Moon Dragon (Page 7)

Shaking my head over the insanity of it all, I continued to watch Gunther Kessler’s home, all the way up through the morning.

Interestingly, not one but two cars sporting big, furry mustaches on their grills drove past me on the street. One was odd enough…but two?

I nearly Googled “cars with furry mustaches” when Gunther’s front door opened and he stepped outside. I knew it was him because Nancy had emailed me pictures of him. Not to mention I had done a Google search on him and found his Facebook page. Yes, even werewolves had Facebook pages.

If he was a werewolf.

Anyway, he was dressed in a suit and tie, with his long hair gleaming wet. A medium-sized man, he headed straight to his Dodge Charger parked in the driveway. He clicked it open, got in, and backed out.

When he was halfway down the street, I forgot about the cars with mustaches and eased away from the curb to follow him.

* * *

I didn’t follow him for long.

After a brief stop at a Starbucks—where I longed to follow him inside but somehow restrained myself—he soon pulled into the parking lot of American Title in Orange, off Main Street, about a mile away from where Kingsley worked. Here be monsters.

I stopped along a curb and watched him park near the front of the building. Assigned parking, surely. He got out, went around to his trunk and removed his laptop bag. Then he headed through some smoky glass doors, through which he disappeared.

Other than the longish hair, he didn’t look like much of a werewolf. Kingsley, I could believe. This guy? I didn’t know.

But I would find out.

I pulled away from the curb and hit up the very same Starbucks frequented by Gunther earlier, and ordered myself a venti mocha with extra mocha and extra whipped cream. I also ordered a bagel with extra cream cheese. Go big, or go home, as Anthony would say.

Long ago, I had arranged for a neighbor to take my kids to school, since, back then, I tended to be comatose in the morning. I saw no need to change the schedule. After all, during cases like this one, I might find myself working all night and well into the morning.

Or at Starbucks.

Chapter Eight

We were in the kitchen, us girls.

My sister, Mary Lou, myself and my daughter. It was later that same day, Thursday, which also happened to be our Vampire Diaries night. That’s right, as if my life wasn’t crazy enough, I also watched fictional vampires on TV…and loved every minute of it.

Not only did I love the show, I studied it. I seriously think that someone on staff was a vampire. They get so much right. Not everything, granted, but enough that I have learned much, well, about myself.

Now we were making spaghetti with spicy sausages, which happened to be Anthony’s favorite, too. On Thursdays, he mostly made himself scarce, although I often caught him keeping an eye on the TV. I think he was a closet Diaries fan, although he wouldn’t admit it. Had the show been called something like The Vampire Scrolls, he would have been all over it. Boys.

Now the three of us girls were in my kitchen, each with a job to do, although Tammy’s job seemed to devolve into leaning against the counter and drinking her grape juice, while watching us with a smirk on her face. Mary Lou and I were drinking wine from goblets. Would a vampire drink wine from anything less?

“Oh, brother,” said Tammy, rolling her eyes. She sipped some more of her drink.

“Oh, brother what?” I asked. I was chopping cucumbers for the salad. Mary Lou had been in the middle of telling me another work story. There was a slight chance I might have zoned out. Slight.

“I’m pretty sure not all vampires drink from goblets, Mom. And since when did you start calling yourself a vampire, anyway? I thought you hated that word.”

I stopped chopping and looked at my daughter. She knew better than to read my mind when her aunt was around. Or read my mind, period. We had talked about it. Ad nauseam.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” said Mary Lou, turning on me.

“Mary Lou…” I began.

“No, Sam. It’s bad enough that you and Allison go around reading each other’s minds, but now you and your daughter, too?”

I set my knife down and glared at my daughter. You’re in trouble, Missy, I thought. Then to Mary Lou, I said, “It’s not like that…”

“Oh, and what’s it not like, Sam? Not to mention I’m pretty darn certain that you just, you know, thought something to your daughter.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? I thought you couldn’t read family members’ minds, Sam.”

“I can’t, but—”

“I thought we had an agreement, Samantha. No more leaving me out.”

I took hold of her shoulders before she could work herself into a full-fledged tizzy. Behind me, Tammy giggled. I would deal with her later. “I can’t read your mind, Louie. And I can’t read my daughter’s mind, either. But she can read mine. And she can read yours. Unless you learn how to block her out.”

“I can even read Kingsley’s,” said Tammy. “He doesn’t know it, but I can.”

I hadn’t thought of that before. My daughter, being the super mind reader that she was, could potentially read anyone’s mind, mortal or immortal.

“Of course, Mommy.”

We’ll, talk about this later, young lady, I thought.

Meanwhile, Mary Lou didn’t like being held in place by me, but tough shit. She had started this little tirade and I wasn’t letting her go until she calmed down. Luckily, my words were finally sinking in.

“Tammy can read my mind?”

“Yes,” I said.

Mary Lou looked from me to my daughter. Then, for some damn reason, my goofball sister actually smiled. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” I said. “And this makes you happy, why?”

“Because I don’t feel left out now! I feel, you know, like part of the gang.”

“Of course you’re part of the gang, Mary Lou, and I think you’ve had enough wine for tonight.”

“But I just got started…”

“You’ve had a rough day,” I said, and began steering her out of the kitchen and into the living room. “Just sit down and relax. We’ll take it from here.”

She called back over her shoulder. “What am I thinking now, Tammy?”

“Aunt Louie!” giggled Tammy.

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know where this was going. “Let me guess,” I said, steering her toward the couch. “Damon.”

They both giggled as I deposited my sister in front of the TV. Once back in the kitchen, I again didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that my daughter was acting a little strange. I needed only to be a mother. I snatched her “grape juice” out of her hand and sniffed it.