Reign of Night (Thorne Hill 7)

Because parents are supposed to love their children.

The hostess, who was leading Nancy and William to their table, slows and looks over her shoulder to see why they stopped following her. It’s then I realize they’re with another couple, and I vaguely recognize the man as one of William’s politician friends. By the way he’s staring at me, he remembers exactly who I am. What story did William tell him? I had to be locked away because I was crazy and dangerous? I was so overcome with guilt I begged—at eight years old—to be allowed to go on mission trips, helping the helpless?

I’m still squeezing Lucas’s hands, and I know he’s waiting for me to lead how this encounter is going to go. If left up to him, he’d spring up, grab William by the throat, and gnash his fangs in his face, telling him that the only reason he’s not bleeding to death on the floor is because I don’t want to deal with having to hide another body.

“Callie,” Nancy says, eyes nervously shifting from me to Lucas and back again, as she comes to a stop. William reaches for her hand to pull her along, but she snatches it back. I can feel Lucas’s eyes on me now, waiting for me to give him the slightest hint at how I want this to play out, and my petty and impulsive side is begging to come out.

“You look nice,” Nancy goes on.

“Oh, you know each other? Would you like to see if we can find a table nearby?” the hostess asks, trying hard to keep the confusion off her face. Nancy is looking at me as if I’m a mythical unicorn, and William is staring at me with so much hatred I can feel it. And their friends, which I’m pretty sure are the Smiths, have no fucking clue what to do. If that man is indeed Gregory Smith, then he’s been part of the Martin politic ring long enough to know something happened to me.

“No,” I tell the hostess, giving her a sweet smile. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

“Isn’t that Callie?” William’s friend asks. His voice is scratchy from smoking, and I know for sure it’s that asshole Gregory now.

“What a surprise,” William says, trying to force a smile to his face. “We had no idea you were back from your mission work in Africa.”

Ah, he went with that classic lie.

“I’ve never been to Africa.” I keep the smile on my face.

Mrs. Smith is looking all confused now. “I’ve seen the photos.”

“I don’t know who they photoshopped my face over, but I assure you, I’ve never been to Africa for mission work.”

“She’s lying,” William rushes out. “Making up stories like always.”

Lucas pulls his hands out of mine and draws his fangs. “Are you calling my wife a liar?”

William tenses, and Nancy jumps back, bumping into Mrs. Smith. The hostess has no idea what to do and looks mortified. This is not the low-key romantic evening I had in mind.

“Like she said, we do not know you, and I suggest you stop harassing us and let us enjoy our meal in peace.” Lucas takes my hand again, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. “I am so sorry about that, my love. I trust it will be handled. After all, discrimination against a vampire-human relationship is illegal in Chicago.” He looks at the hostess, who quickly nods and raises her hand, signaling for the manager to come over.

This is a swanky place, and as far as everyone in the restaurant knows, we’re innocent victims.

“Let’s go,” Mrs. Smith urges. Her cheeks are bright red, and her eyes dart around, aware almost everyone is staring at them.

“You are no daughter of mine,” William snarls, just having to get the last word in.

“Oh, I know,” I reply. “I met my real father, and he is not someone you want to piss off.” My heart speeds up, and I feel energy buzzing around me. Inhaling deeply, I remind myself that I’m the motherfucking Queen of Hell—unofficially, that is. The petty drama the Martins bring with them wherever they go is insignificant. “Now go,” I say, and my eyes flash blue for just a second.

“Is everything all right?” The manager comes over, talking in a low, hushed voice. He has a French accent and looks pissed at the Martins for making a scene.

“It’s fine,” William grumbles.

“Just a misunderstanding,” Gregory goes on.

The poor hostess pushes her long hair behind her shoulder and motions for the Martins to follow her. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed they didn’t get thrown out.

“I am so sorry about that disturbance,” the manager tells us.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault. People are crazy, right?”

“Indeed. Again, I am so sorry. Please allow me to bring you a complimentary bottle of wine. Red or white?”