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“Not all surprises are bad,” Rico told me gently.
“You don’t know my life,” I told him back, trying not to sound as terrible as I felt. Although that probably would have worked better without the lip quiver. Or the swaying-on-my-feet thing. Or the tremor in my hand that juddered the handle just enough to make a mocking little sound until I let it go, feeling like a fool.
And probably looking like one, too, which wouldn’t help. Vamps admired power, strength, stoicism. And I was exhibiting exactly none of the above.
But to my surprise, Rico’s face relaxed, and not into a scowl. “Go on,” he told me. “You look like you could use it.”
I didn’t even ask what he meant. What were my alternatives, sleeping out here? And tripping up Marco when he got back from whatever he was actually doing?
I shook my head. And then I grasped the door latch again. And actually turned it this time.
And found myself face-to-face with a giggling two-year-old.
That wouldn’t have been so weird, except that no one was holding her.
She had black curls and big brown eyes, and a brand-new T-shirt in a bright, shocking pink. It had a bunch of balloons on the front in iridescent colors, with a signature below in an exaggerated curlicue that I knew all too well. Augustine, Dante’s resident designer, had struck again.
The little girl giggled some more, completing a slow somersault in the air. And when Rico gave her a gentle push, she tumbled back into a room filled with more jumping, floating, levitating kids, bouncing off the sofa and pushing off the walls, and being watched by a bunch of usually stoical bodyguards who were grinning like I’d never seen them, because how could you not?
Rhea was sitting in the middle of the group, on a chair like a normal person, maybe because the charm wasn’t strong enough to lift a grown woman. But it didn’t seem to matter. She was still laughing delightedly. And so was the woman at her side, with her own set of curls, because Tami liked a good weave, yes she did.
And I felt an answering grin break out over my own face, one so broad it felt like it might crack open.
I’d never been so glad to see someone in my life.
She looked up and saw me at the same second, and the sharp dark eyes took in the same clues Rico had, but Tami wasn’t big on silence.
“Damn it, girl! What happened to you?”
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. And then laughed some more because of the look on her face. And then it sort of got out of hand, and I was leaning against the door, practically dying, because she’d never, ever believe me if I told her.
“Okay, yeah,” she said, getting up and coming over. “Time for beddie bye.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I protested. Because I was. Suddenly, I felt about a thousand times better. It was just so good having her here.
Everybody else looked like they felt the same. The girls, who had been pretty damned bedraggled when I left, were clean and had on new—if somewhat bizarre—clothing. They were also smiling and, for the first time since I’d met them, not looking especially traumatized.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Tami knew all about traumatized kids. Tami could write a freaking book on traumatized kids. And her attitude was that what most kids needed was affection, humor, and organization. And it looked like she’d organized the shit out of everything.
The overflowing ashtrays were gone, because of course there was no smoking allowed around the kids. The coats and ties and sometimes shoes that tended to get spread around were nowhere in sight, and the tape/blankets/covers on everything were missing. The carpet looked freshly vacuumed, there were flowers on the table in the lounge, and the pervasive smell of beer and sauerkraut from the foot-longs Marco dragged up from the lobby were conspicuously absent. Instead, the air had a distinct scent of—
“Cookies?” I asked, sounding almost tragically hopeful.
“After dinner,” Tami told me automatically, and then she laughed. But she meant it. If I tried to snatch one early, she’d . . . well, I didn’t know, but it would probably involve a lecture on setting a good example.
I was beginning to understand why Marco was “shopping.”
And then I found myself surrounded by a bunch of small, human balloons that floated around me like the tide, an ocean of pink shirts and pink cheeks and bright eyes, like the ones on a little red-haired girl with a too-serious expression, who was staring down at the glittery, multicolored parts of her shirt in awe, her hand stroking them tentatively. Like she was more taken with them than with the sensation of flying.
But then, if I’d never been able to wear anything but boring white, maybe I would be, too. I suddenly thought I understood Cherries’ crazy, colorful outfits a little better. And then I thought of something else.
My manicure kit was where I’d left it, in one of the sofa table drawers. And was still mostly full, because when the heck did I have time to do my nails? I grabbed it and turned to the girl, throwing back the top of the box and showing off a line of bottles of super sparkly polish in every color you could think of.
I didn’t use bright purple or acid green or brilliant orange, but the kit had come with them and it had been on sale, so they were all in there. Along with my favorite pinks—four different shades—and a fiery red, a pearlescent white, a rich gold, a polished silver, and a luscious black. And every single one of them was loaded with glitter, ’cause that’s how I like it.
And it looked like I wasn’t the only one.
The little girl’s eyes went huge.
