Sealed With a Curse(73)

“Aw, hell, Celia. I so didn’t need to hear that.” Taran abruptly turned off the radio like the sappy song bothered her, and lost herself in her thoughts. “Do you want to go out tonight? Just me and you? I’m tired of sitting at home.”

It had been a long three days of wallowing in self-pity, but that’s all it seemed I had the energy to do. “No. Sorry. Maybe dinner tomorrow?”

“I meant…to hunt for bloodlusters ourselves.”

My head shot up toward her. I almost jumped at the idea. The thrill of a hunt enticed my tigress, pulling me out of my sadness. But then realization hit me like a freight truck. “Are you prowling for monsters or are you gaming for wolves?”

Taran grew silent.

“Taran?”

“Damn, Celia. I’m turning into one of those desperate, pathetic girls I used to make fun of.”

Yeah. Join the friggin’ club, order the comfort food, and bring on the chick flicks. I dug my claws into my thighs, willing myself to support Taran. “You need to give Gemini time. He has a genuine and honorable responsibility to the earth. I don’t think he’s purposely avoiding you.”

“Will you show Aric the same courtesy?”

My chest hurt at the mention of his name. “That’s different. And you know it.”

Taran easily pulled into our neighborhood—no simple task during one of her more annoyed eye rolls. “Aw, hell, Celia. We’ve all seen the way that wolf looks at you—Oh, shit!”

I jumped up out of my seat as our house came into view. The front had been converted into an elegant restaurant. Three chefs busied themselves cooking in the outside kitchen situated along our sidewalk, while a fourth drizzled a three-tiered cake with chocolate. That seemed extravagant enough. The orchestra—complete with a pianist, a cellist, two violinists, and an entire woodwinds section perched on our lawn—much, much worse.

“Is that a boar on a goddamn spit?”

I nodded at the boar on the goddamn spit. “Yup.”

A stark white canopy was draped along the entire overhang, tied with scarlet satin ribbons at each pillar. Elegant china, stemware, and linens covered the table positioned alongside the porch swing. Yet it was the master vampire standing at the top of the steps who drew my attention.

I stumbled out, eyes wide, mouth open, only to be greeted by one of the good Catholics in a naughty French maid uniform. Lord, I couldn’t imagine shopping with them. “Good evening. The master wishes you to join him for dinner.”

Misha winked back at me, his long, luscious hair loose over the shoulders of his charcoal tux.

“Ah. Yeah. I can see that.” I glanced desperately at Taran.

“You’re on your own, Ceel.” She sashayed toward the house. “I’ll be inside knitting or whatever the hell old maids do. Hey, Misha,” she said with a wave.

“If you wish to go inside and change first, the master prefers thongs or crotchless panties,” the vampire whispered.

“Ah, thanks, Ana Clara. But I’m not changing.”

Ana Clara wrinkled her face like she’d stepped in something nasty. Or perhaps she just didn’t like me. I went with the latter. I still wore my plain blue scrubs and my hair pulled back in a twist. But damn it, I hadn’t been expecting…this.

Misha walked down the steps and held out his arm. “It would be my pleasure if you joined me.”

“Last chance,” Ana Clara whispered. “If you want, I’ll lend you my panties.”

I gave her a hard stare. “I can honestly say the answer will always be no to that one.”

Ana Clara scowled like I was the unreasonable one. I took Misha’s arm and followed him up the steps. I had nothing better to do. My plans included the same old Saturday-night ritual—takeout, a Laverne and Shirley marathon, and shoving ice cream down my throat.

My porch was long enough to fit the table, but the porch swing made it so we could sit only across from each other. A very good thing, considering how Misha’s aroma of sex and chocolate thickened as he regarded me. A waiter bustled over to drape the cloth napkin across my lap and fill my glass with wine. “Would the lady care for an additional beverage?”

“Just water, please.” I chuckled despite myself, and leaned my arms against the table. “Misha, what are you doing here?”

“You’ve denied my gifts of gratitude.”

A “gift,” in my opinion, was something tied in a pretty package—a nice sweater, perhaps, or a four-pack of movie tickets. Master vampires took gift giving to astronomical proportions. “Nothing personal, Misha, but a vacation home in Bermuda and the four Aston Martins were a little too extreme.” Although Taran had insisted otherwise. “And we’re still paying you back for the house.”