Page 29 of Taming His Vampire Mate
“Whatever did this took the employee,” I said.
“Wait,” Jeremy asked. “You can tell all that from a bunch of sausages on the ground?”
“You’re not very bright, are you?”
“Don’t be a dick. Not all of us have had a hundred extra years to read every book that’s ever been written.”
“It’s not all about book smarts,” I said pointedly. “And if you must know, I’ve had eight centuries, and I still haven’t made it through my TBR.”
Beside me, he stilled, eyes widening. “You’re joking.”
“Of course I read regularly,” I said, frowning. “The problem is I keep adding more. And I rarely joke about literature. It’s one of the few pastimes that’s never lost its charm.”
“No, not about your TBR!” His exasperation was almost comical. “You just said you’re eight hundred years old!”
“Oh. That.” I frowned. “Eight centuries, give or take fifty years. Birth records weren’t much of a thing when I was turned.”
“Huh.” His brows drew together like he was processing my age. Frankly, it was none of his business. Not to mention rude. But then he surprised me with, “Then why are you so informal? The way you talk, I mean. Wasn’t English a lot stuffier back then?”
“For one thing, I’m from France—”
“But you have a British accent.”
I paused. I had spent years in London after Magnus was killed by the coven he’d managed to royally piss off. Years where I could finally settle without constant fear. Jeremy’s observation caught me so off guard I forgot, briefly, that I hated him. “You can hear an accent?”
He shrugged. “It’s slight, but yeah. Plus, you use British slang. Even for a not-so-bright werewolf, it’s not hard to put two and two together.”
He’d noticed all that in our handful of brief encounters?
“Languages evolve faster than you think,” I told him, deciding that deep-diving into Thierry lore with someone I despised was not something I intended on doing. “To keep up, I watch a lot of television and read contemporary novels. Many older vampires do. The smarter ones, anyway. Reality TV’s especially good for catching modern speech.”
“What, likeReal Housewives?”
The mental image of Jeremy watchingReal Housewivesalmost made me smile—almost.
“Something like that.”
In reality, Simone and I watched that one famous baking show where everyone was unfailingly lovely and British. We’d wear mud masks we didn’t need, sip pink champagne fromoversized tumblers, and follow it withDrag Race. We called it our “fancy time.”
I yawned, stretching.
The last time I’d slept at all, it had been punctuated by a nightmare about the very town I now stood in. Not exactly restful. And half the reason for that was standing beside me—my subconscious refused to stop dreaming about this stupid wolf.
Every. Single. Night.
I yawned again.
Jeremy frowned. For a long moment, I thought he’d let it go. Then, like he couldn’t help himself: “You okay?” He nodded toward the golden daylight pouring through the windows. “It’s way sunnier here than in Seattle.”
“Let’s worry less about me and more about what happened here, shall we?” I swept a hand toward the rest of the store. An entire shelf of snacks lay on its side, scattering a dizzying mess of multicolored wrappers. There was a dent in the top of it, as though something had struck it with force. Eying that, I added, “Nothing human did this.”
In truth, the damage was odd. Godric wasn’t the type to smash up a convenience store to take a victim. He’d wait for the attendant to step outside. That or he’d use his hypnotic powers. No need for wanton property damage. This much chaos… it was strange.
A message, maybe?
Jeremy frowned at me a moment longer—I caught it out of the corner of my eye, noting that he almost seemed concerned—before turning to take in the carnage.
At last, he nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Whoever or whatever it was, it jumped from shelf to shelf. Probably carrying the attendant.”
