“Sure.” I tried to imagine what it had to have been like for him. Held as a prisoner. Tortured. Used by vampires and shifters alike. It was too much to take in, so terrible I didn’t want to minimize what he’d gone through by acting like I got it when there was no way anyone who hadn’t lived something like that ever could. More than ever, I was glad he had Cal, who’d trained for years as a psychiatrist, and was maybe the smartest person I knew, working with him to sort it out.
“Most of the ones who interacted with me weren’t what you’d think.”
“How so?”
“We make the vampires out to be monsters. We talk about them like they’re not human. Like they’re animals. Is it any wonder they want to destroy us?”
My gaze flicked to West, who’d returned to the bar in time to overhear the tail end of our conversation. His expression said the same thing I was thinking.
Not good.
The food arrived. Platters of smoked chicken, beef brisket, coleslaw and Texas-style baked beans with crisp bacon, plus a basket of bread still steaming from the oven with a generous pot of honey butter tucked beside it.
West didn’t look up. “You know the rules.”
Glowering, Topher speared a chicken breast. I raised an eyebrow. West shook his head as if to say, Not now.
An hour later after sending them off with a couple of to-go boxes filled with peach cobbler and banana pudding, I clocked out and headed across the street. Wreaths and garlands hung from every door all along Main. Over by the park, strings of red and white twinkly lights adorned the light posts to form a procession of candy canes. In every window, bright green flyers announced the date for the upcoming Yule Festival, which was our special brand of annual small-town Christmas crazy.
At Blair’s the shades were drawn, the sign on the door flipped to CLOSED. I slipped in the back by the kitchen, locking the door behind me. Imagine Dragons was playing over the sound system, the warm, buttery scent of sugar and spices thick in the air.
Lacey was bent over the counter, piping bag in hand, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she expertly piped frosting onto a row of waiting cupcakes. The bruising at her throat had faded to dull, yellowish splotches. She had on skinny jeans and an old track team hoodie she’d had since high school, the one she always wore on cold days it stormed. There was a smear of flour across her cheek. Chocolate frosting streaked the inside of her wrist like war paint. And damn, she looked good enough to eat.
“You’re here.” Dropping the piping bag, she hurried back to the storeroom.
“Um, I feel like I’m going to get thrown out on my ass for saying this in a bakery, but is there some reason it smells like wet cat in here?” Grabbing the closest cupcake, I slid onto a barstool across from her. Every available work surface from her prep tables to the front counter up by the register was covered in freshly baked desserts. Mini-strawberry cheesecakes. Decadent double chocolate fudge. The key lime with toasted coconut icing that she hadn’t made in weeks. “And by the way, are we gonna talk about you bailing the other day?”
“I didn’t,” she called.
“Oh, okay.”
“We said no strings.”
“That what you want?”
She came out from her supply room carrying a cardboard produce box. “I can’t have what I want.”
“And if you could?”
Lacey shivered when I traced the crease of her hip just over my claiming mark. Her pupils dilated, breath and heartbeat syncing with mine.
“Dallas—”
Her eyes dipped fractionally, settling on my mouth. Answer enough.
Something rustled inside the box. I looked down. Picture a nest of towels large enough for two or three bald eagles. A giant bowl of water (since, you know, eagles get thirsty.) I was about to ask if she’d taken up falconry when I spotted the soot-black ball of fur blinking up at me with huge green eyes in the very corner of the box, hiding from her new Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“Um, that’s a—”
“Cat?”
“Was gonna say health code violation. But, you know, whatever. And you have her in here because?”
Health Code Violation mewed, revealing tiny kitten fangs. Which, okay, was fucking adorable. Reaching into the box, I petted her pointy kitten ears with a single fingertip.
“She was hiding in the alleyway. Someone probably dumped her. There’s stigma against adopting black cats. People believe the superstition that they’re bad luck. I’ve already called the county shelter and put up notices online. Naomi’s coming over in half an hour to take her to the clinic, make sure she doesn’t need medical care.”
“So, I’m all onboard with the cat thing, #TeamFancyFeast and all that—”
“We are not calling her that.”
“—but is she going to freak out when she realizes we don’t exactly play for her team?” I raised a meaningful eyebrow.
The phone rang. Glaring, Lacey shoved the eagle-nest-slash-cat-box at me and hurried to answer it. Switching out the cat-pool for a normal sized measuring cup, I settled Fancy at my feet where I could watch her and grabbed a cupcake.
“Blair’s. Yes, we’re all set for Thursday at the shelter. We’ll be providing dessert and my mother and I will be there to serve dinner and help out in any way you need—”
Five minutes, four cupcakes, and one Justin Bieber song Fancy and I were never telling anyone about later, and I realized, damn, I’d joined the cult of cat people. I was just texting West after making Fancy a little nest in her towels and tucking her in, deciding between Peanut Brittle and Blackberry Crème Brulee for cupcakes number five and six when the offending desserts were plucked from my hand.
“Wow, really?” I groused. “Professional cat sitter slash cupcake tester at work here.”
“We’ve been over this. These are your catnip. Forgive the expression. And I really don’t have time tonight for two hundred pounds of arctic wolf on my floor in a sugar coma.”
“Once. That happened once.”
“Shall we pull up the video?”
“He has a very sensitive system when it comes to confectioner’s sugar.”
Smirking, she took my cat away and returned from the storeroom with an empty cupcake wrapper. “So, if you can remember anything from the start of the cupcake apocalypse?”
“You know I’m not partial to pumpkin anything, but with the cream cheese frosting, it totally works.” I poked at the discarded wrapper for the chocolate one. “What’s with the icicles?”
“They’re called Vlad’s Dark Delights and they’re supposed to be fangs. You really didn’t get that from the cherry liqueur filling?”
“Call it my natural aversion to the undead. These for Thursday?”
“I may bring a few dozen to get a reaction from a larger group.” She began transferring racks of cupcakes to the refrigerator. “But the shelter put in a request for pie. I’m hoping to blast out the word over social media, make sure everyone planning a Christmas party is thinking cupcakes as we head into December. I’ve got about a thousand ideas—Peppermint Pixie Kiss, Ghostly Gingerbread Delights—”
“Sounds like a killer marketing strategy.”