Johnny caught my arm and kept me sitting. "Why do you need to warn the vamp?"

Staring pointedly at his hand on my arm, I let disapproval show in my expression.

He straightened and released me, his arm sliding across the back of the couch. Twisting into the corner, he pretended to be relaxed, but his pose was too rigid. "Let the three little fairies do their worst."

My head dipped forward. "They're more dangerous than you think!"

"Not to me."

"They might target me, or did you miss that part?"

"So we get you ready, I help protect you, and we ignore the threat to him."

"I have to tell him."

"Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

In a flash, Johnny was off the couch, pacing before me. "I get the right-action-for-the-right-reason thing, Red. But this isn't either! This is nothing but showing obedience to him."

"It is not showing obedience, it's me being me! Doing the right thing. You thought the stain was gone. You don't trust me now because you know it's not."

"Of course I trust you. I don't trust him. You're marked, Red. Still. That's why you can run so fast." His arms went up as he figured it out, then his fingers ran over his hair. "Why you smelled the metal of my strings. He is here and he'll always be here. In you."

"Doing the right thing for the right reason is important to me, Johnny. It always has been, and that hasn't changed. If I don't act when I know I can make a difference, I fail. I fail at being a good person and fail at being the Lustrata."

"The right thing to do would be for you to acknowledge that you feel something for me that's remotely close to what I feel for you. I've asked for only a single grain of sand from you, Persephone, while I'm the whole fucking beach at your feet. You want to appreciate me but your thoughts are always turning to him!"

What could I say? I stood, walked to a table, and blew out one of the candles. The tang of smoke hit my nostrils sharply.

Behind me, Johnny continued in an angry whisper. "If you contact him, even to warn him, he'll find a way to reel you in a little more, manipulate you again. That's what fucking vamps do!"

Johnny came toward me, motion fluid and easy. "I saw you take the stake. I saw the pain transfer back to him. He could not dump it on you anymore. He would have if he could have. How can you still be marked?"

I didn't want to tell him I chose to keep the stain; he'd never understand how it was bound to the parts of me I knew I would lose if I were free of the stain. "I don't fully understand it myself, Johnny." That was true. "Maybe he pulled the pain back to himself to trick me into getting close enough to stake him, maybe he was hoping to thrust it back at me at the last second…" I let it trail off.

He let out a long, slow breath. "Yeah. I can see that. But you destroyed it and he didn't have to follow through." He ran hands through his dark waves again as he turned and paced away. "Can't trust vamps. Ever!" he grumbled. His motion turned into another stretch, then his arms fell to his sides, limp. His shoulders were straight, and I admired the lines and curves of his masculine strength—even if it radiated anger at me.

Turning back to me, he asked, "Tell me the truth: do you have even a little bit of your own will to fight him?"

He wanted me to say yes, it was evident in his question. I wanted to say yes. But, Lord and Lady, I wouldn't lie. "I want to think so, Johnny, I hope so, but I don't know. If what happened when I held the stake that night didn't ruin the stain, maybe it weakened it, or changed it so I have more resistance. Maybe not. I won't know until I'm around him again, and I'm in no hurry to find out."

The dim illumination of the room added to his mysterious handsomeness, but didn't reveal anything of how he felt and neither did he. Johnny said nothing more, just turned and headed quietly up the stairs to the attic.

Chapter 7

The following morning, Beverley sat at the dinette finishing her cereal. Her hair was in one dark pigtail high on the crown of her head. Nana, playing solitaire beside her, had tried to talk the girl into adding a ribbon and a bow, but Beverley refused. As she rose to bring the bowl to the sink, she asked, "Can we carve our pumpkins tonight?"

I flipped to the back of the check register I was balancing and looked at its small calendar. It was the twenty-fifth; would a cut pumpkin last a week? "It's a little early."

Beverley giggled. "Demeter said you'd say that."

Nana, who remained at the dinette, said, "And then what did I say?"

"To tell Seph that if the pumpkins start to wilt we can soak them in water."

I had forgotten that trick. "If you can correctly spell all of your vocabulary words after school, and recite your timestables, we'll carve pumpkins tonight."

Beverley did a victory dance and said, "Yes!"

"Go brush your teeth and get your book bag." Resuming the math chore, I was happy to see the checkbook a little fuller than usual for midmonth. That was one thing I had Vivian to thank for. She'd supposedly hired me to find and destroy Lorrie's killer and I'd done just that, although not in the way Vivian had expected: it was Vivian herself who had killed Beverley's mom. A big chunk of Vivian's half-payment of $100,000 had gone to settle Theodora's emergency room bill. I'd used some of the cash to buy new clothes and school stuff for Beverley, for Ares's puppy shots and accoutrements, for groceries and fuel. The rest remained in the duffel bag wedged under my bed. I hadn't decided what to do with it. It wasn't as if I were going to be getting a 1099-Misc to account for it as income. The thought of cutting into the side of my mattress and stuffing the bills in there had crossed my mind.

I put the checkbook back into my purse.

"She should take her coat," Nana said, shuffling the cards. "The mornings are getting chilly." Fixing me with her you're-about-to-be-lectured expression, she placed the cards aside. "And speaking of that, how long is that young man going to ride a motorcycle to work?"

Johnny gave lessons at a music store and also did sales, but that was part-time. His other job was for Strictly 7, a local seven-string-guitar maker. "I guess he used to walk. His apartment is close to the music store and it wasn't far the other way to the warehouse where he paints."

"Paints? He's an artist?"

"He paints guitar bodies, sands and buffs them, adds the electronic parts, and solders them."

"He's going to have to put that motorcycle away soon." Nana's surprise had faded into nonchalance a little too quickly. My suspicion piqued when she asked, "Does he have a car?"

"I don't think so."

"Guess he may have to move back to his apartment when the weather gets worse," she said.

My heart gave a little pang when she said that. I did my best to keep any reaction off my face. She was digging as carefully as a paleontologist, but she wasn't going to find a bone to pick this morning.

After dropping Beverley off at school, I drove to the local choose-your-own pumpkin patch and strolled about. Though I had a few already, none were big enough to carve. After finding three large carving pumpkins with good shape and color, I searched for some of different sizes. I liked the oddly formed ones; they had character. The bright morning sun made the orange globes look so pretty, I knew that against the green grass, flanked with the burnt yellow of dried fodder-shocks, it would be beautiful.

Stabbing and gutting pumpkins and gouging designs in their hulls promised to be a constructive way to expend some nervous energy. It would be both time consuming and a good way to avoid Nana. She clearly intended to ask me questions that made me uncomfortable and follow up by expressing all the reasons I should alter my plans.