Howling For You: A Chicagoland Vampires Novella (A Penguin Special from New American Library) Read Online Free Page A
nephew.
“Family is family,” I simply said. “And Pack is Pack.”
An hour later, the SUV pulled up to the house again.
Patrick looked at me. “I enjoyed meeting you, Fallon. I’ll be staying at the Hotel Meridian. They’ve got a fantastic bar, and I’d love to invite you for a drink.”
“I don’t think I’m up for that tonight, with the initiation tomorrow. But thank you for the offer.”
“You’re sure I can’t change your mind?” Without waiting for a response, Patrick moved in, pressed his mouth to mine, made his best argument. His lips were soft, and the hand he lifted to my face undeniably strong. He cupped my jaw as he deepened the kiss.
Magic, comfortably animal, pulsed across my body, lifting goose bumps on my arms. My magic lifted, rose to meet it, and filled the car with energy when Patrick deepened the kiss.
Our magic was clearly compatible. But that’s as far as it went. There was no angelic choir. No sudden music. Not a single tingle or twitch of the nonmagical variety.
The part of me that wanted to keep hanging out with Jeff was thrilled. Another potential met, put away.
But the part that was obliged to family and Pack felt guilty. Was I not trying hard enough? Sabotaging any chance these guys might have had to win me over?
Patrick pulled back and looked at me. “I get the sense your heart’s not in this.”
I didn’t have the words to respond, but he was absolutely right. My heart was elsewhere, mostly thinking about a tiger probably pacing the halls of his apartment.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He smiled. It was such a great smile. It just did absolutely nothing for me.
“No hard feelings,” he said. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”
I slid toward the door, and when Tom opened it, stepped outside again.
“I hope you find him,” Patrick said.
“You and me both,” I murmured.
The house was quiet and dark. For the first few potentials, the entire family had waited in the parlor for me to come home and report. After ten, they’d stopped waiting up.
We’d long since passed ten.
I took off my boots and hung up my coat, then headed upstairs to my second-floor bedroom. The world may have been chaotic, but my bedroom was not. It was simple, clean, and organized—my respite from Pack life. Like my clothes, the room was decorated in shades of black, white, and gray. A white four-poster bed was the focal point, near a bureau I’d painted a black and white chevron pattern.
I pulled open the top drawer of the bureau and perused the contents. T-shirts and pajama bottoms for winter, skimpier nighties for hot nights or special occasions. Unfortunately, they still bore the tags.
“Someday,” I grumbled, pushing them aside and pulling out a heather-gray T-shirt, the lingering scent of Jeff’s cologne filling the room. The shirt was one of his, with a chartreuse “Jakob’s Quest” logo across the front. He’d let me borrow it after I’d been soaked in a downpour, and I’d forgotten to give it back.
Or I’d decided not to.
I tugged it over my head, pausing while I was cocooned in cotton and Jeff, savoring the scent of him, wondering what it would be like if he’d been there with me.
I’d imagined the scene a thousand times before: turning off the light, lying down on cool sheets, his body beside mine, arms ready to wrap around me.
But that was just a fantasy. Tonight, again, the bed was empty—Jeff replaced, as always, by the cold weight of tradition.
I dreamed I straddled the crux of the farmhouse roof, one leg on each side, a hammer in hand. The shingles, gray with age, were falling away from the roof like scales, floating to the ground like feathers. I used the hammer to beat them back down, but the work was useless. They lifted and rose away, leaving the bones of the house bare beneath them.
“Fallon!”
My eyes opened. I wasn’t on the roof. I was in my own room, sprawled on my stomach, an arm and leg hanging over the side of the bed. There was
“Family is family,” I simply said. “And Pack is Pack.”
An hour later, the SUV pulled up to the house again.
Patrick looked at me. “I enjoyed meeting you, Fallon. I’ll be staying at the Hotel Meridian. They’ve got a fantastic bar, and I’d love to invite you for a drink.”
“I don’t think I’m up for that tonight, with the initiation tomorrow. But thank you for the offer.”
“You’re sure I can’t change your mind?” Without waiting for a response, Patrick moved in, pressed his mouth to mine, made his best argument. His lips were soft, and the hand he lifted to my face undeniably strong. He cupped my jaw as he deepened the kiss.
Magic, comfortably animal, pulsed across my body, lifting goose bumps on my arms. My magic lifted, rose to meet it, and filled the car with energy when Patrick deepened the kiss.
Our magic was clearly compatible. But that’s as far as it went. There was no angelic choir. No sudden music. Not a single tingle or twitch of the nonmagical variety.
The part of me that wanted to keep hanging out with Jeff was thrilled. Another potential met, put away.
But the part that was obliged to family and Pack felt guilty. Was I not trying hard enough? Sabotaging any chance these guys might have had to win me over?
Patrick pulled back and looked at me. “I get the sense your heart’s not in this.”
I didn’t have the words to respond, but he was absolutely right. My heart was elsewhere, mostly thinking about a tiger probably pacing the halls of his apartment.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He smiled. It was such a great smile. It just did absolutely nothing for me.
“No hard feelings,” he said. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”
I slid toward the door, and when Tom opened it, stepped outside again.
“I hope you find him,” Patrick said.
“You and me both,” I murmured.
The house was quiet and dark. For the first few potentials, the entire family had waited in the parlor for me to come home and report. After ten, they’d stopped waiting up.
We’d long since passed ten.
I took off my boots and hung up my coat, then headed upstairs to my second-floor bedroom. The world may have been chaotic, but my bedroom was not. It was simple, clean, and organized—my respite from Pack life. Like my clothes, the room was decorated in shades of black, white, and gray. A white four-poster bed was the focal point, near a bureau I’d painted a black and white chevron pattern.
I pulled open the top drawer of the bureau and perused the contents. T-shirts and pajama bottoms for winter, skimpier nighties for hot nights or special occasions. Unfortunately, they still bore the tags.
“Someday,” I grumbled, pushing them aside and pulling out a heather-gray T-shirt, the lingering scent of Jeff’s cologne filling the room. The shirt was one of his, with a chartreuse “Jakob’s Quest” logo across the front. He’d let me borrow it after I’d been soaked in a downpour, and I’d forgotten to give it back.
Or I’d decided not to.
I tugged it over my head, pausing while I was cocooned in cotton and Jeff, savoring the scent of him, wondering what it would be like if he’d been there with me.
I’d imagined the scene a thousand times before: turning off the light, lying down on cool sheets, his body beside mine, arms ready to wrap around me.
But that was just a fantasy. Tonight, again, the bed was empty—Jeff replaced, as always, by the cold weight of tradition.
I dreamed I straddled the crux of the farmhouse roof, one leg on each side, a hammer in hand. The shingles, gray with age, were falling away from the roof like scales, floating to the ground like feathers. I used the hammer to beat them back down, but the work was useless. They lifted and rose away, leaving the bones of the house bare beneath them.
“Fallon!”
My eyes opened. I wasn’t on the roof. I was in my own room, sprawled on my stomach, an arm and leg hanging over the side of the bed. There was
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