Chapter 8: : Chapter 7

Breaking in takes longer than I expected, but not by much. The lock clicks and I stop, wondering if my guard—a no-bullshit Were named Gemma, I believe—will check in on me. After a minute I decide that I’m safe and push the door open.

Lowe’s room is as beautiful and interesting as mine, the accent wall and beamed ceiling setting a snug, mellow atmosphere. It has less furniture, though, and even though Lowe must have been living here far longer than me, I see two moving boxes stacked in a corner, and a couple of framed paintings leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up.

The soles of my feet are cold as I step on the herringbone hardwood floors. I know exactly what I’m looking for—a phone, a laptop, possibly a diary titled “That Time I Abducted Serena Paris” with an easily breakable lock—but can’t help indulging in some snooping. There are several shelves, lined with classics, fiction, but mostly art books, tall and thick and glossy, the pages full of beautiful sculptures and odd buildings and paintings I’ve never seen before. The bathroom is spotless all over, except for the corner where a unicorn toothbrush, strawberry toothpaste, and no-tear shampoo have been placed. His closet is martial in its orderliness, every shirt monochrome, every pair of pants neatly folded, always khakis or jeans. The sole exception is the suit he wore at our wedding.

My husband, I discover, wears size fourteen shoes.

I search for electronics, to no avail. I really did not need to know that Lowe Moreland hates clutter, that he’s immune to the inevitable accumulation of useless trinkets we’re all subject to. He owns what he needs, and all he needs seems to be one charger, a million pairs of interchangeable boxer briefs, and a bottle of silicone-based lube. I find it in his bedside nightstand, pick it up, and immediately drop it like it’s a nest of wasps.

Okay. I didn’t need to know that he . . . But his lady is off frolicking with my people, and . . . okay. It’s perfectly normal. I’m not going to think about this any longer.

Starting now.

There is one single picture on the wall: a younger Ana and a beautiful middle-aged woman who shares Lowe’s distinctive coloring and sharp cheekbones. The more I study it, the more I notice that aside from the eyes, Ana doesn’t look like her mother at all, nor like Lowe. If they take after their father, they must have grabbed different things.

I search under the pillows, behind the headboard, in the desk. Lowe clearly doesn’t keep a laptop in the bedroom, and this entire break-in is starting to feel like a useless endeavor. I’ve mostly given up when I try the bottom drawer of the dresser and find it shut. Hope gurgles. I run back to my room and retrieve my hairpin.

I’m not sure what I expect from a locked cabinet—maybe Vampyre-fang necklaces, or extra lube he got wholesale, or a drawerful of Wi-Fi cards accompanied by a Hallmark greeting card (“Help yourself, Misery!”). Not a set of pencils and a sketch pad. I frown, picking it up and opening it, gently pulling the pages apart to avoid any ripping.

Initially, I think I’m looking at a photo. That’s how beautiful the art is, how accurate and painstaking. But then I notice the smudges, the lines that sometimes stretch a little too long, and no. This is a drawing—an architectural drawing of a vault, flawlessly executed.

My heart thuds louder, but I couldn’t say why. With trembling fingers, I start turning the pages.

There are sketches of rooms, offices, storefronts, piers, houses, bridges, stations. Large and small buildings, statues, domes, cabins. Some are just the outside, while others include inside layouts and furniture. Some have numbers and vectors scribbled in the margins, others colors woven through them. All of them are perfect.

He’s an architect.

I’d forgotten. Or perhaps I never had a clear idea of what it meant. But looking at these drawings, I feel it as something solid and heavy in my stomach—the love Lowe has for beautiful shapes, exquisite places, interesting sights.

He’s only a few years older than me, but this is not the work of someone who’s untrained. There is expertise here, and passion, and talent, not to mention time, time that I cannot imagine he has to dedicate to beauty and pretty drawings now that he’s the Alpha of his pack, and . . .

It’s too much. I’m thinking about this—about him—way too hard. I shut the sketch pad too forcefully and place it back where I found it. It causes something that was at the very end of the notebook to slip out.

A portrait.

My heart halts as I scramble to lift it up, expecting—no, sure— that I’ll find Serena’s smiling face on it. The pouty lips, upturned eyes, narrow nose, and pointed chin; they’re all so familiar to me that I think it must be her, because who else’s face would I know so well? It can only be Serena’s, or . . .

Mine.

Lowe Moreland has drawn my face, and then stuffed it at the bottom of his bottom drawer. I’m not sure when he observed it long enough to pluck this level of detail out of me, the serious, detached air, the tight-lipped expression, the wispy hair curling around the cusp of an ear. Here’s what I do know: there is something sharp about the drawing. Something searing and intense and expansive that’s simply not there in the other sketches. Force, and power, and lots of feelings were involved in the making of this portrait. Lots. And I can’t imagine they were positive.

I frown. I swallow. I sigh. Then I whisper, “I’m not a fan, either, Lowe. But you don’t see me doodling you with horns in my diary.”

I fold everything back in the drawer, making sure it’s exactly how I found it. On my way out, I let my fingers trail on the bookshelves, wondering once more just how bad my next year with the Weres is going to get.

The following day I sleep until late afternoon. I’m tired enough that I could go longer, but there’s something going on outside, on the usually calm lakeshore. It involves screaming laughter and charred smells, and I drag myself to the window to check it out, making sure to avoid the direct light still filtering in.

