Page 82 of Claim of Blood
The last thing they heard was Jon’s muttered, “I hate that you’re not wrong,” followed by Kenneth’s earnest explanation to Joshua about how much better his life was about to become.
The social media influencers were still happily documenting their Friday night adventures when Adam and Maja emerged from the back room, none the wiser about the lethal drama that had played out among them. Impossible blue flames still danced atop the witch’s cocktails. The wolf shifter was checking IDs with intimidating calm. The bear shifter’s low laughter rumbled through the basement like distant thunder.
Just another night at Over/Under.
Chapter Nineteen
Lander
TheCadillacBlackwinghummedlike a contented cat in Lambert International’s cell phone lot, its quiet purr a stark contrast to Lander’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The dashboard offered a cheerful reminder that autonomous mode was available with a simple voice command, but Lander ignored it. Like most vampires, he was slow to embrace change—even when that change would spare him the indignity of folding his six-foot-four frame behind the wheel with all the grace of an origami giraffe.
At least PDC hadn’t made manual driving illegal. Yet.
He’d rather endure the cramped quarters and keep control than arrive in one of the Court’s diplomatic tanks—sleek black hulks practically advertising “important vampire business” to anyone paying attention. Bad enough he was playing chauffeur to his parents without also driving something that screamed supernatural authority.
“They’re at baggage claim,” Ilona announced, her phone’s blue glow casting shadows across sharp cheekbones. Fresh from herNew Orleans flight, she was clearly channeling her irritation at being summoned home into watching Lander squirm. “Unless you’re planning to abandon your beloved parents to the mercy of ride-share services? Though if we’re deserting family members tonight, I should have called my own car.”
“They’re perfectly capable of getting a ride share,” he muttered, knowing even as he said it how ridiculous it sounded. Johan and Elisabeth Jensen, reduced to hailing autonomous cabs like common tourists.
“The son of Johan and Elisabeth Jensen, leaving them to find their own way from the airport?” Ilona’s laugh was rich and knowing. She shifted in her seat, somehow making even the cramped car feel elegant. “Scandalous. I still don’t understand your dread. They were absolutely lovely when we met in Vienna.”
“That’s because it was Vienna,” Lander said, finally surrendering to inevitability and engaging the auto-drive with perhaps more force than necessary. The car’s AI gave a soft, pleased chime as it took over, pulling smoothly from the space. “A diplomatic gathering. With witnesses. This is...” He gestured vaguely at the terminal looming ahead. “This is them visiting. There will be gifts. Probably another hand-knit sweater. In public.”
Those blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “The horror. Your mother’s cooking and handmade clothing. However will you survive?”
“You don’t understand,” he insisted. The car slid into the pickup lane, joining the steady flow of vehicles. A traffic guard approached, but Ilona’s casual glance sent the man off to hassle someone else.
They stepped out to wait, scanning the crowd of weary travelers wheeling luggage past shuttle signs and idling taxis.Cars crawled forward in steady rhythm as Lander searched for two familiar figures in the chaos.
“They’re...” He trailed off when he spotted them. Even from a distance, he could see his mother’s face light up with unrestrained joy. Johan, ever steady, steered their cart toward them while Elisabeth waved with enough enthusiasm to draw stares from passing travelers.
“Smothering?” Ilona offered helpfully, her Russian accent slipping through. “Doting? Absolutely besotted with their miracle child?”
“I’m two hundred and fifty years old,” he hissed, bracing himself. “You’d think they’d have gotten over the novelty by now.”
“Min kjære!” Elisabeth’s delighted cry rang out, her voice pure and bell-clear. The rapid click of impossibly high heels on concrete heralded her approach—of course she’d worn her traveling shoes for a transatlantic flight. All six-foot-two of her (not counting the six-inch heels) moved with the grace that had once held opera houses spellbound, her red hair catching the overhead lights like flame.
Behind her, Johan maneuvered what appeared to be an entire department store’s worth of luggage through the crowd. Barely five-nine, he nonetheless filled space like a man a head taller, his barrel chest and trunk-like limbs straining the seams of what had probably started the day as a perfectly tailored shirt. He looked as relaxed as if he were carrying a few grocery bags instead of half of Norway.
“Min kjære!” Elisabeth called again, her soprano drawing more appreciative looks. “My darling boy!”
Beside the car, Ilona didn’t bother hiding her laughter. “Darling boy,” she murmured. “How precious.”
“Not. A. Word,” he ground out, but any further protest was cut off as his mother enveloped him in an embrace that managed to be both affectionate and critical.
“You’re too thin,” she declared, releasing him only to smooth his collar.
“I’m a vampire, Mor. I look exactly the same as the last time you saw me.”
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “You’re practically wasting away. Johan, doesn’t he look thin?”
His father’s voice rumbled from behind the mountain of luggage. “Better have Marie stock the kitchen. Our boy needs feeding up.”
Lander sighed. “By all means, you can march right into Marie’s kitchen and tell her how to run it. I’m sure she’d love the input. Especially after the last time. Has she forgiven you for the blood orange béarnaise incident yet?”
Elisabeth’s golden eyes widened indignantly. “That was hardly my fault! How was I to know modern blood oranges would react so... explosively?”
“The sauce ended up on the ceiling,” Lander said, exasperated. “Marie was scraping bits out of the chandelier for weeks.”
