Author: Molly Harper

“Oh, how the hell am I supposed to keep up with all your weird human rituals?” She grunted, prying the lid off Ben and Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Cookie and digging in. “If this was a werewolf thing, we’d just go pee on his front porch so no other females would come near him for months.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted.

I surveyed Andrea’s outfit of artfully worn jeans and what was obviously one of Dick’s T-shirts, advertising the joys of Hot Springs, Arkansas. “I thought you said you were getting rid of Dick’s tacky T-shirts.”

“Oh, this isn’t tacky, this is vintage,” she said, turning proudly to show off the way the shirt hugged her curves. “I put a seam here and there. It’s a little more tailored, so instant classic.”

I peered down at my own happy-face pajama pants and a baggy T-shirt advertising the annual 4-H Hog Call. “I hate you. What’d you bring?” I examined the stack of videos. “ Steel Magnolias and Beaches ? Are you trying to comfort me or get me to commit suicide?”

Jolene shrugged. “When I want an excuse to cry, I watch Steel Magnolias .”

“What about this one?” I held up a copy of 9 to 5 .

“I think Jolene got confused about the theme,” Andrea said. “But still, female empowerment, dosing your boss with rat poison. It could work.”

“I’m your boss,” I reminded her.

“That does pose a problem,” Andrea agreed as my eyes narrowed.

“Zeb said we should bring over the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but Andrea thought you’d get all depressed,” Jolene told me.

“Yeah, because what’s the point of watching Buffy if you’re not watching the second-season episodes with Spike in them?” I asked, uncorking the bottle of wine. Andrea poured me a large glass. “Hmmm. I wonder if it would be unethical for me to turn James Marsters? And then force him to fake the Cockney accent? And then make him my love monkey?”

“Yes, the Council would probably notice that.” Andrea snorted.

“Frankly, I’m surprised some crazy, recently turned fan girl hasn’t already thought of it,” I muttered into my wine.

Andrea pulled a DVD case with a blank cover out of her purse. “I also brought this. It’s an unrated version of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice, the Colin Firth version. Dick got it from one of his … sources. There’s a rumor that during the bath scene, you get an accidental peek at Mr. Darcy’s bum.”

“Oh, Lord, she’s crying again,” Jolene groaned as I gave her neck another moist hug.

I blubbered, “I’m just so happy!”

We indulged in buttoned-up Austenian dramedy for a few hours, consuming more calories than should be allowed by law. I painted my toes a bold eggplant, which Gabriel had always disliked. He said it made my feet look hypothermic. Thanks to her accelerated pregnancy, Jolene’s brief flirtation with crippling morning sickness was over. She polished off the Mint Chocolate Cookie and the Cherry Garcia but not the Chunky Monkey, which Andrea specifically chose because Jolene hated banana. I became concerned about Andrea’s wine-to-ice-cream consumption ratio and what sort of color she might turn my carpet if she got sick. But then I had a few glasses myself and just didn’t care. Fitz couldn’t decide whom he’d rather spurn me for, Andrea or Jolene, both of whom he adored. But since he had a better chance of Andrea sharing food with him, he snuggled up with Andrea.

“Do you consider yourselves Colin Firth girls or Colin Farrell girls?” Jolene asked, munching on her thousandth or so mini-Snickers as Mr. Darcy informed Elizabeth that he most ardently admired and loved her.

“Can’t I have both?” Andrea asked with a dreamy sort of leer. “One of them could run the video camera.”

“That answer, by its very nature, makes you a Colin Farrell girl.” I snickered.

“I’m just saying what you’re both think—” Andrea let out a shriek and dropped her half-melted tub of ice cream on my floor.

At least it wasn’t vomit.

“What?” I squinted at her whitened face in the flickering light of the TV.

“There’s somebody out there!” she cried. “I saw them! They were looking in the window.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know!” she cried. “It was all blurry.”

“I can’t imagine why,” I drawled, looking pointedly at the two empty wine bottles at her feet.

“Jane, I’m serious, there was someone standing there, watching us through the window!” Andrea insisted.

I shook my head. “But I haven’t picked up on anything.”

I looked to Jolene, who shrugged. “I usually have to be pretty focused to sense something watching me.”

Jolene and I went to the window and saw nothing reflected back at us but darkened woods.

“Hit pause. I’ll go check it out.” I sighed.

“What if it’s Gabriel? Or what if it’s some townie lookin’ to mess with a vamp?” Jolene asked. “And you’re wearin’ your bathrobe.”

“Either way, I get to hit something, so yay. They’re probably gone by now, anyway.” I shrugged. Andrea did not look convinced. “Fine.”

I shrugged out of my robe, reached into the hall closet, and pulled out a Louisville Slugger, which had been sharpened to a wicked point.

“Why do you have that giant phallic symbol in your hall closet?” Andrea asked, pointing to my bat.

“I’m a woman living alone in the country. Vampire or not, I feel the need to take some precautions. Why do you think I keep that pair of muddy men’s boots out on the porch?”

“I thought it was a tacky decoration,” Andrea said, shrugging.

“I’m comin’, too,” Jolene said, rolling her shoulders in a way I knew meant she was preparing to wolf out.

