“My name’s Jessica.” Hunger. Irritation.
“I’m Rachael Velvela. I come from my cousin, Michael Wyndham, who is my Pack—”
“Dammit! Delivery the same business day, my black ass.” She scanned the street once more, then sighed and stepped back to let Rachael come in. She slammed the door hard enough to muss Rachael’s hair. “Heads are gonna roll.”
“I believe you.” Gestating humans, she had decided, were somewhat terrifying. This small dark-skinned woman looked capable of any violence. And who would dare hit her back, risking injury to the infant? “I’m here to—”
“Well, finally.”
Rachael turned to look. A tall, good-looking blonde with shoulder-length hair (and red lowlights) was galloping down the eight-foot-wide sweeping staircase. The front hall was easily as big as the average living room; these living quarters were perfectly suited for royalty. Since she was related to some, she ought to know.
“About time you got here.”
“It is? About time?” Rachael asked.
The blonde on the stairs snorted. “Duh, yes. We’ve had her stuff boxed for weeks.”
“Antonia’s stuff?” Rachael guessed.
“Duh, yes.”
They think I’m here to collect the late Pack member’s possessions. Is that good for me, or bad for me?
“You are the vampire queen?”
The blonde, who looked to be in her late twenties, grimaced. “Ugh, yes, and it’s Betsy, okay? Do not call me that other thing. Once you pick it up, it’s, like, impossible to quit.”
“Your Majesty—”
“See? You heard that, right?” Betsy pointed to the one who had spoken, a small woman with long blond curls who didn’t look a day over seventeen. She had appeared from nowhere and was hurrying toward the small group. The mansion was doubtless a warren of long hallways and secret entrances and many, many staircases. “She’s never gonna get out of the habit. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s still ‘Your Majesty’ this and ‘Your Majesty’ that.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“Your Majesty—”
“See?”
“—forgive my intrusion but I’ve been going over the monthly—oh. Hello. I thought I heard someone at the door.” The teenager squinted at Rachael. “You are not human.” Nothing. Nothing.
“Not since the operation.”
Silence. Stares.
Ouch, tough room. “Uh, no, I’m Pack. I apologize for not calling ahead, but time is not on our side. I was sent here to—”
“She’s here to get Antonia’s stuff.” Hunger, hunger, hunger!
Rachael tried again. “Not really, but—”
“Oh! Yes, it’s all packed. You must relay our sympathies once again to your king.” The teenager looked as distracted as she sounded; clearly she had other things on her mind. “We’re running out of freezer space. So I suggest we purchase a chest freezer to be kept off the kitchen in that little nook no one uses.”
“We wouldn’t need a freezer or a nook to put it in if you didn’t buy eighty flavors of vodka.” Nothing. Nothing.
The teenager blinked slowly at the queen, like an owl. She was wearing khaki knee-length shorts and a red polo shirt; an unbuttoned red cardigan was thrown over her shoulders. Sockless, her tiny feet were pale and perfect. “Yes, well. I do buy eighty flavors of vodka, thus we do need the space.” Nothing.
Rachael immediately remembered what she, and every other Pack member she’d discussed this with, tried so hard to forget. The most disconcerting thing about vampires wasn’t how indestructible they were. And it wasn’t that they had their own rules of behavior. It wasn’t even that they were technically dead meat walking. No, the scariest, awfulest thing about vampires was only this: they had no scent. No scent.
At least, they had no scent the Pack could detect. Which was unnerving, to say the least. Rachael was used to reading scents almost unconsciously, the way humans read facial expressions. But with vampires, there was no way, no way at all, to guess what they were thinking, or what they would do next.
Unnerving? No. Frightening.
The small pregnant woman was starving and angry—most likely the former because of the demands of pregnancy, and the latter because of hormonal influences.
But the two vampires? Were they angry? Hungry? Bored? Irritated? Sexually aroused? Indifferent? Murderous? Amused?
No way. No way at all to know until they acted.
No wonder you forgot. They’re terrifying! That’s what they call a psychological block, and small wonder.
“This,” Betsy said, once again noticing Rachael, who was frozen in the entry hall with no idea of what to do. “This is what I have to put up with! Dead girls swilling vodka shots. Werewolves dropping by to pick up clothes for other dead girls.” She was wearing a dark rose linen shirtdress, belted at the waist, and the prettiest gold