I got up and headed for the door. “Hey, by the way, thanks.”

“For what?”

“For believing in me.” He gave me the guy-nod that men make at other men. I started out, then stopped. “Wait. You never told me what beholders are.”

“Oh. They’re vamp wannabes who’ve made it to the next level. They’re marked humans, lackeys who think they’re gonna earn the kiss. They’re usually tough and athletic, and the vamps use them as spies. As far as I know, they use beholders hard—like they say about racehorses, ‘ridden hard and put away wet.’ Vamps don’t seem to feel the same allegiance to the beholders—who are doing everything they can to prove themselves worthy—as they feel to the beautiful offerlings.”

“Offerlings?” I was learning a lot about vampires.

“The ones who have been approached by the vamps because of their looks or their intelligence. It’s supposed to be a huge honor to be sought by the vamp elite. Offerlings get marked twice at the start and, even if their mark is only days old, they have more authority than a beholder with a decade of faithful service.”

“Bet that goes over real well with the beholders.” My sarcasm won me a smile.

“The beholders usually end up killed in the line of service. It’s rare for a beholder to be turned, as I understand it.”

“Their chosen ones are offerlings, and their spies and muscle are beholders. How perfectly beatific.”

“Of course. They can’t be called something mundane.”

Pompous vampires wouldn’t name something using ordinary words. But, according to Beverley, Goliath wasn’t a conceited snot. That whole haughty vampire persona couldn’t be a PR scam like the fairies glamouring up wings and acting all benevolent, sweet, and giggly in public—could it? Was I putting more faith in vampirical stereotypes than in facts?

“Johnny.” Gentle words weren’t coming to me, so I just blurted it out straight. “This Lustrata thing. I don’t want to play Atlas, with the world on my shoulders.”

His satisfied expression dissipated as he sobered into a blankness that left only the stern and imposing Wedjat gaze. I felt small. “The world can’t afford for you to think that way, Persephone.”

“I think we should do something in addition to the wards, to increase the protection of the house,” I said.

Nana looked up from the Codex. “I’m already working on that,” she said as she patted her Book of Shadows and the Codex simultaneously.

“But I can help.”

“You should take a nap or go for a walk and get some air. Or meditate or something, to get away from here for a bit. The distance will give you clarity.” Nana was formidable in her spell-work, and her expression warned against any thought of further questioning.

Duly rejected, I chose to go out on the porch for some air. The crisp wind felt good. I wanted to walk, but with beholders on the loose, how did I dare to go for a carefree walk ever again? And I knew that my comfortable days of anonymous security from the likes of vampires were over. That hurt.

Could I ever leave Nana alone? I mean, she couldn’t go into a nursing home ever again, even if her personality didn’t cause problems. She’d be exposed there, open to harm. And Beverley. Poor Beverley. She knew Goliath! Knew a softer side, it seemed. Or an act. How could a killer of his nature even care about a woman like Lorrie and her daughter?

How could I get distance and clarity when my worries never rested?

I stepped off the front porch, determined not to be a prisoner inside my saltbox. I strode purposely around the house taking long, slow paces and studying the fields. Middle of nowhere. Just as well. In the middle of society, neighbors would turn away, shut their eyes, and lock their doors. At least out here I didn’t have a false sense of security. Everyone who would come to my aid was already here and seemed to put some value in my honesty, even if it had come late.

By the time I arrived at the cellar, it seemed like an inviting distraction. Throwing back the door, I stepped down and in as if I had a purpose.

It smelled like cold darkness should smell: empty and damp. Winter smelled like this, when wet snow lay like white blankets on the resting world. The last two years of my life had been a winter. The surface was an organized routine building up buffering white layers, while below dormant issues, emotions, and thoughts waited. Ironically, just as winter was settling in on the geographical world where I lived, the thawing of my frozen life had unavoidably come. Myriad roots within me stirred, stretched. The complications piling up were all the sprouts.

One word echoed in my head: Lustrata.

There, beyond the golden beam of light from the open doors, I stepped into Johnny’s regular cage. The hay crunched under my shoes, and it gave a grassy hint of spring to the otherwise wintry cellar. I wanted more of that fresh growth, to think about the earth and not myself. I lay down in the hay, breathed deeply of the aroma, and closed my eyes.

“Red?”

I opened my eyes. The beam had stretched with the setting sun and was shining drowsy warmth on me. Presently a shadow fell across the light from the doorway, leaving me cold without the beam. “Red?”

I sat up. “Here.”

Johnny came down the steps and stopped at the door to his cage. “Demeter’s looking for you.” His silhouette was all I could see. He was so tall and lanky. Nana would have said he was cut like a clothespin. Dust floated in the beam around him, creating the illusion of something magical about him. Magical, yet dark, his expression hidden, his face shrouded by strong backlighting. “Red?”

I realized I was staring. “Yeah.” I stood up, brushed hay from my backside. I headed toward him. “Sorry. Did Nana get scared?”

He didn’t make the polite step to get out of my way. He stood rooted in that spot, facing me. This close, I could see his expression now. He said, “I got scared.”

I couldn’t believe he’d just admitted that. Weren’t there strict rules against that in the guy-code rule book? “Johnny. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear.”

I waited for him to say something lewd, but he didn’t, and the silence thickened, woolen and warm, getting heavier and heavier as if a flood were rising around me, weighting me down and threatening to drown me. Suddenly, he grabbed my arms and pulled me close. For an instant he hesitated; then he kissed me.

I didn’t fight against it, but I wasn’t prepared for it either. My back stiffened defensively. I’m just not the kind of girl to collapse into a sudden kiss. Did that mean I’d never make a good Guinevere?

Johnny must’ve read the worst into my body language, because his lips went absent just as I thought to wonder how they tasted. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

He had taken my reaction as rejection, but I hadn’t pushed him away. It had just happened so fast. I wasn’t keeping up. His grip loosened, and he started to release me.

“No,” I said, my hands grappling for a hold, one coming up with his shirt, the other clinging to his side. He stilled under my touch. “Forgive me,” I whispered, a bit breathless. I swallowed down my fear and said, “Once more?” Please.

“No,” he said softly, eyes glinting. “It’s a hundred kisses, or none.”

How could I deny that low, confident yet needful tone? “A hundred it is.”

He leaned down and, this time, I was ready. I wanted his kiss. I wanted to know the taste of him. I shut my eyes.

Just before our lips met, he paused and hovered there as if these seconds could last an eternity. Desire mounted in me; anticipation filled every nerve. I inhaled deeply, taking the cedar and sage scent of him into me as if I could pull him that fraction more, so his lips would meet mine.

But it was his will holding him there, for whatever reason.

I opened my eyes. He gave a quick, lopsided grin; then he gave in.