“You’re not going anywhere, pregnant lady. You just stay here and keep your belly covered. Besides, someone has to keep Lushy here company. Lock the door behind me. Call Dick if things get weird.”

“When aren’t they weird?” Andrea grumbled as I walked out the front door. I crept around the house, bat on shoulder, to the den window. There was a fresh smear of scent on the air, a cold, angry presence. Someone had been standing outside my window, watching as we gorged ourselves and watched silly movies. Someone had intruded on what was supposed to be my sanctuary.

That just pissed me off.

The scent was emotional, unfamiliar, dark and red and desperate. I followed it to the tree line and, against my better judgment, walked into the dense grove of oaks that surrounded my house. Night is rarely quiet in Kentucky, especially in the hazy weeks of late summer. Mosquitoes buzzed near my head but apparently knew better than to try to graze on my undead skin. Bullfrogs croaked their love songs from the slow-moving creek that flowed into the long-abandoned pastures. Growth had given way to ripening and rot, a wet, sad smell that rose up to meet me with every step, covering the trail of the intruder.

I moved quickly through the trees, cringing with every acorn that crackled beneath my feet. A draft of icy, frigid air seemed to snake around my ankles, rising to twine around my body and squeeze at my chest. I froze, turning toward a bank of poplar trees on my left, the source of the strange sensation. I couldn’t see anything, anyone, even with my clear, inhuman vision. I closed my eyes and tried to search for the mind of whoever was out there. It was like scratching my fingers at a slick marble wall, cold, hard, and impossible to get a grip. Even with my limited psychic practice, I could tell that the clammy blast of air clinging to my skin wasn’t coming from whoever might be out there. It felt like an internal alarm, an organic warning even stronger than a sense of dread or foreboding. My body was trying to tell me that something bad was coming.

I took an instinctual step back toward the house, where I could lock several doors against this sense of impending doom. Instead, I locked my legs against the impulse to run. The time for running was over. Time to be proactive, I told myself.

Mustering up all the bravado I could, I yelled, “Hey! I know you’re out here. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care why you’re here. If you have something to say to me, you don’t skulk outside my window like a peeping Tom, understand? You come to my door and approach me like a grown-up evil being.”

I waited another few beats, but the only presence I felt was the frogs, their tiny hearts fluttering in the dark. “I thought so. Stay away from my house, you freaking coward!”

I turned on my heel, stepped into a mud slick, and went flying, landing on my back with a thud and whacking my head against a stump.

Through the lacy green canopy of leaves, the stars twinkled, mocking me.

“Oh, shut up,” I huffed, pulling myself to my feet. I was lucky I hadn’t impaled myself on my bat or some handy branch. Now fully sober and disgruntled, I trudged back to the house.

Jolene and Andrea, who had cleaned up the ice-cream mess in my absence, fired questions at me as I went upstairs to change out of my muddy clothes.

“I’m pretty sure there was someone out there, so I owe you an apology,” I told Andrea.

“Who do you think it was?” Jolene asked, rubbing her stomach nervously. “I cracked the door open just a little to get a sniff, but I couldn’t tell. Also, Andrea closed the door on my face.”

“She told us to stay inside,” Andrea said, as slowly and patiently as she could. “And some of us don’t have superpowers.”

“Do you think it was Gabriel?” Jolene asked.

“Well, it wouldn’t be completely out of character, considering he pretty much kept watch outside my house for the first few months I was a vampire. But it didn’t smell or feel like anybody I know. It smelled …”

“Angry,” Jolene finished for me. “And desperate and sort of like bug spray.”

“That’s about it.” I nodded. “So, who’s ready for Elizabeth to visit Pemberley?”

“Aren’t you going to call the cops?” Andrea demanded.

“And tell them what?” I laughed. “That I smelled an intruder? After several glasses of wine? And I chased after him in my pajamas with what is probably considered an illegal weapon? No. I’m going back downstairs, and I’m going to finish watching our movie. I’m going to drink that Hershey’s syrup straight from the bottle. And if peeping guy wants to come back, he’s getting a crotchful of my left foot.”

“What if it’s Gabriel?” Jolene asked.

“Especially if it’s Gabriel,” I muttered.

Andrea leaned over to Jolene and whispered, “Well, the good news is, she seems to have moved on to the angry stage.”

The next night, Dick greeted me at the door wearing a T-shirt that I can only guess he rescued from Andrea’s culling process. In blurry white letters, it read, “If you can read this, please put me back on my bar stool.”

“You are all class, my friend,” I told him.

“Come on, Stretch, we’re going out.”

“Andrea told you what happened the other night, didn’t she?” I grumbled.

“My lovely lady friend keeps no secrets from me. Come on. Andrea’s taking care of the shop tonight. We’re going out.” Dick hustled me up the stairs, where he threw open my closet door and selected a clingy red tank top that I normally wore as a camisole under other shirts. He tossed it at me, along with a black push-up bra that was hanging out of my underwear drawer. When he tried to open the drawer a bit to peek inside, I smacked his hand. I went to the closet to pick an overshirt, but Dick shook his head. “Just wear the tank top.”

“It’s not meant to—”

“Wearing something on top of that is a waste of your God-given gift of cleavage,” he insisted. “It’s practically blasphemy.”