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By Root 1631 0

opens the back door, motions me in, and Fritz escorts me over. After bowing to Wellsie, he heads back to the Mercedes, and as the car turns around in the driveway, my hostess shuts the house’s door against the wind.

J.R.:

What a storm, huh?

Wellsie:

God, yes. Here, off with the coat. Come on.

I’m unwrapped again, but this time I’m so distracted by the smell coming from the kitchen that I barely notice my parka disappearing.

J.R.:

What is that? (inhaling) Mmm . . .

Wellsie:

(hanging up my coat and dropping a pair of L.L. Bean moccasins at my feet) Boots, off.

J.R.:

(kicking the boots free and putting my feet into—ahh, bliss—soft lamb’s wool) It smells like ginger?

Wellsie:

You warm enough in just that sweater? You need another? No? All right. Just holler if you change your mind, though. (Heading into the kitchen and over to the stove.) This is for John.

J.R.:

(following) He’s home? Were classes canceled tonight for the storm?

Wellsie:

(lifting lid off a pot) Yes, but he wouldn’t have been able to go anyway. Let me finish this real quick and then we’ll go get Tohr.

J.R.:

Is John okay?

Wellsie:

He will be. Have a seat. You want tea?

J.R.:

I’m fine, thank you.

The kitchen is all cherry and granite, with two gleaming ovens, a six-burner cooktop, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator done up to match the cabinets. Over in the windowed alcove there’s a glass-and-iron table set, and I sit down in the chair closest to the stove.

Wellsie has her hair up tonight, and as she stirs the rice in the pot she looks like a supermodel in a magazine ad for luxury kitchens. Beneath the loose black turtleneck she wears her belly is a little bigger than when I saw her last, and her hand keeps going to it, rubbing slowly. She’s glowing with health. Absolutely radiant.

Wellsie:

See, here’s the thing with vampires. We don’t get human viruses, but we have our own. And this time of year, as with human schools, the trainees trade off bugs. John came down with the aches and a sore throat last night and woke up with a fever this afternoon. Poor thing. (Shakes her head.) John is . . . a special kid. