Page 53 of Fangs for the Memories
When I have a pile there’s no way I’m going to be able to finish, she lets me sit and pours out some coffee. Ferenc throws himself into the seat next to me (to my relief), with a plate almost as full as mine.
“I’m ravenous this morning,” he murmurs.
I blush. I don’t think I’ve ever blushed this much in this short a period of time. What the hell is Ferenc doing to me?
“Eat, eat,” Martá says, sitting back down with her coffee and presiding over the table.
“What do you want, mother?” Ferenc says between wolf-sized bites. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here because I was told my son was in trouble.”
“I am always in trouble. You’ll have to be more specific,” he responds.
“Missing shipments?”
“Have you been speaking with Max?” Ferenc growls. “He’s a liar, Mother, and he’s the one responsible for them being diverted, most likely into his pocket.”
Martá gasps in a display of theatrics which nearly sets me off into a fit of giggles.
“Max is a good boy.”
“Max is anythingbuta good boy. He’s a pain in my arse, and if I catch him, he is going to regret crossing me.” Ferenc growls, glaring at his mother over his food.
Her hands flutter around her coffee cup.
“It doesn’t matter, not now you’remated.” She gives me an indulgent smile. “And I don’t have to deal with the likes of the Roka clan again.” She shudders.
Ferenc releases a huffing growl and goes back to his food, stabbing at a portion of sausage like it’s personally offended him.
I’m not sure what to make of him.
“What do you do in Budapest, dear?” Martá turns her attention to me.
“I’m not working here…I’m visiting.”
“How lucky for my son!” she exclaims.
“She was staying at the Géllert,” Ferenc rasps, giving his mother a pointed look.
“Of course she was.” The older she-wolf leans back in her chair, coffee in hand and a smile which is more cat than werewolf.
Ferenc glares at her but obviously decides anything he has to say is not worth the trouble.
“So, you came here to talk to me about missing shipments, when you’ve never cared about shipments in your entire life,” he says, pushing his empty plate away from him and spreading himself out in his chair in a display of manspreading which would be impressive even if he was a man.
“I came because I heard what happened,” Martá says in hushed tones. “The building.” Her eyes dart to me.
“Grace knows what happened.”
“And the truce with the vampires? Is it broken?” Martá says, her voice shaking.
Her long, elegant fingers slowly transform into dark claws.
“Not with the Király,” Ferenc says carefully. “Our truce holds. But there is a rogue vampire, one who wants to open the vault.”
Martá’s cup clatters to the floor. For a moment, the words hang between mother and son.
“What is the vault?” I fill the silence.
