Page 183 of White Wolf

The reality was that his place was nice, but not lavish, comfortable and spacious. He kept house like a military man, uncluttered and spotless. The fridge was always full of Tupperware containers of boiled chicken, the cabinets full of chocolate protein powder. His spare bedroom housed his weights, a mirror, and a treadmill. His flat-screen TV was his sole indulgence, everything else from Target or Ikea.

The mess was such an uncharacteristic sight that it brought her up short. She stopped just inside the entryway, felt her mouth drop open as she gaped. “Oh shit.”

“Getin.” He nudged her the rest of the way in and shut the door with a forceful thump.

A sequence of narrow floating shelves in the front hall served as a place to set keys, phone, wallet, and the occasional minimalist decorative doo-dad. An old-fashioned silver salver, something his grandmother had brought from Italy, served as a stopping point for his mail; Trina knew he sorted through bills, junk, and various dudebro magazines every evening. No clutter, not Lanny; there was a lot wrong with him, but he detested a mess.

Now, though…

At least two weeks’ worth of mail obscured the salver from view. A few bills had tumbled off the edge and lay on the floorboards like fallen leaves. Empty Bud bottles cluttered the shelf above, their sides dull with a light coating of dust.

In the living room beyond, she spotted more bottles, sticky plates, and empty takeout containers on the coffee table. The TV was on – the Yankees game – and in its glow she spotted more plates on the floor, a tipped-over, hopefully-empty Burger King cup, a few crumped tissues. A quick glance proved the connecting kitchen – or at least the breakfast bar that separated the two spaces – was likewise burdened with trash.

“Lanny.”

He walked around her into the living room and threw himself down in his recliner, gaze pinned to the TV screen.

Trina followed, picking her way carefully. She had to move an entire stack ofMen’s Healthoff the couch before she could sit. Her heart clenched when she hefted them; this was his favorite magazine. He’d been known to clip out and pin up photos of Hugh Jackman and David Beckham, tape them to the mirror in his home gym, flex and frown at his reflection, comparing himself to celebrity bodies. Vain in his own way, insecure because he’d lost his childhood dream.

And now here he was losing his life.

There were people in the world who had it worse than him, death sentence included. The children in the cancer ward at the hospital; victims of natural disasters; the murdered; the raped.

But it seemed indescribably unfair, because he washers, and she loved him, and she hadn’t had the chance to kiss him yet.

She stared at his stony profile, the hump of his broken nose, the tiny, tiny tremor at the corner of his mouth, betraying his fear and heartbreak. She stared at him…and a terrible idea occurred. It started as a tiny kernel, almost a dare – she dared herself to let the thought solidify. And then it did, and then it rolled downhill, gained momentum. Until she had to say it.

“Lanny,” she said, voice calm, “I think I might know one sure-fire way to make you better.”

He grunted a half-interested question.

“Lanny.” It vibrated through her: certainty and fear and reckless, impossible hope. “Nikita’s avampire.”

He looked at her then, finally. Brows up to his hairline, a clear question glimmering in his eyes, the blue TV glow making them flat, frightened. “Yeah. So?”

She swallowed hard, all of her insides aching, the hope swelling in a painful surge. “He’s never going to die. Not naturally. Not from adisease.”

Lanny’s mouth fell open. He licked his lips and cleared his throat before he said, “What the fuck,” flat and toneless.

“We should get him to save you, that’s what the fuck.”

Lanny didn’t react for five…four…three…two…

Then he exploded up out of his chair. “What the fuck?”

Hardly believing herself, she said, “I’m gonna ask Nikita to turn you.” And she knew, with a fresh burst of fear, that she absolutely would. All that was left to do was pray Nikita said yes.

And get Lanny to agree.

“Are you outta your goddamn mind?” He shoved both hands roughly through his hair and started pacing the length of the coffee table, tight circles. He whacked his shin on the edge during the first pass and didn’t seem to notice. “I’m serious. Are you fucking insane?!”

“Possibly. I’m also related to a one-hundred-and-two-year-old man who still looks twenty-seven. So. Crazier things and all that.”

“I…I’m…” he tried, and let out a frustrated huff. “Don’t say shit like that. Justdon’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He stopped, turned to face her. Held his arms out to the side, imploring. His face was twisted up, and she realized now that the red-rimmed eyes weren’t the product of drinking: he’d been crying. “Ican’t,” he said, and his voice broke.

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