“You’re a vampire. You’re the coolest grandpa on the block. He’ll be thrilled.”
“I’ll think about it,” Dick said. Suddenly, he raised his voice and poked me in the shoulder. “Let me work through this. Don’t try to nudge the situation along. Don’t drop hints or make conversational segues or—”
“I got it, I got it,” I told him, raising my hands in self-defense. “I wasn’t even thinking about it.”
Dick looked down his nose at me and arched his eyebrow.
“OK, I was thinking about it a little bit.”
13
Humans who prove unfaithful to their were-spouses are rarely heard from again.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
My future step-grandpa was an enigma wrapped in a riddle stored in a Rubik’s Cube, which I always had to resort to rearranging the stickers to solve. I won’t pretend my interest was rooted in concern for my grandmother, just a general weakness in my character that would not allow me to leave a question unanswered.
For the record, four cans of Starbucks Double Shot Dark Blend Blood and Espresso is just enough to yank a vampire out of bed before sunset. Zeb wisely armed himself with caffeine before entering my daytime lair and enlisted Jettie’s help in shoving me into an ice-cold shower (in my pajamas) to complete the wake-up process.
Some older vamps can venture out in the day under controlled circumstances with no problem. I blister and smell like burnt popcorn, which stays with you for days. So I slathered myself in Solar Shield SPF 500 sunscreen and donned huge Jackie O sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat before venturing out to my newly sun-safe car. OK, fine. Zeb had the motor running, and I dove through the open door, unbelievably exhilarated by my not bursting into flames.
As he turned the key in the ignition, Zeb asked, “Remind me again why we’re risking you bursting into flame to drive seventy miles to visit some old folks’ home?” Clearly, he didn’t appreciate the Mama-caliber guilt tactics I’d used to get him to accompany me on this little excursion.
“Because when I snuck a look into Wilbur’s wallet, this was the address on his ID.”
Zeb was aghast. “You snuck a look at his wallet? When?”
“Christmas,” I said, looking down to avoid his glare.
“Why would you do that?” he demanded.
“He left it right there in his coat pocket, come on.”
“You’re not allowed to hang out with Dick anymore,” he told me as he turned the ignition. “So, why couldn’t we do this after dark?”
“I called the front desk pretending to be a potential resident’s daughter. The nurse said dinner was served at three-thirty. And I’m guessing the people we’d want to talk to will be asleep by four.”
“You’re a scary woman, Jane Jameson.”
I shrugged, pulling my hood over my face and leaning my seat back to a snoozing position. “I do what I can.”
I jolted awake when Zeb cut Big Bertha’s engine outside the Sunnyside Village Retirement Community. With one eye squinched shut, I wiped the drool off my cheek and looked around. The building seemed innocuous enough. Overtly cheerful yellow siding on a cracker-box building, glowing in the orange light of the fading sun. Newly painted white shutters framing windows with the shades drawn tight.
I pulled out my sunblock for safety touch-up. I’d decided against gloves, as it was a typically mild early spring day, and full-length opera gloves would probably attract attention. The thick, white SPF 500 lotion took a while to absorb into my neck, chin, and hands. I pulled the hat over my eyes.
“How do I look?” I asked, turning to him.
“Well, if we were going to a performance of Kabuki Mugger Theater, this look would be perfect,” he snorted, gesturing to my smudged jawline. “You might want to blend some more.”
“Dang it,” I grumbled, swiping at my cheeks.
After a few more minutes of sunblocking, I carefully opened the door and stepped out. I gasped, enveloped in the sun for the first time since my turning. Even though it was weak late-afternoon light, I was overwhelmed by the warmth that swirled over my skin like a caress. The colors made me want to weep. I hadn’t realized how monotonous the night sky could be. I’d missed the burnt golds, the blushing pinks giving way to deep purple as the sun faded over the horizon. I smiled, stretching out my hands and basking in heat like a cat. And then ow. Ow. Owowowowowow.
I’d forgotten to sunscreen the delicate webs between my fingers. Ow! It felt as if I’d dipped my hands in acid. I stared in horror, transfixed as the skin sizzled and smoked.
“Put your hands in your pockets, Jane!” Zeb cried.
“Oh, right!” I stuck my shaking hands into my jacket and turned my back to the light, doubling over, waiting for the pain to subside. After a few moments, I felt the tissue in my fingers knit itself together again, a new and unpleasant stinging sensation unto itself. I took a deep breath and straightened, flexing my fingers gingerly. Zeb was staring at me over Big Bertha’s hood.