Page 84 of Road Trip with a Vampire
It would pass.
“How did youdothat?” he asked, awestruck.
Before answering him, I flicked my wrist and set the driftwood ablaze with a mere afterthought of power. I’d been right; the wood was as dry as bone. In seconds the magical blue flames had engulfed every piece, reaching high into the sky. It hadthoroughly dispelled the cold of mere moments ago, replacing it with a heat so comforting the urge to close my eyes and simply bask in it was overwhelming.
“I don’t know how I did it,” I answered honestly. I leaned in close, resting my head on Peter’s shoulder. “I just did it.”
Then he kissed me, hard and fierce.
“You,” he murmured against my lips, “are incredible. Simply incredible.”
I wanted to point out that he was pretty great, too—but he was still kissing me, harder and more urgently now. More talking would have to wait.
Later we would probably need to think through exactly what we were doing. We still hadn’t talked about what the sex we’d had the previous night had meant to either of us. Avoiding conversations like that for too long had historically never gone well for me.
Right now, though? As I kissed Peter on a beautiful beach, warm in his arms and by the fire, it felt like whatever was sparking between us was meaningful. Worth preserving.
But…later.
We could think through everything later.
For now, I was content to simply be with him by the warm fire. And feel.
Nineteen
A letter from Reginald Cleaves to Grizelda Watson, dated October 18, 1875
Dear Grizzy,
Next time you decide to start a fire, maybe don’t do it at the same party where I’ve posted notes saying I hope all the guests die painfully? It should be fine—these people don’t have the sense a haberdasher gave a felt brim—but just in case, I plan to lie low for a little while. You might consider doing the same.
No great loss. The world’s a better place without these arseholes in it.
—R
“I think,” I mumbled intoPeter’s chest, “that alarm means we need to get going.”
“Mm,” Peter said, still half-asleep. Or perhaps not so half-asleep, if the way he slapped his hand on top of my phone to shutit off was any guide. That little problem taken care of, Peter rolled over and threw an arm over me, pinning me in place.
I laughed, squirming beneath him. Now I was fully awake. “Really, though,” I said, pushing at his shoulder. “We need to get up if we want to make it to Chicago today.”
With a loud, theatrical sigh, Peter rolled off me and sat up. The sheets fell to his waist, giving me a glorious view of his bare chest. It looked every bit as good as it had when I’d dug my fingernails into it the night before.
“You’re right. We should get up,” he said without conviction. He pulled back the sheets and stood, then wandered—naked—to the bathroom.
I had to look away from his gorgeous ass or else I’d tumble him into the bed again and we’dneverleave.
“I can feel you looking at me,” Peter said without turning around. I could all but hear his cocky smirk. “Behave, Turret.”
I threw a pillow at him, missing him by nearly a foot. I could hear his laughter from the other side of the bathroom door when he closed it behind him.
After the previous night’s magic show on the beach, we’d cuddled by the fire for a little while longer before agreeing that evenwitha fire it was too cold to be outside. I’d doused the flames with water I conjured from the lake—a much easier feat than conjuring all that driftwood had been but no less impressive to Peter—then allowed him to guide me back to the car and drive us to the first hotel we could find.
Not that we’d actually slept much once we’d gotten there.
As Peter showered, I let myself think about how much he’d come to mean to me in such a short amount of time. I’d said goodbye to more people than I could count over the course of my too-long life—but would I be able to say goodbye to Peter whenwe found whatever was waiting for him in Indiana? If he got his memories back and decided he wanted to return to his old life and leave me behind?
I grabbed my hairbrush, then started attacking my hair so vigorously I lost count of how many strands I accidentally pulled out.
