Page 32 of Fangs for the Memories
Usually I don’t bother with spirits if they’re not mixed into some sweet cocktail, but today has been aday.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “What is it?”
“McCallan twelve years,” he responds, pouring a good measure of the amber liquid into each glass before putting the bottle on the floor.
“Twelve years old,” I respond.
He looks at me, blinking. I guess no one usually corrects a mafia boss. His eyelashes are long and luxurious, like his hair.
I shouldn’t be thinking about his eyelashes.
Instead I look down at the glass he hands me.
“McCallan, twelve yearsold,” he says. “English is a silly language.”
I take a sip of the whisky. It’s strong, definitely, but has a delicate flavor I can’t help but appreciate.
“I’m not disagreeing. Your English is good though.”
“I went to school in England,” he responds.
“Werewolf school?”
“There are no werewolf schools that instill as much self-resilience and terror as an English public boarding school,” Ferenc says with a grimace. “And I didn’t shift until I was fifteen, so I got to stay longer.”
“So, you weren’t born a werewolf?” I take a bigger sip, enjoying the way the whisky warms my throat and my full stomach.
“Werewolves are werewolves, but we all come into our shifting abilities at different times.” Ferenc glares at his drink. “I was a late bloomer. I think that’s the English expression.” He looks at me with a mixture of pain and amusement. “I haven’t been to England for a long time.”
“That is the expression. But fifteen doesn’t seem all that old.”
“It is in werewolf terms, and I’ve been fighting back ever since,” he rasps, downing the remains of his glass and reaching to pour another, also topping up mine.
I should tell him no, especially after last night, but with all I’ve seen today, all I’ve lost, I’m beyond caring. I doubt things are going to look any better in the morning, so I may as well go with the flow.
“What did the vampire have to say?” I ask.
“Nothing much, the usual bluster and bullshit.” He swirls his glass. “Vampires are full of their own self-importance. They forget they stopped being a force the moment the humans thought they sparkled.”
I let out a mock gasp. “You mean they don’t sparkle?”
“Not unless you count the coffin dust as glitter.” Ferenc gives me his disarmingly handsome wolfish grin once again. “Which I wouldn’t.”
I like seeing him smile in this way. Yes, it’s predatory, something I don’t think he can help. But here, with me, I seehis guard is down. The smile is more genuine than anything I’ve seen so far.
Ferenc swallows the remains of his whisky, pours himself another measure, and offers to top up my glass again.
I let him.
If it means I let the wolf in, then so be it.
Ferenc
Sated by goulash and whisky, Grace yawns a few times before she settles against the pillows, and as we talk, her eyelids droop until she is asleep.
I promised she wouldn’t sleep alone, and she will not, but the time for claiming her is not yet here. I will stay with her to protect her, but that will be all, at least for tonight.
I rasp at the fur under my skin with an absently clawed hand. I itch because the longer I go without claiming her the more feral I will become.
