Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

“We must be merry?” Ethan asked, obviously confused.

But I understood exactly what she meant.

“We aren’t Twilight, Berna.” She had a thing for the books, and seemed to think—or maybe hope—that Chicago’s vampires had something in common with the fictional ones.

She made a pfffing sound. “Vampires. Sparkle. If you are in love, you marry. This is life. This is way.”

“Ah,” Ethan said, his lips spreading with amusement. “I do intend to make an honest woman of her.”

Berna snorted, held out a hand, waggled her fingers. I put my hand in hers, thinking she meant to check me for a ring, proof of Ethan’s promise. Instead she flipped my hand over, traced a cracked and calloused thumb over my palm as she inspected it like a jeweler checking for flaws.

“Good line of life. Good line of love. There is no problem here.” She turned my hand over again, patted it with affection. “You are good girl. Skinny, but good girl.”

“She was a dancer, you know.”

Berna looked over at Ethan, her eyebrows arching so high they nearly disappeared into her hair. “Oh?”

“She danced ballet for many years.”

Berna looked me up and down, seemed to reach a new kind of acceptance of my frame. Not that I needed Berna’s approval—my body was my body—but at least I wouldn’t have to hear about it anymore.

“Ah,” she said with a nod. “You know Bronislava Nijinska?”

I smiled. “I do. I’ve seen video of her dancing. She was very beautiful.”

“She is epitome of beauty. That is the word? Epitome?”

“That’s the word,” I agreed with a smile.

“Good. She is this.” Her measuring stick reconfigured, she looked me up and down. “You still dance.”

“Informally,” I said. “I train, and sometimes that means dancing.”

“Mmm-hmm. I know teacher.”

“I don’t need a teacher.”

She just lifted her sketched-on eyebrows. Berna wasn’t a woman who took no for an answer.

“Vampires don’t have time for ballet,” I insisted.

“Vampires immortal. Vampires have time for all things, including dance.”

She’s got you there, Ethan said. I’d love to watch you dance again.

There is not enough money in the world to get me into toe shoes, I decided. I’d tortured my feet enough. Not that taking bullets was much of an improvement.

Clearly disappointed, Berna pointed to the padded leather door that led to the bar’s back room. “Gabriel in back. You can go,” she said, without so much as an offer of cabbage rolls or stewed meats.

I didn’t want Berna angry at me. “I could probably practice more,” I said, a peace offering.

She nodded. “Good. You practice, and we will talk.”

That would have to do for now.

• • •

Little Red’s back room was small but surprisingly cheery. There was a retro table that seated four, mismatched chairs on top of more warped linoleum, and old movie posters on the walls. Gabriel sat at the table with Fallon and a couple of male shifters I hadn’t seen before. One had sunburned skin, bleached hair. The other had dark skin and straight, dark hair that was slicked back on top, shaved on the sides.