Good enough for me.
At eight a.m. the day after New Year’s, I received a call from Wickham.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing your face again. Breakfast?”
“Wouldn’t mind? Or want to?” I teased, playing hard to get, even though we both knew my answer. A traumatic experience wasn’t ideal romantic groundwork, but it had created a sense of solidarity between us.
He stifled a laugh. “You cheer me up.”
“Good enough for me.”
An hour later, we sat in the Hearthstone Café, sharing an omelet and a stack of gluten-free pancakes.
Wickham could handle a bit of traditional food as long as his hemoglobin intake stayed balanced.
The scent of strawberries, cinnamon, and fresh coffee mingled with a subtle, lingering aura of magic only I could sense.
He tipped his chin to the side, studying me. "I've been wondering how your knee's doing? Any lingering pain?"
"Oh, I used a healing salve. It works wonders. You'd never even know I fell." I chased an errant blueberry across the plate with my fork. “The police let you go after questioning you. That’s good, right?”
“I’m still a person of interest.” Broody Wickham wasn’t as entertaining as Flirty Wickham.
My attempt at bringing out the latter failed. “Something else will come up. I’m sure.”
“I knew in my gut it was murder.” He poked at his food and stared past the red-and-white gingham curtains to the busy sidewalks outside. Dark, negative ripples tainted his steady green aura.
“It’s not that bad, Wickham. The police haven’t outright accused you.” I wanted to be supportive, and my own aura tingled faintly with optimism.
He looked back at me, eyes particularly vulnerable. For a vampire rock star, he was more human than I’d realized before. He fiddled with a ring on the chain around his neck. A subtle shimmer of magic pulsed along it, and I wondered why I hadn't noticed it before.
He rubbed his forehead. “They’re hinting that since I owed Alex a lot of money, I may have killed him. They haven’t even talked to the rest of the band.”
“I guess they don’t think being with me is a legitimate alibi?”
“Something about girlfriends defending me,” he admitted. “Not that I’m assuming you're my girlfriend. Just what they said.”
My instinct told me to encourage him to assume all he wanted. But self-respect won out.
“We can figure out who killed him so you don’t keep getting pulled into everything. Could anyone in the band have done it?” I raised my voice above the café bustle.
He shook his head. “No one else owed him money. None of us were under the illusion he was amazing, but logically, firing him would’ve made far more sense than killing him.”
“Except since you owed him money, that might not work. Police are suggesting you had a motive.”
“Spot on,” Wickham said. “I promise I had nothing to do with his death.”
“I know.” My aura pulsed lavender, affirming my trust.
An elegantly clad older woman with a royal-plum and magenta aura entered the café just as I popped a strawberry into my mouth. Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
She was probably selecting a cake for one of her famous soirees, but her aura radiated judgment. “Oh, you’re that young man,” she said, pausing near our table. “My nephew’s former servant. I suppose criminals can’t stay in his employ.”
Wickham narrowed his eyes at her without response. As she walked away, his aura flickered deep red for an instant. “Imagine when she hears about Alex,” he murmured under his breath.
“You swore never to hurt anyone,” I whispered in a singsong voice. “She’s not worth it.”
"Lucky for her." He set down his fork. “I’m not hungry anymore.”