“I like his countertops.” They’re pure white. Hers are a bit dated with weird swirls in them. I’m into the clean lines.
“And here I was starting to like you.” Mrs. Brewster walks over to the window, peeping out. “We should get ready. The sun is starting to go down. Come with me.” She offers me her hand. I stare down at it. “Take it.”
“My father was a vampire?” I ask. “How do you know?”
“Because you exist.” I take her hand when she answers me.
She leads me down a long hallway, opening a door at the end. The room looks eerily the same as the one at Imelda’s house from yesterday. Except this one is colder. There's darkness lingering inside. It brushes against my skin, pushing through the fog that’s wrapped around me.
“Have a seat, dear,” she orders, pulling out a chair from the table and moving it into the center of a pentagram painted on the floor. Her dogs crowd around.
“No,” I respond, but my stupid feet move me to the chair.
“I said sit and don’t move.”
I drop onto the seat. Mrs. Brewster lights a candle before lifting the napkin with my blood on it and setting it on fire. She immediately starts to chant. She drops the burning napkin into the bowl.
“What are you doing?” I grip the arms of the chair. A dark red smoke starts to rise out of the bowl.
“You’ve always attracted vampires, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Your blood is rarer than even vampire blood.” She picks up a knife from the table. “You and I could be unstoppable, but you’ll have to control that mate of yours. Give me your palm.” I grip the chair tighter, willing myself to not let go.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Buffy jump onto the table, knocking over the bowl. It rolls off hitting the ground. The fire inside spreads quickly along the floor.
All the dogs start a barking frenzy, trying to get at my sweet kitty.
“You!” Mrs. Brewster lunges for Buffy with the knife.
“No!” I scream, finding the strength to finally move. I grab the old lady by the back of the hair and pull as hard as I can. I let out another scream when her hair comes off in my hand. She whirls back around to face me.
“Oh, gosh. That's rough. I’m sorry,” I say when I see her bald head. Well, it’s not completely bald. There are patches of long, stringy hair that stick out in all different directions. Wait, did I just apologize?
She swings the knife at me, catching the side of my arm. I stumble back as the heat from the fire intensifies as it spreads. Two of her dogs are on fire, but they don’t seem to care. I watch as the curtains become engulfed in flames, and it’s not long before the whole room is on fire.
“You stay in this room,” Mrs. Brewster orders me when my eyes go to the door.
Buffy jumps on the old lady's back when she tries to swing at me. I lunge away from her, the knife barely missing me this time, but it catches on the front of my shirt. I slam back into the wall behind me, my head knocking against it.
Black spots dance in my eyes as I slip to the floor. Mrs. Brewster continues spinning in circles, trying to get Buffy off her back, the dogs following her and barking. I manage to kick my legs out. She trips, landing hard on the floor next to me. Buffy scurries over to me, licking the blood dripping down my arm.
“No!” Mrs. Brewster screams.
What happens next makes me truly believe I must be dreaming after all.
21
Vincent
The sun isn’t fully gone when I sprint across my lawn, into the narrow lane, and up to Mrs. Brewster’s porch.
My skin crisps and scorches as I burst through the front door, splinters flying, and rush inside. A fine powder falls from above, some sort of spell.
But Ian learned a thing or two from the books he took from Imelda’s house, and I’m warded against Mrs. Brewster’s bullshit. For now, at least. He wasn’t sure of how long my defenses would last.
“Everly!” I bellow, the house shaking under the weight of my demand. Smoke wafts through the air, and I have to get to Everly.
A blast of light ahead of me draws me down the dark hallway, and before I know it, Mrs. Brewster comes running at me.
I meet her head on, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the wall. She shrieks and claws at me, wiry strength in her old bones. But I hold her fast as someone else enters the hallway.
“Let her go. She’s mine,” says a hissing voice that mellows into a low growl.
“Don’t let her touch me!” Mrs. Brewster shrieks.
A woman. Well, a woman covered in fur and with big cat eyes prowls toward us.