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I must’ve moved my lips because her mouth bent down. “What? What’s so fucking interesting?”
I moved my free shoulder. “Nothing.”
Pale eyes bored into me, but she let it drop. She took a long drink of wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I’m going out. I have to take care of a few things. I want you to rest. You’re safe here.”
“Where’s here?” I didn’t remember much after the Metro except walking through tombstones, which didn’t make much sense. All I knew was that she’d brought me to some kind of underground bunker.
Now I took in the bunker’s rough stone walls and packed dirt floor. The only light came from a small shaft in the ceiling, although a niche in the wall held an unlit camping lantern. Beneath the lantern was a narrow wood table with Reaper’s wig and some basic supplies. The only other furniture—if you could call it that—was the sleeping bag.
“Père Lachaise Cemetery,” Reaper said. “Under the tomb of the Guilbert family.”
A corner of my mouth twitched. I shouldn’t have had the energy to be amused, but I was. “Your lair is in a cemetery?”
“Yeah.” Her glare dared me to say more.
So I did.
“Do you sleep with your arms folded over your chest, too? And where’s the coffin?” I made a show of looking around.
Her mouth thinned. Then it lifted at the corners, and her eyes crinkled at the edges. “Okay, I guess it is kind of stereotypical.”
Damn. The woman’s grin was lethal.
I pushed up on both my forearms and stared at her. It was like all the light in the room had been drawn to her face, making it glow. But not a supernatural glow. A happy, sunshiny glow that was like a punch to the heart.
“But hey, it works,” she added. “No one knows about my bolt-hole. And whoever the Guilbert family was, the last of the line died over sixty years ago. The graves are on the other side of the wall.” She tapped the stones with her palm. “I did my best not to disturb them.”
“Works.”
“Yep.” She held out the bottle. “Want some wine?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
Propping myself on my forearms hadn’t made me dizzy, so I decided to sit up. It wasn’t easy, but I managed it. I took an experimental look around and was pleased when my head didn’t spin. But I felt weak as a kitten. A newborn, eyes-barely-open kitten.
“Okay.” Reaper put the bottle back on the table and smoothed down her T-shirt. It was gray with a picture of a brooding Johnny Cash and the words Outlaw Country beneath. “If you feel up to eating, help yourself to anything you want.”
She shoved her phone and wallet into her pants pockets and tucked a mesh shopping bag into the right front pocket along with the switchblade-size bulge. She grabbed the backpack and headed for the ladder.
My hands shook. I gripped my thighs to hide the trembling. “Wait. When will you be back?”
I hated that my voice had a wobble in it, but right now Reaper was my lifeline. I felt better, yes, but I wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Hell, I probably couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. Not without her help.
“A couple of hours. Maybe more.” She started up the ladder, lithe as a panther.
“Where are you going?” This time it came out as a demand. I was weak and sick and angry at myself for being vulnerable.
“For supplies.” She set her hands on the stone slab above the ladder. It had to be heavy, even for a dhampir, but she lifted and slid it aside with impressive ease. She swung her legs out and turned to look down at me. “Go to sleep, Zaquiel. You need to heal. We’ve already lost too much time.”
“Why? What day is it?”
“July 26. Friday afternoon.” The slab dropped back in place and I was alone in the bolt-hole.
July what—? My mouth went slack. Panicky fingers scrabbled at my spine.
I’d been here three nights?
