Nightwolf

I rummage through my kit in the bathroom, grab some face primer, black eyeliner, a blending sponge, and a vial of holographic silver glitter powder, then head out into the hallway. As Lenore heads down the stairs toward the ground floor and Dark Eyes below it, I go up the stairs, passing by the copious amounts of roses that are placed in every vase by my mother.

Today the roses are a smoky purple, though in their dead stage, they’re nearly black. Even though my mother loves to keep fresh roses in the house, there’s something about a vampire’s chemistry that kills them. Lenore’s witchy side has a knack for making them bloom again but there’s only one of her and three other vampires in the house. The roses are more often dead than not.

I take in a deep breath and knock on Wolf’s door. I heard the ceiling creaking earlier, a sign that he’s in his room (the house was built in 1889 and the floorboards let you know it), and seconds later he opens the door.

“Hey,” I tell him with a big smile.

Wolf stares at me with a look that I don’t see on his face very often. Bewildered might describe it. Mixed with a bit of awe and something more heated that I don’t dare read into. His eyes are glued to my chest, then my face, then my chest again and damn if I don’t practically shiver from the thrill of it all.

“Hey,” he says, his voice hoarse, and he clears his throat, bringing his gaze back to my eyes. “This must be the secret.”

“Please tell me you know who Elvira is,” I tell him, putting my hand on my hip.

He chuckles lightly, his eyes coasting over my body again, my skin flaming up like kindling from the power of his gaze.

Fucking hell, I’ve been looked at by him before but not like this.

“I’m surprised you know who Elvira is, youngin,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Are you here to tell me my shift is starting?”

“No,” I say, reaching out with my palm and pushing the door open further. “I’m here to fix your costume.”

I step inside his bedroom, a place I’ve been many times before, though always for innocent reasons. It’s dark, but very clean and modern with Scandinavian touches, even some handcrafted heirlooms which he says are from his past, though I’ve never pressed him to elaborate on what they mean or who they’re from. I try not to breathe in deeply like a weirdo, because I absolutely adore the smell of his room. It smells like him, manly and warm and crisp all at once, like snow falling on cedars by a fire.

“My costume?” he asks.

I look him up and down. True to his word, he is not dressed up at all. He is himself. A vampire. Dressed in a black t-shirt, dark jeans and shitkicker boots.

“Not even a tux?” I ask him. I reach out and grab him by his bicep, my hand so small against his mass of muscle, his skin cool against my palm, and attempt to steer him toward the bed. “You’re always wearing that white tux of yours to the events, you could at least pretend to be James Bond.”

He lets me lead him, brow raised in curiosity, and then I gesture for him to sit down. “Why am I suddenly worried?” he asks in a wry voice.

“You can’t half-ass it to your first Halloween party,” I tell him as I place the makeup in a small pile beside him.

“Who said this was my first Halloween party?” He warily eyes the makeup, then my breasts, before quickly bringing his gaze back to my face. “I’ve been to a few. The sixties had the best ones. Especially right here in San Francisco. Debauchery for days.”

I’m hit with wonder, as I always am when Wolf talks about the past. Whether he’s talking about the summer of love in California, or France during the revolution, he’s experienced so much life across so many centuries that I’m just in awe of pretty much everything he says.

“Of course,” I muse, grabbing the tube of primer and squirting it onto the back of my hand. “Here I was thinking this might be a special night.”

“It is,” he says, watching intently as I pour some of the silver glitter powder onto the glop of primer. “It’s the first Halloween party that you’ll be at.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes the hair rise at the back of my neck.

I manage a shy smile before dipping the sponge into the glitter mixture, then clear my throat, the sponge aimed at his face. “Okay, close your eyes.”

His forehead creases. “Do I get to ask what you’re doing?”

“Just adding to your costume, that’s all,” I tell him. “Now, close your eyes. I don’t want the glitter getting everywhere.”