The Real Werewives of Vampire County
Page 26“No.”
“Did she have any enemies?”
“No.”
Damn. I couldn’t hold on much longer.
“How well did you know her again?”
“We saw them often. Sunny’s husband, Gaston, is business partners with my Thomas.”
She glanced over at a series of framed photographs crowding the top of a white baby grand piano. “Sunny was part of Francine’s circle. There were four of them. Now there are three.”
I tried to examine the photographs, but couldn’t without breaking contact with Tia. So instead, I asked, “Aren’t you part of the group?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“I’m the omega.”
I sat back and tried not to imagine what kind of hell it was to be Tia. Omegas were the lowest of the low. They were the ones who ate last, groveled most, and acted as the general whipping boys, and girls. And that was in what shifter society considered a normal functioning pack. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be an omega under a vulture like Francine.
Even though my head was pounding, I held the connection. “You don’t have to be the omega.” Or anywhere near Francine. “You can break out of this.”
She shook her head. “Have you ever tried to break rank in a pack?”
I rubbed at my temples, willing the pain away. I had and I’d failed. I broke contact. She was telling the truth.
“Thank you, Tia,” I said, meaning every word. “I know you can help me.”
“Yes.” She brought a trembling hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I feel a little dizzy.”
Join the club. I rooted around in my teeny yellow purse for Advil. My fingers clutched the small bottle and I stopped. “You know, Tia. I’d like to help you, too.”
“No kidding.” I popped two Advil.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of mineral water. “Here,” she said, handing it to me.
Well, that was nice.
“Heather,” she began, “I think perhaps you may want to look at new eye makeup.”
“I just bought some.” Too bad I didn’t have it with me. I tossed my purse onto the ground. It would never fit. “I have a whole kit full of sparkly blue and red and yellow... .” Her eyes widened as I ticked them off, one by one. “What? No good?”
She faltered for a moment, deciding what to say. I already missed the truthful Tia, but frankly, my head couldn’t take any more. “You may want to consider a more subtle color palette.”
I looked around her living room. “What? Like white?”
She almost cringed. I could tell she wanted to. Good. Maybe I could bring this girl out of her shell. “Look, why don’t you show me? We’ll take a field trip.”
Tia broke out into a shy smile. “Yes.” She lowered her eyes. “If you really want to go with me.”
“Do you have a car?” I asked, because I didn’t. Well, unless I wanted to share this part of the journey with Vinny the chauffeur/ bunny /cross-dressing housekeeper.
“I do,” Tia said, reaching for an immense pink bag that could have easily fit a bowling ball or three.
“That’s in style?” I asked, imagining all the weapons I could stuff into that puppy.
“Sure,” she said, “this is the new Christian Louboutin Sylvia Large Softy Calf Hobo bag.” A flicker of doubt crossed her delicate features before she pressed ahead. “See how it matches my yellow and black round-toe T-strap shoes?”
“No.” I honestly didn’t.
Confidence crept into her tone. “You will.”
“Then lead the way, Kemo Sabe,” I said, whisking her to the door, Finnegan’s American Express card burning a hole in my pocket, “I can be the Eliza Doolittle to your Henry Higgins.”
She opened the passenger door of her white Mercedes convertible before she rushed around to open her own. “If you want, I could even coordinate some outfits for you.”
“You don’t need that much help,” Tia protested, settling in next to me.
“Stop lying,” I told her, slamming my own door shut. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
CHAPTER 5
I stood alone in my room late that afternoon and made two twirls in front of the mirror. And then—just because I had the momentum going—I made a third spin.
Unbelievable. Tia’s stylist had tamed my out-of-control hair into sleek copper layers. I ran it through my fingers. The kicker was I could still tie it away from my face. Only now I didn’t need to.
Tia showed me how to wear makeup without looking like I was wearing makeup. You’d think that would defeat the point, but I stopped debating her on it after she almost jammed a mascara wand up my nose.
Tia was easily flustered.
I rubbed my lips together, tasting a hint of cherry gloss. I looked like me, only better.
Yes, she’d forced me into white pants, which are a really bad idea if you want to wrestle a murderer to the ground. And don’t even get me started on the flimsy emerald top. Tia said it matched my eyes. I wasn’t sure why that was important, but I figured she knew style just like I knew how to slap a pair of handcuffs on a drunken werepoodle.
Speaking of cuffs, I had both pairs in my what-cha-ma-call-it Softy Calf Hobo bag. The silly purse cost more than a case of those fancy cigars Finnegan liked to smoke, but I figured he owed it to me for making me wear mascara.
Tonight would be my big chance. The vulture herself was throwing a luau, complete with a roasted hog, in honor of me and Lucien. Of course, if Francine had her way, I’d be the one tied to the spit.
Let her try. The deep pockets allowed enough room for my mace. I’d sliced a stun gun holder into the lining of my fancy new purse. The cut of the pants was generous enough for my two fixed-blade daggers, and I had my lucky boot knife in my bra.
Gorgeous.
The silk against my skin made me feel almost naked. Sleek. I placed my hands on my hips and studied the image in the mirror. I looked like I could pull this off.
Tia had even suggested a bottle of the vulture’s favorite French perfume as a hostess gift. The contents of the tiny gold bottle smelled like half-dead rabbit. I had to admit it wasn’t bad.
My heels caught every crack in the sidewalk as I hobbled over to Francine’s hacienda-style home. The scent of roast pig lingered in the air, and I could hear voices and laughter coming from the back of the house. A plant-filled courtyard dominated her front lawn, featuring terra-cotta birdbaths, lush floral arrangements, and tasteful sitting areas. I took the stone path through the garden and straight to the looming stucco house, painted in burnt orange. Before I could even knock on the heavy wood door, it opened.
“Hola, missus,” a uniformed housekeeper in her midfifties answered. She led me though the foyer and into a boldly decorated room that led to I didn’t even want to know how many more. This place could have fit half our pack.
“Mitzy!” a voice called from the kitchen as we passed.
I stopped short as an impossibly skinny woman with a broad-brimmed hat poured herself a glass of white wine laced with fruit. She had a helmet of straight black hair that ended stylishly at her prominent collarbone.
“Care for some dinner?” she asked.
“Where?” I asked, not sure what to make of her.
“Here.” She jiggled the pitcher.
“I think I’ll wait,” I said. I wasn’t really into drinking, especially now, when I needed to keep my wits.
“Suit yourself,” she said, leaving the pitcher behind for the maid. “I’m Nina, by the way.”
One of the Predators.
And a wereleopard from the way she smelled. She was impossibly bony, yet sleek, and she moved with a fluid grace.
“Tia told me about your little shopping trip,” she said, a conspiratorial smile tipping her lips.
It was then I noticed she was wearing a silver bikini under an elaborate white silk wrap.
“Don’t worry. It’s not real silver,” she said, as if that’s why I was staring.
A ribbon of dread wound its way through me. “This is a pool party,” I said, stating the obvious.
And I was in pants.
I could have sworn I knew how these things worked. I’d watched Dynasty. Alexis Carrington and her pack wore skimpy gowns and jewels to outdoor parties. They even had shoulder pads. I was not overdressed for a society party. I couldn’t be.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nina said, as if she could read my mind. “Nobody swims anyway.”
I was just about to think of a way to escape when one of the glass doors at the back of the house slid open. “Nina!” Francine breezed in wearing a getup that reminded me more of a 1940s pinup outfit than swimwear. “Stop drinking your dinner and get your ass out here.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">