But he didn’t move because he was badass like that.
“Is there a reason Ray is smelling up the hallway?” I asked, filling a jug from the tap.
“Because he’s an idiot?” Marlowe snapped.
“I’m not the one who dragged me out here in the middle of the damned day!” came floating in the door.
“No, you’re the one who panicked and ran screaming down the middle of the damned road.”
“Because somebody broke the damned windshield!”
“With his body, which plugged the damned hole nicely,” observed the fabulous creature at the kitchen table. Unlike Marlowe, he was sitting well out of the sun, because he wasn’t badass at all and didn’t care who knew it. He accepted a cup of coffee from Claire, who was looking faintly appalled. “Thank you, my dear.”
I wasn’t sure if Claire’s expression had more to do with fear that a guest was about to combust or awe at the spectacle that was my uncle Radu. Because that blending-in thing? That really wasn’t Radu’s style.
Not that his current outfit was showing him to best advantage. He looked like he’d been plucked from his lab at vamp HQ, where he did nefarious things he wasn’t allowed to talk about, without being given time to change. Because he was in boring old work clothes. Of course, for him, that translated into head-to-toe sapphire satin to complement his glossy dark hair, white silk hose to show off his fine calves, and no-doubt-genuine diamond buckles on his high-heeled shoes. He looked like the Blue Boy all grown up and fabulous.
His attire had been the height of male fashion in the mid-seventeenth century, which was the last time Radu had bothered to update his wardrobe. But sitting in a circa 1950s-era kitchen, drinking Sanka out of a chipped New York Giants mug, he was breathtakingly out of place. Like a curious peacock slumming with the pigeons in Central Park.
“And when he climbed out, what was I supposed to do then?” Ray demanded.
“Preferably something that did not involve running into the middle of a public highway to cower under your jacket with your ass in the air,” Marlowe said drily.
“Hey! Not everybody is almighty first level, you know. Some of us still burn up in sunlight!”
“If only.”
“Oh, sure. Insult me while I’m on fire. And while we wait for my master to come kill me. And if that don’t work—”
“I’m going to kill you,” Marlowe muttered.
“Hey, come at me, bro!” Ray said, appearing in the doorway, all spiky black hair and outraged expression. And then dodging back into the darkened hall, before anything else started smoldering. “What you got, huh? What you got?” drifted around the doorframe.
“You’re only encouraging him,” Mircea said, looking amused. And completely at home, because unlike the rest of our visitors, he never seemed out of place anywhere.
It was a good trick, since daddy dearest had the same dark coloring and handsome features as his brother, minus Radu’s delicacy and stunning turquoise eyes. But Mircea stood out only when it would benefit him. Case in point: he’d left the car in a navy business suit similar to the russet one Marlowe was wearing. But one look at the dilapidated Victorian slowly moldering on its weed–choked lawn, and he’d realized that this Would Not Do. The result was a missing jacket and tie, a popped collar, and sleeves pushed up to the elbows.
And the attitude matched the new look. Unlike Radu, who was peering around like a tourist at an exhibit on “The Habitat of the Modern American Brooklynite,” Mircea could have been any corporate drone relaxing with family after a long day of cubicle sitting. It was an impression heightened when he swung Claire’s young son into his lap.
To be fair, it had been the kid’s idea. Aiden had toddled over from his nest of toys and blankie in the corner to tug on the new arrival’s pant leg. And was now balancing on his thighs, looking at him with lively curiosity, two little fists bunched in what was no doubt a painfully expensive shirt.
It didn’t surprise me; for some crazy reason, children liked Mircea. As did their mothers, as evidenced by the fact that Claire had yet to knock him through a wall despite his undoubted vampire-ness. What was odd was that Mircea genuinely liked them back.
The outfit adjustment was pure bullshit, but the indulgent smile he was aiming at the towheaded tot was the real deal. It made no sense at all because he was otherwise a ruthless, scheming son of a bitch with a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to getting what he wanted. But there you go. Humans are weird, and vampires used to be human. And they sure as hell didn’t lose any of their quirks when they transitioned.
“He’s a fine boy,” Mircea told Claire, who had stuffed her hands behind her back, probably to keep them from snatching her baby back. But then Mircea transferred the smile to her, all whiskey-dark eyes with little crinkles at the corners, and honest, self-deprecating humor—the kind that had made him the most successful negotiator the Senate had ever had. And Claire blinked.
It was funny, because she relaxed almost to the point of smiling. And then got angry at herself for it and tensed up again, only to bite her lip in confusion as two strong instincts battled it out. I thought there was a chance that the great negotiator might actually lose this round, because Claire had taken overprotectiveness to a whole new level. But then—
“Does anybody care that I’m dying out here?”
I sighed, turned off the water and went back into the hall, only to find Ray rubbing himself lewdly on the wallpaper. He’d already singed it in a long, dark streak, which was less of a concern than the eww factor. “Quit that!” I told him, and grabbed his tie.
“Don’t start,” he gasped. “I got hemorrhoids that don’t hurt this bad.”
“Vampires don’t get hemorrhoids.”
“We don’t get ’em, no. But if we already got ’em when we die, they stick around, and I’ve been nursing these for four hundred years. So don’t tell me I don’t know pain, okay? I know pain, and this—”