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“It’s nice that you’re so modest.”
“He treats me special, not because of who my parents are or because I’m pretty but because, just because that’s his way,” she rambled. “He’s gentle and sweet and he loves me. And I love him.”
“I know.”
“And you love Zeb.” She giggled, the alcohol in her having clearly convinced her that this was a revelation.
“Yep.”
“But not in a love-love way,” she said suspiciously.
“Nope. I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who engages in mind-blowing sex with me and then doesn’t return my calls for two days, but a boyfriend all the same.”
“Good. ‘Cause otherwise”—she heaved a drunken sigh and then giggled—”I’d have to kick your ass.”
“I’m aware.”
The cousins turned around to see us hugging and collectively rolled their eyes. We straightened up and focused on the show.
“Speaking of your groom-to-be, where has he been lately?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him in almost a week. Please don’t take this as a gripe against him being in a grown-up relationship, but normally he comes by the house every once in a while.”
Jolene rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. “Mama Ginger’s been runnin’ him ragged doin’ chores around their place. She said she’s afraid that after he’s married, I’m goin’ to run him ragged, and he’s not goin’ to have time to take care of ‘his poor agin’ parents’ anymore.”
“But Zeb has never done chores at his parents’ place. They don’t do chores at their place. Instead of raking their leaves, they just set fire to their whole yard every fall.”
“I think he’s just doin’ it to keep her off my back, poor thing,” Jolene said. “The more he does, the less she complains about him ‘abandonin’ his family.’ Of course, she still complains about me, but that’s different …”
A shadow seemed to pass over Jolene’s face. Her lip trembled, and I was afraid the drinks had caught up with her. I reached for her hand, but she straightened and took a deep breath. She stretched a too-wide smile over her face and turned her attention back to the stage.
“I wonder how much he spends on body waxin’?” she mused.
I smirked. “It’s probably a tax deduction. It’s a necessary item. I mean, it takes a little hair and a lot of confidence to dance around in that get-up.”
We tapped glasses. Jolene snorted. “Confidence and a couple of gym socks.”
After pouring several drunken lady werewolves into bed, I drove the McClaine van to River Oaks, taking a shortcut through a sketchier part of town. It was two streets over from where the shop is located. As I passed the Silver Bullet, a bar known for less-than-savory vampire traffic, I saw my grandma Ruthie’s new beau walking out of the place, carrying a case of canned drinks. I managed to stop the van, no small feat for someone unaccustomed to piloting a land yacht, and pulled into a dark corner of the adjacent parking lot.
Without enhanced night vision, I wouldn’t have been able to make out the labels on the cans, which read, “Silver Sun Senior Health Shakes.” It was the same kind of can Grandma Ruthie was toting around for Wilbur in her purse.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence that he’s walking out of a vampire bar at four A.M. carrying mysterious beverages,” I murmured to myself as Wilbur hefted the case into his car. He looked around to make sure that no one was looking and popped the top of one can. He drained it in a few gulps, tossed it into a nearby Dumpster, and drove off.
“Well, at least he doesn’t litter,” I muttered.
Unfortunately, I found that Wilbur hadn’t tossed the can into an easy-to-find spot in the Dumpster when I inevitably climbed in to retrieve it.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I grunted, sifting through endless beer bottles and newspapers drenched in a substance I dared not consider. “This is not normal, rational behavior, sifting through three days’ worth of extremely pungent bar garbage to find your future step-grandpa’s recyclables. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable, rational explanation for Wilbur being here. This is probably just some black-market health shake with ingredients that aren’t approved by the FD—oh, dear gah!” I squealed as something squirmed beneath my feet. I grabbed the can, leaped out of the Dumpster, and did the freaked-out girl dance for a few beats.
There was no list of ingredients on the side of the can. I held my “prize” to my supersensitive nose and sniffed. I sensed herbs, vitamins, some supplements for joint health (OK, that part was touted on the label), and beneath the slightly chalky bouquet, there was blood. Cold, dead pig’s blood.
“OK, maybe there’s not a reasonable explanation.”
I drove myself crazy over the next few days making complicated but ultimately useless “Explanations for Wilbur’s Drinking Pig’s Blood” line charts on legal pads.
This near-Oliver-Stone-level conspiracy theorizing kept me absorbed right up until the process server arrived on my doorstep. Jenny’s lawyers were demanding that a forensic accountant look through all of my financial records to determine whether I’d sold precious Early family heirlooms to pad my personal bank accounts during the course of her lawsuit. Against my better judgment, I had told Mama about the settlement, to assure her that I was financially secure for eternity and would never, ever need to move in with her, so please stop asking. And despite my dire warnings against doing so, Mama had mentioned my windfall to Jenny. And because Jenny does not believe I’m capable of improving my own situation without screwing her over, she concluded that I was up to no good in the Hollow’s vast antique black market. Basically, my sister was having me audited. Lovely.
Grumpy and frustrated beyond belief, I took advantage of my night off, turned off the phone, and, despite the siren’s call of Sense and Sensibility, I read a few more chapters of Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were. I finally found what a bloodening was. The women of the clan get naked under the new moon and track down a deer, killing it as a pack and bringing it home for a shared meal. It was supposed to be held during the week of the wedding to assure the bride symbolically that she was still part of the clan and that she would always be welcome to share its food but also reminding her that she was responsible to continue the clan’s traditions. It was a warm, though blood-soaked, sentiment. It was a special privilege for an outsider to be invited to witness a bloodening, much less run with the pack—which, as you might have guessed, as best maid, I was expected to do. I was going to need some sturdy running shoes and a really good sports bra.
I do not run naked.
