since the alien hive mind has assumed control.”
“What?” she asked. “Is this Hanna?”
“Yes, Mom. This is Hanna.”
“Oh! Thank goodness! I’ve been so worried. I left messages, but I guess you haven’t been getting them.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I said. “I’ve just been busy.” Avoiding vampires and assassination attempts by Theo Van Gogh, among other things.
“Oh, of course,” she said. “Working full-time now and going to school. Even if you don’t have a husband to take care of anymore.” This last, she slipped in with just enough disapproval to set my eyelid twitching.
“No, Mom. I graduated, remember? I got my Master’s last year.”
“Your Master’s?” she asked, familiar confusion clouding her voice. “But I thought you were working on your PhD?”
Irritation swarmed down my spine like an army of insects. I swerved around a Honda puttering in the fast lane and gave him the finger.
“No. No PhD. Just the Master’s,” I said, stomping on the gas. When the engine roared, I reminded myself about the body in my trunk and decelerated rapidly.
“Well, isn’t that lucky then, that you found a job as a secretary in that art store.”
“It’s a gallery, Mom,” I corrected through clenched teeth. “And I’m not a secretary. I’m an assistant.”
“An assistant? You’re an assistant?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Who are you assisting?” she asked. “Is it a man?”
Sometimes. When he’s not tooling around on all fours fending off vampires and rival werewolves.
“Yes, mother. He’s a man and his name is Mark Abernathy,” I said, already knowing her next question.
She didn’t disappoint.
“Is he married?”
“No,” I answered.
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sure he won’t mind that you are,” she said. “You’re a very pretty young lady, when you don’t wear too much makeup.”
I made a mental note to buy slut-red lipstick and false eyelashes.
“I’m not planning on getting married again anytime soon,” I said.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Lots of women are having babies out of wedlock these days. Even at your age.”
Breathe, Hanna.
“Mother,” I said, “I am not having a baby.”
“Not yet,” she said, her voice gone singsongy and hopeful. “But you could be. You know that checker at Save-Mart? The one whose line we always went to?”
“The one with three divorces, a smoker’s cough and a boob job?” I asked.
“Yes! She’s forty-one and she’s pregnant.”
“Mother, I’m not sure how this escaped your attention, but I am not forty-one years old. In fact, I’m not even thirty.”
“I know. But you don’t want to wait too much longer. A woman’s most fertile years are—”
“When she’s slouching around a hippie commune sleeping with random strangers?” I shot back.
“Hannelore Harv—” she gasped.
“Don’t,” I said. A one-word damn between the thoughts in my head and the mutiny they would cause if they left my mouth.
The unwelcome knowledge of my childhood burned in my chest like hot coals banked beneath unassuming ash. What about my father? What about my brother? What about my history? Your history? How can you pretend you don’t know what I am? What you are? How can you sit here and pile guilt upon me while you hide a pack of lies?
“You got to choose your life,” I said. “Now I’m choosing mine.”
“Maybe I should call back,” she suggested. “You sound like you’re in a hurry.”
“That’s because I have a dead body in my trunk.” I glanced at the rear-view mirror, half expecting to see flashing red and blue given the way this day was already unfolding.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I’ve got to go, mom.”
“I’ll call you later,” she promised. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.” Most days, that was true.
Chapter 6
“That’s Rudy Valentino,” Joseph Abernathy said, rolling the head to face us. A thin, dark dribble of blood worked its way down the gray flesh of a strong chin. Two pearly white points protruded between his waxy, bloodless lips.
Rudy Valentino was a vampire. There was a decapitated vampire in my trunk.
“What is Rudy Valentino doing in my trunk?”
“Not much,” Mark said, leaning in past his father to get a better look.
We stood staring down into the Mustang’s trunk in the alleyway behind the gallery. A relatively secluded spot away from the eyes of tourist foot traffic of historic downtown Georgetown.
“Let me rephrase,” I said. “Why is Rudy Valentino in my trunk?”
“Because someone put him there,” answered Joseph.
Ugh. If there was anything worse than werewolf dad humor, it was double werewolf dad humor.
“You know,” I said, “you two are exceptionally helpful. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your input.”
Joseph scratched at the silvery stubble dusting his jawline. “Second decapitated vampire in one day. This is not a promising