Page 32 of Shift in the Blood
“Please.”
“We took care of your boy Popov last night.” Neville was gleeful.
“What?”
“Me and Didier and a few other fellows. We went to visit Mr. Maxim Popov, and let him know in no uncertain terms that you and your sister were people he needed to forget immediately.”
“Why?” I sat down as Mrs. B. placed a dish of eggs, tomatoes, sausage, and hash browns in front of me.
“Because you’re with Didier now.” It was Mrs. B. and not Neville who spoke. “The people he cares about, he protects. He’s your Patron, yes?” She nodded at the necklace that hung down my front.
“Yes.”
“That’s why.”
“What did Maxim do?”
“If I were a betting man, I’d say he soiled himself. But I don’t know, so I can’t say. I do like to think he needed to go and change after we left.” Neville wasn’t able to stop the laugh that burbled out of him. “Seriously, I think he was planning to try and hurt you again. Didier got him to admit he planned the attack on you at the museum. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him ever again.” He laughed, almost to himself, once more.
“You enjoyed it.”
“I did. I like making sure bullies know their place. We might do a bit of criming, as I’m sure you know. But Didier doesn’t hurt humans. He doesn’t take advantage of them, outside of other criminal types, and he treats people right.”
“A moral criminal.”
“Very much.” Mrs. B. nodded as though it was a decided thing. “Now eat before my food gets cold.”
I did. When I got back to my room, there was a note that said my supplies would be delivered today, and the attic would be ready for me to work in it tomorrow. There was a sketch book along with the note, and I sat in front of my window, and sketched.
They were all of Didier.
I threw the book across the room.
The next day, Mrs. B. proudly took me up to the attic. I hadn’t seen Didier since he’d rejected me. The attic studio had everything I could ever want.
Except.
Except.
Except.
The man who brought me here, who brought this to life.
It went on like that for a week. I didn’t see him, although he left notes for me in the studio. I ate with Mrs. B., or Neville, or both. I resisted the urge to ask them about Didier, and they didn’t inquire as to what was going on, or not going on, between us.
Then one night, after I was frustrated with the day’s work, and upset, and not able to sleep, I stormed up to the attic. I started a new painting, more modern, and angry, and bleak.
I was so engrossed I didn’t hear him.
“Can’t you sleep?” He stood at the top of the stairs that led to the attic, leaning against the half-wall. His arms were crossed. With his hair tousled, and his long sleeve shirt that fitted him too well, he looked delicious.
Damn the man.
“No.” I wasn’t going to give him any more than that.
“Clara.”
“No.” I repeated myself. I didn’t need to listen to how it wasn’t me, it was him, or that he just wanted to be friends, or whatever drivel he was about to try and drop on me.
