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Oh, shit, Vivian thought.
"But tell you what, maybe we could kiss and make up," said the tall biker.
"I'd rather kiss a slug," she said, her temper flaring. She regretted her words when she saw his hands ball into fists. His skull ring glittered ominously.
She felt her legs knot with the first stage of the change. Control it, she coached herself. Only enough to put some muscle on. She didn't doubt for a moment that she could take them if she changed fully, but she couldn't do that now, could she? A couple of good strong smacks would change his mind.
"I see you've met my sister." Vivian recognized Gabriel's throaty growl.
The tall biker froze for a second, a look of panic on his face; then he turned. "Hey, Gabe! Your sister, man. Wow. Real pretty girl. I wuz just tellin' her. Yeah. Your sister. Wow."
"Uh, come on, Skull. We got a party to get to," his friend chimed in.
When they turned the corner Gabriel and Rudy burst out laughing.
"I could handle it," Vivian said, annoyed at his amusement.
"I know, baby," he answered, surprising her. "And any other time I would have gladly stood and watched, but Rudy tells me you've got news for me."
"I'll smack him around another time, then," she said.
They walked farther out into the shadowed parking lot. "So, what's the word - little sister?" he asked. She wanted to cut him down for keeping up that sister crap, but the smoldering look in his eyes made her bite back her sarcastic response.
"Astrid led a run along the river last night," she said.
"She did, did she?" His tone was casual but she saw a slight tic in his cheek. "And who was on this run?"
While she listed them he listened with head bowed, stroking the small scar on his lip.
There was silence when she'd finished. She glanced at Rudy, but he was watching Gabriel, a worried look on his face.
Finally Gabriel spoke. "I guess I'll be paying Miss Astrid a little visit," he said softly. He looked up and his pupils caught the glare from a distant streetlight - they glowed red.
What have I started? Vivian thought.
Chapter 12
12
Vivian dumped her shopping bag of new paints at the base of the stairs. It fell over, and an economy-sized tube of burnt umber, fat as a sausage, rolled out and rocked gently on the hardwood floor at the edge of the hall rug. The house was so quiet that the muted rumble of the tube's brief passage echoed in her ears. Where's Esmé? Vivian wondered. Monday was her day off, but no music blared through the house, and no smell of dinner wafted through the air.
Vivian's answer came when she walked into the living room and was startled to find her mother sitting on the floor surrounded by photographs, more tumbling out of an upturned shoe box beside her.
Esmé looked up with tears in her eyes. "I couldn't remember his face," she said.
Vivian sank to the floor beside Esmé, her mouth tense with worry. There were pictures of her father spread all over the rug: Dad laughing, Dad chopping wood, Dad in the kitchen at the inn, making sauce.
"I tried so hard to forget him so losing him wouldn't hurt anymore," Esmé said, "and then today I thought of him and couldn't see him. It was like I'd torn away a part of me and crippled myself. Like I'd looked into a mirror and couldn't see my reflection." The tears rolled down her cheeks.
Vivian ached to see her mother this upset. She didn't know what was worse, the hard glittering jewel her mother had become this year, or the heartbroken woman beside her now. She couldn't think of anything to say. Instead she picked up a picture of herself at age three, in OshKosh overalls and nothing else, at her father's side as he weeded in the herb garden. She'd been "helping" him, and she could still hear in her mind his patient voice saying, "No honey, not that one." He'd had to say it over and over.
"Dad would have straightened everything out, wouldn't he?" Vivian said. "We wouldn't be in such a mess if he was around."
Esmé shook her head. "I don't know."
Shock cut through Vivian like a sharp little knife. "Sure he would. He'd know how to keep Astrid in line. He'd stop anything bad happening."
"But he didn't, did he?" Esmé said. "The inn burned. People died. If he'd lived, he'd be challenged as unfit."