It’s a barbecue, or a potluck, or a cookout—I never quite got the difference, despite Serena’s explanations on the nuances of Human social get-togethers. Vampyres don’t really build community this way, by assembling without an agenda. Our friendships are alliances. I didn’t encounter the concept of hanging out, of spending time with someone for the sake of it, until my Collateral years.

But I can count over thirty Weres. Hanging around the lakefront, grilling, eating, swimming. Laughing. The loudest are the children: I spot several, Ana among them, having a rollicking good time.

I wonder whether I’m invited to partake. What the reaction would be if I made my way downstairs, waved at the guests. I could borrow a bikini from Juno. Pour myself some blood on the rocks, sit at a table in the shade, ask my dinner companions, “So, how about them football players?”

The idea has me chuckling. I settle on the windowsill, still in my pajama shorts and the worn tank I got from a team-building exercise at work two years ago, staring at the gathering. And at Lowe, who has returned home.

My eyes are immediately drawn to him. Maybe because he’s . . . well, big. Most Weres are tall, or athletic, or both, but Lowe takes it a notch further. Still, I’m not positive his looks are what center him so insistently.

He is . . . not charming, but magnetic. His full lips curve into a small smile while he chats with some pack members. His dark brows furrow as he listens to others. The corners of his eyes split into a web of crinkles when he plays with the children. He lets a young girl beat him at arm wrestling, gasps in mock pain when another pretends to punch him on his biceps, shoots a boy into the deep water to his unabashed delight.

He seems beloved. Accepted. Belonging, and I wonder what that feels like. I wonder if he misses his partner, or mate, or whatever. I wonder if he gets to draw much these days, or if the pretty houses mostly stay locked in his head.

He definitely does not look like he is just recovering from being ill, but what do I know? I’m no pulmonologist.

I’m about to push myself off the sill and start my night when I spot him.

Max.

He’s separate from the rest of the crowd, on the outskirts of the beach, where the sand first turns into shrubs, then thickens with forest trees. At first glance, I don’t think much of it: unlike most of the partygoers, he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, but hey. I’ve been a self-conscious teen before, trying to hide with clothes the way I’d shot up about six inches in three months. And melanoma is evil, according to Serena.

But then he goes on his knees. Begins to chat with someone much shorter than him. And my entire body stiffens.

I tell myself that there’s no reason to be scowling the way I am. Max and I may have had our differences (Difference. One, if major.), but he has every right to be interacting with Ana. For all I know, they’re related, and he’s been babysitting her since she was in diapers. Not my business, anyway. I’m a very unwanted guest here, and I have my daily hourlong bath to take.

Except. Something pulls me back to the window. I don’t like it. The way he’s talking to Ana, pointing at someplace I cannot see, someplace between the trees. Ana shakes her head—no. But he seems to insist, and . . .

Am I being paranoid? Probably. Ana’s literal brother is right there, a few dozen feet away, watching her.

But he isn’t. He’s playing something with the ginger best man—Cal, his name is Cal—and a few other people. Bocce, if I recognize the game from Serena’s bowling-variants period, and boy, do Weres and Humans have things in common. Father might be right to fear an alliance between them. Still, this doesn’t concern me, and—

Max’s hand takes Ana’s, pulling her toward the woods, and my brain short-circuits. Mick’s on duty, and I barge out of my room barefoot, meaning to warn him. But his chair is empty, save for a used plate with some traces of coleslaw on it.

He’s probably in the restroom, and I consider looking for him there. Then decide there’s no time. A couple of stray neural cells lurch awake to point out that this is the perfect time for me to break into Lowe’s office and search for intel on Serena. The remaining 99 percent of my brain, sadly, is focused on Ana.

God. I hate, hate, hate that I care.

I dash down the stairs, then outside via the kitchen. The heat crashes into me like a wave, slowing me down as the sunlight stabs my skin like a million little shark teeth. Fuck, it hurts. It’s way too bright for me to be out.

A couple of Weres see me, but no one notices me. Little jagged stones dig painfully into the soles of my feet, but I power through, heading for the forest. By the time I’ve reached the woods, my flesh is burning, I’m limping, and I’ve almost lost my balance twice, courtesy of a pile of sand buckets and an arm floatie.

But I see Ana’s bright blue swimsuit amid the green, the dark gray of Max’s shirt, and yell “Hey!” I wade through the thick of the trees. “Hey, stop!”

Max keeps on walking, but Ana turns, sees me, and grins, gap-toothed and delighted. Her heartbeat is sweet and happy. “Miresy!”

“Not my name, we’ve been over this. Yo, Max? Where are you taking her?”

He must recognize my voice, because he halts. And when he looks at me, his face is pure hatred. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” Fairly sure pine needles are burrowing inside my skin. Also, I might be in flames. “What are you doing with a six-year-old in the middle of the forest?”

“Seven.” Ana corrects me cheerfully, letting go of Max’s hand and holding up six fingers, and damn this child.

“Ana, come with me.” I offer her my hand, and she happily trots my way, arms open as though she means to hug me—yikes. My heart sinks when Max scoops her up and starts carrying her in the opposite direction. “What the hell are you—”

That’s when several things happen at once.

Ana thrashes around and screams.

I charge at Max, ready to free her, ready to tear him to shreds with my fangs.

And about a dozen Weres jump out of the trees surrounding us.