-fatale bit made Jamie uncomfortable.
Council members were assigned to their precincts regardless of origin, so Ophelia’s and Sophie’s “Continental” presence was unremarkable. I could only guess that Peter’s grumpiness had gotten him kicked out of all of the other Council regions.
As they approached the porch, I took a deep breath and tried to focus on keeping my heart rate even. I smiled sweetly. “Hi, Ophelia, how are you? Sophie, Mr. Marchand, Mr. Crown. What brings you here?”
“How are you on this lovely evening, Miss Iris?” Mr. Marchand chuckled, bending over my hand and kissing it. He had lovely old-fashioned manners, reminding me of my great-uncle Harold.
“Fine, thank you.” I barely resisted the urge to curtsy. It was a near thing.
“I see we caught you in the middle of yard work.” Mr. Crown sniffed, surveying my ratty clothes and the crushed foliage in my hands.
“Well, with my schedule, I have to fit it in whenever I can,” I said pleasantly, although the dismissive tone in his voice set my teeth on edge.
Ophelia cleared her throat. “We need to ask you a few questions, Iris.”
I kept my expression blank, except for a slight frown. “Sounds serious.”
Mr. Marchand patted my hand. “Oh, no, dear, just strictly routine.”
“Well, it’s such a nice night. Why don’t you all have a seat on those benches in the side yard, by the roses? Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Mr. Crown said, looking bored as he scanned the windows of my house. I bit my lip, unsure of what to say next. Ever the social buffer, Mr. Marchand made a few polite comments about the clever arrangement of the garden. I nodded absently, praying that Cal was smart enough to stay out of sight. I didn’t think I’d be in physical danger if the Council found out that I was lying to them, but my business would definitely suffer. My hands began to sweat, the warmth of my skin intensifying the aroma of geranium oil in the air. The smell seemed to distract Mr. Crown, who wrinkled his nose and stepped away from me.
