Page 58 of Bought for Blood

“Boof Bra-what?” She takes another mouthful.

“Oxtail,” I say. “In red wine.”

She chews and swallows, and her throat works. I watch it, and for once it isn’t the vein I’m looking at.

“You have a good memory,” she says.

“The years don’t blur anything for us. If they did, it might be a mercy.”

She sets her spoon down. “How did you become…you know…”

“Undead?”

She nods.

“Horse riding accident. Broke my neck.” My fingers go to the back of my neck while I say it. “An ancient had been watching me, mingling in the same circles. She knew it was only a matter of time before I did something reckless. I was made that night.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“And that’s the way you’ve been since then?”

“That’s the way I will always be.”

“Wow.” She picks the spoon back up, turns it over, sets it down again without using it. “Have you outlived people you loved?”

“All of them.” There’s no way to say it that doesn’t sound like I’m asking for something back, so I don’t try to soften it. “Every mortal I have ever cared for is dead. Wives, lovers, friends. All gone.”

She’s quiet at that, circling her spoon through what’s left of the stew.

“My mother died when I was twenty-two. Cancer.” She says it like she’s accepted it. “Syndicate took us within the year. Grace and me.”

I wait for her to go on. Her stew’s growing cold, but I don’t mention that either.

“Mama was the one who taught me the glamour. Badly. In a kitchen not so different from this one, because she was too frightened to teach it anywhere she thought someone might see.”

“Frightened of what?”

“Of what happens to our kind when we get noticed.” She looks up at me. “I imagine you’ve read files on me.”

“I know what you are. Wolf. Witch. Both run in your blood. Rare.”

She gives a small snort. “Rare. There was a time I felt special to be a Sangrey. Now…not so much. I guess Mama was right to be frightened.”

“Mama… She was French?”

“Canadian. She spoke the language, but I never picked it up. I’ve always thought it was beautiful though.” She looks down at her bowl where the stew is starting to set around the edges. She pushes it away. “You’re French too. Proper French. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Say something to me.” She leans forward with her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her palm. “Something in French.”

I look at her, with her hair golden and her cheeks pink from the sun. The garden is on her. Frost and cut yew, and under it something warm that has rarely been in a house like this one.

“Tu es aussi rayonnante que le soleil,Serenity Sangrey.”

“What does that mean?”