Sealed With a Curse(9)

He glanced at the blood on his hand, then back at me. “What the fuck? I was only trying to get a look at you.”

“What?”

He stood, wincing and wobbling as his crushed skull snapped back into place. Judging by his feline scent, he was either a werebobcat or a werecougar. Since he wasn’t more challenging, I went with werebobcat. “You’re one of those chicks from vamp court, aren’t ya?”

“Excuse me?”

He frowned. “I said—”

“I know what you said, moron! What I want to know is why you’re here?”

“To look at you,” he repeated once more. “You know. ’Cause I heard you’re kind of freaky and—”

Werebob’s catlike screeches persisted as I resumed my pace toward our neighborhood. Perhaps my knee to his nuts would teach him to watch who he called a freak.

Loser.

The trees parted just a few yards away, revealing the house closest to the path. Unlike some of the huge developments here in Dollar Point, our division was basically a wide cul-de-sac with eight beautifully crafted and large custom Colonials. We didn’t have access to a pool or tennis courts like other communities, but we were set away from the main road and had a great view of the lake. Our yard was small, but skillfully landscaped and backed into a greenbelt. If it weren’t for our grouchy neighbor, Mrs. Mancuso, it would have been our own little piece of heaven.

Jesus had the Virgin Mary. If the devil had a mommy, it would have been Mrs. Mancuso.

I jogged to the end of the path and onto the sidewalk, stopping when I reached our mailbox. As I stretched my muscles, a sleek ivory limo rolled to a halt in front of our house. The driver stepped out and opened the back door. The vampire with the bow tie I recognized from court emerged. Most vampires paraded around like the rock stars of the supernatural world they believed themselves to be. Not this little guy. His crew-cut blond hair suggested military. His neat brown suit and red bow tie suggested 1950s college professor. He glanced around anxiously, his dark eyes widening when he saw me approach.

He adjusted his jacket before smiling politely. “Hello, Celia. Forgive me for arriving unannounced—”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

My bluntness made his jaw slack, but his polite smile quickly returned. “I am Petro.”

His Russian accent was subtle, and his voice not nearly as strong as Misha’s. He also lacked the typical vampire swagger. If it weren’t for the alluring scent of sex and chocolate vamps carried, I wouldn’t have been sure he was vampire. I blinked, waiting for more.

“Petro Makisma,” he repeated, as if I should know him.

Petro glanced at his driver in the awkward silence. The driver kept his poker face, yet left me with the impression Petro’s lack of notoriety was nothing new. Petro shifted his feet. “Ah. I’m here to extend my apologies and those of my entire family.”

Again, I waited.

His shoulders slumped. “Sir Misha Aleksandr and I are of the same family.”

The hardening of my face made him step behind his driver. In all fairness, it wasn’t my prettiest look. “Oh. Him.”

Petro’s jaw nearly unhinged. He glanced at his driver again, who gave the palms-up “go figure” response. I supposed Petro expected the mere mention of Misha’s name to excite me. Think again, Petie.

The front door to my house opened and my sisters hurried outside. Taran must have sensed the vampire mojo. “Who the hell are you?” Taran asked when Petro greeted them warmly.

Petro’s smile faded once more. I was starting to feel bad for the guy. “He’s Petro Makisma,” I answered for him. Their blank stares told me they’d never heard of him either. Taran eyed Petro’s bow tie like it could bite. I walked to her side. “He’s here to apologize on behalf of his family.” More blank stares. “He’s with Misha.”

“Oh,” they all responded.

Petro urged his driver forward with a gentle nudge of his small, neat hands. “The gifts, please, Antonio.”

I stepped back, giving the driver ample space in case he chose to attack. Unlike Petro’s five-foot-five frame, this guy was behemoth. A Goliath to Petro’s David.

The driver returned with a stack of wide crimson velvet cases. He handed one to each of my sisters, saving the last one for me. I quirked a brow at the lush case. A small silver plaque, engraved with my initials, lay fixed at the center. When I wouldn’t take it, the driver opened the case. Dime-size diamond earrings glimmered with enough brilliance to blind. Between the earrings rested a small, handwritten note on thick, expensive stationary. The little card read: