Misha thought about it. “Yes. Your guardian angel master vampire who wants to bed you until you scream in ecstasy.”
I blinked back at him. “Um…”
The sound of a familiar car engine had me turning toward the street. I did a double take and jumped out of my chair, toppling it over. Aric’s black Escalade veered into our neighborhood. At first he traveled the speed limit. Suddenly he slammed on the brakes, likely when he spotted the Tavern on the Green the front of my house had become. Several long, sweat-soaked seconds passed before the Escalade gradually pulled forward again and slowed to a stop…right across from the damn spit.
That’s when I knew for sure I was on Saint Peter’s shit list.
I bustled down the steps and stopped short when Aric ambled out. “Hi,” I squeaked, sounding like a prepubescent boy undergoing a major voice change.
Aric’s walk was slow, purposeful, bordering on deadly. It was likely due to Misha’s coming to my side and slipping an arm around my shoulders. God, please kill me.
Aric fixed on Misha’s arm like he planned to rip it off with his jowls and eat it. His fists clenched tight, cracking his knuckles before he turned to face me. “I caught an infected vampire today. I came by to drop off his blood so you can get it to Dan. But I see you’re busy.”
I believe my spleen fell down to my toes. Aric could have brought the sample to Danny directly. Why would he have come to my house…unless he had wanted to see me? I ducked away from Misha as Aric stormed to his SUV. “Wait! W-would you like to join us?”
I really needed to work on that open-fangs-insert-paw thing. Aric froze with his back to me. The angry scowl and the “hell, no” refusal I’d expected never came. He peered over his shoulder, surprising me with an impish grin before jogging away from his Escalade and positioning himself between me and Misha. He looked right at my guardian angel master vampire when he spoke. “Sure. I’d love to.”
Misha inclined his stone-cold face, acknowledging Aric with his own devilish grin and motioning with a grand wave. “After you.”
The corner of Aric’s mouth curved. “No. After you.”
I stepped between them. “How about we walk together?” Because that wasn’t masochistic or anything.
I kept my focus ahead, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t feel the heat between the ultimate preternatural stare-down taking place on either side of me. “Ah, just as a reminder, my house is neutral territory, so neither of you can, like, dismember each other and…stuff.” At least, that’s what I hoped the friggin’ treaty said. Up until the last week I hadn’t been curious enough to ask to read it. Now it seemed I should have requested a notarized copy and taken notes.
Good gravy, my words did nothing to ease the tension. If Misha could have changed, I imagined he’d take on the form of a king cobra, mostly because of the hypnotic cadence of his voice. “Only an ignorant mongrel would dare insult you in your home, my sweet kitten.”
Aric’s widening smile made me whimper. “Or a bloodsucking leech who’s too much of a pansy to fight his own battles.” His smile dropped. “And don’t call Celia your damn kitten.”
My hands clasped their arms as I encouraged them—rather forcibly—to separate further. “Let’s sit, okay?” I said, unable to suppress the growing hysteria in my voice.
Aric picked up the overturned chair for me, but Misha yanked it from his loose grasp and held it out so I could sit. Aric nudged his way through to push it in for me, giving Misha ample time to grab the other chair. “I fear you’ll have to stand for the remaining feast. Then again, perhaps you’d prefer to eat from the floor on all fours?”
Aric didn’t blink. Instead he leaped onto the porch swing, landing so his long legs stretched out toward Misha and his back lay against the armrest…side by side with me. “No worries, Meesh.” His hand rubbed my back affectionately, sending warm tingles ricocheting along my spine. “I have all I need right here.”
I adjusted my napkin over my lap as Taran stuck her head out. “Celia, did you…” Her head whipped to Aric, then Misha, before one of her siren grins crept out. “Aw, hell. It’s either feast or famine, huh, Ceel?” Taran didn’t wait for me to answer. She went inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Except it did little to muffle her uproarious laughter.
I’d like to say the salad portion of the meal was filled with quiet, polite conversation. But pissing contests seldom are, even to the beat of “Canon in D” played via orchestra.