Biting Bad_ A Chicagoland Vampires Novel(6)

“You tryin’ to let winter in here?”

I pushed off the door and headed across worn linoleum to the counter, which had been covered in the 1970s by faux-wood-grain plastic, presumably to add an “authentic” pizzeria feel.

“If I was trying,” I said, “you’d know it.” I put my elbows on the counter and took a good, hard look at the man behind it. He was older, late sixties, with a thick head of black hair and eyes that sparkled mischievously. He wore a heather gray sweatshirt with SAUL’S PIZZA across the front in faded red letters.

He was the only person in the small room—which served as the way station for orders and pickups, and led to the small dining room beyond.

He scowled, caterpillar eyebrows drawing together. “You got a smart mouth.”

“Always,” I said, smiling back at him. “It’s good to see you, Saul. How’s business?”

His expression softened. “Don’t get nearly as many orders for cream cheese and double bacon as I used to.” He looked me over. “You look good, kid.”

My eyes cramped uncomfortably, the warning signal that sentimental tears were about to flow. But I held them back. “You look good, too.”

“Things change, don’t they?”

I glanced around at the restaurant, with its dusty décor and hanging menu board slatted with movable plastic letters. Mismatched plastic chairs with metal legs sat along one wall. The counter was worn from thousands of hands, elbows, credit cards, and pizza boxes, and the room smelled like dust, plastic, and garlic.

“Do they change?” I wondered aloud with a grin. “I’m pretty sure that poster for Cool Hand Luke’s been there since the movie came out.”

Saul’s eyes narrowed. This was always dangerous territory. “Cool Hand Luke is a classic piece of American cinema, Ms. Know It All. It was nominated for five—”

“Academy Awards, I know.” I smiled at him—it was nice to hear that familiar nickname again and listen to the familiar argument—and gestured toward the dining room. “Is Ms. Blue Hair in?”

“She’s at your booth,” he said, then checked the old Schlitz clock on the wall behind him. “Pizza should be up in ten.”

“Thank you, Saul. It’s nice to be back.”

“Shouldn’t have waited so long in the first place,” he grumbled, and headed into the kitchen.

—

Mallory Delancey Carmichael, recently designated and discredited sorceress, sat in a plastic booth, the kind with molded seat depressions. She wore a knitted cap with earflaps and a pouf of yarn at the top. The cap was pulled down low over her blue hair, which darkened to a deep indigo at the bottom of the complicated braid that sat on her shoulder. She wore a jacket over a sweater over a button-down top; the sleeves of the sweater ending in bell-like shapes that nearly reached the tips of her fingers.

She looked up when I walked in, and I was relieved to see she was looking more and more like her old self. Mallory was pink cheeked, with classically pretty features. Her eyes were big and blue, and her lips were a perfect cupid’s bow.

The restaurant was packed, so I was lucky she’d nabbed a seat. I climbed into the booth across from her, pulling off my gloves and putting them on the seat beside me.

“Cold out there tonight.”

“Freezing,” she agreed. “I like your coat.”

“Thanks,” I said, unbuttoning it, then adding it to the stack on the seat. “It was a gift.” And since I was proud of them, I stuck out a leg beside the booth and showed off my boots.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Mallory quietly said, sliding a finger along one leathered shin. “If he’s buying you gear like that, I certainly hope you’re sleeping with him.”

She looked back at me and grinned, and I saw—for a moment—the old Mallory in her eyes. Relief rushed through my chest.

“He didn’t buy them, but he has no complaints.” I cleared my throat nervously, preparing for the confession I hadn’t yet made to her. “I don’t know if you heard, but we’re actually living together. I moved into his apartments.”

Her eyes widened. “And I thought we’d start with some awkward ‘How’s your family’ type stuff.” She paused, looked down at the table, then up at me again. “You’re living together?”

I nodded, waiting while she processed the information and reached a conclusion. Honestly, her deliberation made me nervous. She’d been there from the beginning; she had been in the room the first time I’d confronted Ethan. She knew our potential—and limitations—as well as anyone else.