CHAPTER NINE || THIERRY
T he gas station was wrecked.
Six hours and more than four hundred miles later, I was feeling deeply, spectacularly annoyed.
I hadn’t slept properly, which didn’t help my mood.
The fact that the wolf had managed to keep up with me was another factor.
He’d been right behind me the entire drive, much to my dismay.
I hadn’t even been able to speed the way I wanted, because I had no intention of arriving before sunrise.
Which meant I’d spent the whole trip south and west to the Oregon coastline—almost to the California border—constructing elaborate, highly amusing sequences in my head about how I might dispose of the wolf, should he ever dare harm me or anyone else.
Again.
“Lordy,” Jeremy said, stepping through the doors behind me. “This place is a mess.”
He wasn’t wrong. One shelf lay on its side, spilling brightly colored bags of candy and chips across the yellow tile floor.
The glass doors of the refrigerated case—with a direct line of sight to the register—were shattered.
Half the glass glittered on the floor. The other half clung to the frame in a spiderweb of cracks.
The refrigeration unit made a horrible grinding noise, and the faint smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I said tightly, not looking at him.
I stepped deeper inside, silent. Rounding the counter, I saw a display of Bigfoot-themed novelty key chains knocked over and lying on the ground.
It had probably sat next to the register, which was now knocked askew.
A shotgun lay abandoned nearby. A plastic container had tipped over, spilling cured beef sausages everywhere.
Jeremy came to stand beside me, peering down behind the counter. “Robbery, maybe?”
I shot him a narrow-eyed glare, exasperated. Nothing about this suggested a robbery. “The drawer is still closed. And whoever worked the counter tried to defend themselves with the gun and missed. The shot went there.” I pointed to the damaged case.
“Oh.” He looked sheepish. “Right. Yeah, that makes sense.”
Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention back to the scene before me.
The keychains, the skewed register, the scattered sausages…
Each clue painted a dark picture of what had happened.
The gas station attendant, who had probably been kicking wildly, likely got dragged over the counter by someone or something.
“Whatever did this took the employee,” I said.
“Wait,” Jeremy asked. “You can tell all that from a bunch of sausages on the ground?”
“You’re not very bright, are you?”
“Don’t be a dick. Not all of us have had a hundred extra years to read every book that’s ever been written.”
“It’s not all about book smarts,” I said pointedly. “And if you must know, I’ve had eight centuries, and I still haven’t made it through my Tbr.”
Beside me, he stilled, eyes widening. “You’re joking.”
“Of course I read regularly,” I said, frowning. “The problem is I keep adding more. And I rarely joke about literature. It’s one of the few pastimes that’s never lost its charm.”
“No, not about your Tbr!” His exasperation was almost comical. “You just said you’re eight hundred years old!”
“Oh. That.” I frowned. “Eight centuries, give or take fifty years. Birth records weren’t much of a thing when I was turned.”
“Huh.” His brows drew together like he was processing my age. Frankly, it was none of his business. Not to mention rude. But then he surprised me with, “Then why are you so informal? The way you talk, I mean. Wasn’t English a lot stuffier back then?”
“For one thing, I’m from France—”
“But you have a British accent.”
I paused. I had spent years in London after Magnus was killed by the coven he’d managed to royally piss off. Years where I could finally settle without constant fear. Jeremy’s observation caught me so off guard I forgot, briefly, that I hated him. “You can hear an accent?”
He shrugged. “It’s slight, but yeah. Plus, you use British slang. Even for a not-so-bright werewolf, it’s not hard to put two and two together.”
He’d noticed all that in our handful of brief encounters?
“Languages evolve faster than you think,” I told him, deciding that deep-diving into Thierry lore with someone I despised was not something I intended on doing.
“To keep up, I watch a lot of television and read contemporary novels. Many older vampires do. The smarter ones, anyway. Reality TV’s especially good for catching modern speech. ”
“What, like Real Housewives ?”
The mental image of Jeremy watching Real Housewives almost made me smile—almost.
“Something like that.”
In reality, Simone and I watched that one famous baking show where everyone was unfailingly lovely and British. We’d wear mud masks we didn’t need, sip pink champagne from oversized tumblers, and follow it with Drag Race . We called it our “fancy time.”
I yawned, stretching.
