Odessa furrowed her brow as though I’d announced I was taking a break from oxygen. “You don’t want kids?”
“Nope.”
“Because being a boundary witch sucks too much?”
There was a hint of real worry on her face, and I realized my mistake: she thought I didn’t want kids because I would pass down my witchblood, and that was sort of insulting to Odessa herself.
Thankfully, I had just taken another bite of my sandwich, so I took a moment to choose my words. “The boundary witchblood is a concern, I guess, but it’s more complicated than that. I love having kids in my life, I just don’t want my own.
“As to your question,” I added, mainly to change the subject, “yeah, sometimes it sucks. It feels like there’s this”—I waved a hand above my head, earning a sharp look from Becca—“dark cloud above my head, all the time. Like a pressure.” I shrugged. “On the other hand, I found my friends, my boyfriend, and my job because of being a witch. That’s pretty valuable to me.”
Odessa’s face fell. It reminded me a lot of when I’d first come home from Iraq, and people would ask me about my tours as though I’d been off on some grand adventure. They wanted stories of bravery, heroism, and danger—but that was a fantasy, a child’s idea of war. What I’d actually experienced was a lot of heat and monotony, punctuated by brief, terrifying periods of thinking I was about to die. And then, of course, I’d seen all my friends die, and I myself had been killed. It had been brutal and painful and senseless.
Not my idea of a grand adventure.
After that, I turned the conversation to Odessa, asking her about Atlanta and her friends. I have a big family; I am capable of small talk if I need it, but Odessa seemed more subdued. I felt like I’d let her down . . . but I didn’t apologize either. Boundary magic isn’t a wild, romantic escapade. If she actually had been a boundary witch, she would know that.
When our food was finished, we said goodbye, and Odessa excused herself to use the restroom. I went over to Becca Rhodes’s table. She looked up from her newspaper, eyebrows lifting. “Hey, do you use a local range?” I asked. “I’m looking for a recommendation.”
Impossibly, her eyebrows went up farther. “Itchy trigger finger?”
I smiled. “It’s just how I blow off steam.”
That wasn’t particularly true, but I did want to practice with the unfamiliar weapons. Becca looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled a small notebook and pen out of her blazer pocket. “If you’re up for a drive, a buddy of mine runs a place in Monticello, kind of low profile. I can let him know you might stop by.” She scribbled an address, tore off the sheet, and handed it to me.
I took the piece of paper. “That’d be good, thanks.”
Waving goodbye, I went out to the rental car and consulted the navigation system. The shooting range was more than an hour away. I checked my watch. Two o’clock. The sun wouldn’t set until around six thirty, so I had just enough time to either go practice with the weapons or go on a scouting trip. Beau had made a point of requesting that I wait for him to come pick me up for Promenade. He hadn’t come out and said it, but even with the vow of mutual safety or whatever it was called, I suspected he was worried about my welfare if I walked into a throng of vampires without him. That’s how well-liked boundary witches were.
But that didn’t mean I had to stay away from Oakland now, when the sun was out and the cemetery was open to the public. I smiled to myself and started the car.
Chapter 14
I followed the navigation to Oakland Avenue, a north-south street that served as the western boundary of the cemetery grounds. It wasn’t difficult to find the entrance—a tall brick arch with the word “Oakland” inscribed in simple block letters across the top. There was a small lot just across the street from the arch, so I parked the rental and walked over, keeping my sunglasses on to cut the glare.
The entrance opened onto the cemetery’s main road, which was ominously named Old Hunter Street. It was as wide as a city street and dotted with visitors: mothers in expensive leggings, elderly couples engaged in conversation, even a couple of joggers panting in the sun.