A rather large hand extended toward her. “I’m Emile.”
“Therese. Tres.”
“And you have an accent. Like myself. Well, not French, as I have.” She smiled. “No, I’m not from France.”
Wasn’t there an old SNL skit that went something like this? she thought. Maybe she was a vampire and he was an alien.
“Come, we’ll go to the staff room?” He indicated the way forward. “Yes?”
She nodded and fell in with him, unwrapping her scarf and undoing the buttons on her coat. “I’ve waitressed before. I’m still nervous, though.”
“Enzo, the front house manager? You interviewed with him? He is very nice. Very good. He will give you a fair chance.”
“I got a copy of the menu. I spent all day memorizing it.”
As they entered the kitchen, there was an anteroom with lockers where people could put their things, and she glanced around at the humans who were milling about in it. The men and women seemed to be in their early to mid twenties, clearly scraping by to get their start in life and become independent from their families—which was exactly what she was trying to do. And a couple of them looked over at her, but everyone was mostly just focused on getting prepared for the dinner service.
The head of the front house, Enzo Angelini, came in and addressed her and then the others. “Good, you’re here. Everybody, this is Therese. Therese, you’ll learn names on the go. Come with me to sign your paperwork, and I have your tux ready.”
There was something comforting about falling into a routine and a set of procedures. After having left home, everything had been free of restrictions, but also way too light and kind of wilderness-without-a-map feeling.
This was going to be a good thing.
The only not-so-hot that was happening? She couldn’t seem to get the thoughts about that male from the night before last out of her mind. Images of him were like a hangover without her having done any drinking, her head thumping, her stomach flipping when she remembered that kiss.
He’d been determined to leave her be.
And that still seemed like a good plan.
It was weird, though, to miss someone you didn’t know, someone who was a complete stranger. But her heart ached a little at the idea that she’d never see him again.
Whatever, though. It was probably just her hormones. Or maybe the sadness over everything that had gone down as she’d left Michigan was bleeding into other areas of her life.
Yup, that was it.
Because how was it possible to mourn someone you hadn’t known for more than twenty minutes?
FORTY-SIX
As soon as Qhuinn walked into the twins’ bedroom, he was all set to be alone with his young and get them ready to go to Blay’s parents’ house … but Cormia was over by their bassinets, settling them in. The good news? At least Layla wasn’t around, although he caught her scent in the air—and that insult got worse as he went over to the bassinets and smelled her on the kids themselves.
Ignoring Phury’s shellan, he immediately marched into the bathroom, put the two blue tubs into the pair of deep sinks, and got the hot water running.
When he came back out, Cormia looked at him with a directness he didn’t appreciate. “Would you like help with their baths?” she asked.
As if he couldn’t do it himself. “Thanks, but no.”
The Chosen hesitated, still standing right between the bassinets. “Listen, I know this is really hard right now.”
Actually, you really don’t, he thought. “But,” the female continued, “Layla loved being with them, and you can see that they fared well.”
His children were still breathing, at any rate. This much was true. “I really think that you—”
Qhuinn put his hand up. “Thank you so much for all your help and concern. I mean, really, you’re just great. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
He gently, but firmly, took her elbow and led her over to the door. “I mean, really, just terrific.”
As soon as she stepped out into the hall of statues, he shut the door and locked it—and then he was all about those baths, making sure that the water was the right temperature, doing Rhamp first, because his son was easier to handle on so many levels, and then quickly soap-and-rinsing Lyric.
When he got the pair of them back in the bassinets, all rosy and toasty, he thought, fuck, he was going to have to dress them for their exciting trip out of the mansion.
He went into the walk-in closet, where a pair of bureaus had been set up side by side. And as he pulled open drawers, he marveled at all the little clothes, the onesies and the tiny shirts, the “pants” and “skirts.” For a second, he wondered how long it took to wash all of this stuff, fold it, and make sure it was in the right place, everything pink on one side, and camo and navy blue on the other.
Layla liked to dress up Lyric in pretty things.
So he put his daughter in a pair of itty-bitty blue jeans and a red polo shirt of her brother’s. Then he jacked Rhamp into the smallest suit and bow-tie combo anyone had seen this side of a Ken doll.
He checked the clock, thinking he could shower himself—but holy shit from the time elapse. He’d had an idea of being at Blay’s parents’ well before First Meal was put on the table. At the rate this was going? He’d be lucky to get those two kids over there before they were driving. And this was before he had to tackle the little booties and then the tiny coats—and fuck him back and forth a couple of hundred times from getting the pair of them into the goddamn carriers.
When he finally had both kids freshly diapered, fully clothed, parka’d, mitten’d, and hat’d—and had strapped the suckers in like they were in danger of break-dancing out of those padded buckets? He actually looked at the bed and thought maybe he needed a nap.
And come on, his night job was fighting lessers. Who were trying to kill him.
It wasn’t like his basis for comparison was a frickin’ desk job. “Okay,” he said to those two faces staring up at him. “You ready? Let’s do this—”
At that very instant, a stench that was a cross between a stink bomb, a dead lizard, and some kind of rotting fruit rind wafted up and slapped the shit out of his sinuses.
Jesus H. Christ. It was the kind of thing that made your eyes water and your nose threaten to pack its bags and leave you with nothing but a pair of black holes in the middle of your face.
“Are you even kidding me?”
For a split second, he debated just going with it. After all, he could pop the windows in his Hummer, crank up the heat, and with supplemental oxygen, he might just make it across town.
But he couldn’t present Blay’s mom with this kind of thing. She already had a broken ankle. One whiff of that green cloud of death and she was liable to get blown off her good foot through a wall.
Leaning down, it became amply clear that Rhamp had deployed the hot bomb. And Qhuinn had to admit, as he undid the buckle and got the kid back out, that he kind of respected the effort, man to man.
Yeah, no pussy loads for his son. The boy dropped that shit like he owned it.
Um … literally. Yeah.
Back at the dressing table. Once again with the button and the zipper on the miniature pants that made Qhuinn’s hands cramp. And then …
“Oh … wow,” Qhuinn muttered as he had to turn his head away for some fresh air.
Who knew you could see God without leaving the planet?
And clean-up was going to require a backhoe and a hazmat suit. Meanwhile, Rhamp just lay there, looking up at him with little fists pumping like he was expecting a high five or something.
Given that unaffected focus and coordination, one could only deduce that, while vampire young matured much quicker in their beginning stages than human babies did, clearly their sense of smell didn’t kick in until later. Otherwise, the kid wouldn’t be smiling.
As Qhuinn got to work on the tabs of the diaper, he had to shake his head. “You’re a real pisser, you know that—”
A knock on the door provided an excuse to turn his head away again and breathe deep. “Yeah?”
Saxton, the King’s solicitor and Qhuinn’s own cousin, put his perfect blond head in. “I have those documents that you—”