The last time I’d slept at all, it had been punctuated by a nightmare about the very town I now stood in. Not exactly restful. And half the reason for that was standing beside me—my subconscious refused to stop dreaming about this stupid wolf.
Every. Single. Night.
I yawned again.
Jeremy frowned. For a long moment, I thought he’d let it go. Then, like he couldn’t help himself: “You okay?” He nodded toward the golden daylight pouring through the windows. “It’s way sunnier here than in Seattle.”
“Let’s worry less about me and more about what happened here, shall we?
” I swept a hand toward the rest of the store.
An entire shelf of snacks lay on its side, scattering a dizzying mess of multicolored wrappers.
There was a dent in the top of it, as though something had struck it with force.
Eying that, I added, “Nothing human did this.”
In truth, the damage was odd. Godric wasn’t the type to smash up a convenience store to take a victim. He’d wait for the attendant to step outside. That or he’d use his hypnotic powers. No need for wanton property damage. This much chaos… it was strange.
A message, maybe?
Jeremy frowned at me a moment longer—I caught it out of the corner of my eye, noting that he almost seemed concerned—before turning to take in the carnage.
At last, he nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Whoever or whatever it was, it jumped from shelf to shelf. Probably carrying the attendant.”
His observation was likely correct. My unease deepened. Godric wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have needed to. No experienced vampire would. This was the work of a newborn. Someone crazed with hunger and clueless about their own strength.
But Jeremy was every bit as odd as the scene before us. Too at ease. If he truly thought there might be some interplanar creature prowling Rookwood, shouldn’t he look a little more tense?
“You’re awfully agreeable all of a sudden,” I said, casting him a suspicious sidelong glance.
“Something bad—and apparently strong as hell—is snatching townsfolk. No good reason for us to be at each other’s throats.” He gave a dark chuckle. “Not yet, at least. We still have a job to do. After, we can hash it all out.”
“Hash what out?”
“You tell me.”
I snorted, shaking my head. I wasn’t about to let some small-town wolf with low-rent villain aspirations trick me into talking about my feelings. “I’ll pass for now. Thanks ever so.”
I moved deeper into the store, noting the puddle of refrigerant in front of the shattered case was larger than expected.
Jeremy reached through the hole in the glass and touched a carton of milk. “Room temperature. Maybe a little colder.”
It made sense, given the unit’s still-valiant, ear-splitting attempt to run.
I had to bat away the faint surprise that he’d thought to check.
The bad news was that it meant this had happened at least hours—and maybe days—ago.
The faint gunpowder scent, probably undetectable to human senses by now, suggested not much longer than that.
My unease ratcheted up another notch.
Jeremy echoed my thoughts, shaking his head. “This isn’t right. Rookwood’s population is just over a thousand. Even in a town this small, someone would’ve needed gas. Or cigarettes. Or beer.”
Exactly. Humans loved their vices as much as I did. Someone should’ve noticed and called the police. A manager or owner would have come in, put the till in a safe, and locked up. Or, even more likely, cleaned everything so it looked like nothing happened here.
“Maybe Oscar’s dream was entirely correct,” I said. “Maybe everyone’s gone.”
“What do you make of his dream?” Jeremy asked, watching me too intently. “You offered to come here without asking any questions.”
It was strangely pointed, almost an accusation. And the second time he had asked me that, as a matter of fact.
How very odd.
I yawned. “What I make of this whole thing is that I wouldn’t mind a cocktail right now.”
“And the fact that it’s six-thirty in the morning wouldn’t stop you?”
“Rules like that are silly human conventions. They don’t apply to vampires.”
His lips twitched. “Let me guess—your drink of choice is a bloody Mary?”
“An Old Fashioned, actually,” I said, oddly unwilling to let the conversation die. “With top-shelf liquor. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“And if I’m treating myself, a cosmopolitan.”
“That tracks.”
“No doubt your drink of choice is whatever the NRA endorses.”
He scowled. “No one likes assholes, Thierry. And I own a bar. You might want to paint me with a broader brush. I might surprise you.”
I snorted. “You have the emotional range of a soggy toe rag. I think my brush is fine, thanks.”
No comeback came, though his face went satisfyingly beet-red and his lips pressed into a tight line.
While he fumed, I moved toward the back room. I strained to listen for any sign of a heartbeat, breathing, or the faint rustle of fabric. Humans were rarely still for long.
Nothing.