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I sighed and thumped my head against the counter.
By the time Mama Ginger saw fit to return, I’d changed six more diapers and spent an hour cleaning substances I’d rather not describe out of my carpet. There were suspiciously permanent-looking stains on my new couch. I was not a happy camper.
“Are you crazy?” I demanded as Mama Ginger opened my door. “What is wrong with you?”
“What?” she asked, peering into the bouncie, where Neveah dozed peacefully. “She’s fine. I knew she would be.”
“What if she’d gotten sick?” I hissed. “What if something went wrong? I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I am covered in baby spit-up. My house smells like compost!”
“But honey, doesn’t she make you want one of your own?” Mama Ginger held up the baby like a prize cut of meat on display.
“If anything, you’ve confirmed for me that I don’t need to have children,” I said, and from the bottom of my heart, I knew it was true.
“But Janie, I only did this to show you that you need to stop playing around. Stop with this silly singles lifestyle. A different man every night. Working in some adult bookstore. You need to settle down. Stop pretending you’re happy, and just tell Zeb how you feel.”
“I’m not pretending,” I said.
“Well, I think I need to have a talk with this Gabriel character and tell him what he’s doing. He has to know he’s standing in your way,” Mama Ginger insisted. “He has to know he’s keeping you from your one true love. If it wasn’t for this boy, this Gabriel, you and Zeb would be free to be together.”
“But Zeb is in love with Jolene.”
“I don’t want to hear that, Jane. I know what’s best!” she cried, gathering the baby’s stuff and making a dash for the front steps. “You’ll see.”
“Mama Ginger, stop,” I said in the most powerful persuasion voice I could muster. “Stop it right now. You will stop this campaign against Jolene, and you will accept her into the family. You will make her feel welcome. You will never again mention the idea of Zeb and me as anything but friends.”
Mama Ginger swiped at her ear as if there were annoying insects buzzing there. I guess vampire powers were nothing against the determination of an angry mother-in-law-to-be.
“And I don’t work at an adult bookstore,” I shouted out the door as she bustled Nevie off the porch. “I work at an occult bookstore. There just happens to be an adult video store next door.”
I watched as Mama Ginger’s taillights disappeared into the darkness.
“This is not good.”
16
Werewolves express many emotions through physical contact—joy, rage, a need for comfort. Prepare to be hugged, snuffled, snuggled, or possibly licked.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
“Hello?” I called, propping a delivery box against the counter long enough to get the door shut. It had been locked, which was unusual. And Mr. Wainwright never left deliveries out front. There was too much crime in the neighborhood.
“Mr. Wainwright?” I called. Technically, it was my night off. I wasn’t supposed to come by the shop, but Gabriel had called me from the Nashville airport to let me know that he’d be returning to town that night and wanted to talk. I didn’t want to be home waiting for him. Despite my protests to the contrary, I didn’t want to have whatever conversation Gabriel had planned. As unhappy as I was with his evasiveness, I knew the truth would hurt worse. So I was using work as a defensive shield.
The shop was empty, eerily so. I cast my senses out and found nothing; no vampire presence, no humans.
Around the corner of the counter, I could see a pair of brown loafers poking out from a pile of seventeenth-century manuscripts on vampire feeding patterns.
“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t try to move anything by yourself,” I said to the feet as I set the box down.
The silence seemed to buzz in my ears, slowing my ability to hear, to respond.
“Mr. Wainwright?” My boss lay prostrate on the floor, the books covering him like a crazy quilt. His eyes were closed, his face serene, as if he’d just lain down for a nap on the floor.
“Nonononononono,” I murmured, my numbed fingers searching for a pulse under his cold parchment skin. “Please, no.”
I wailed, my hot tears blinding me. “Mr. Wainwright! Please wake up! Please!”
Using what little I could remember from first-aid class in Girl Scouts, I shoved several books away and tilted Mr. Wainwright’s head back. I wiped my running nose and breathed through the sobs. I blew into his mouth. I pushed down on his sternum with both hands and shrieked when I heard something snap. I’d broken something, probably one of his ribs. I continued to pump his chest, praying to bring something back.
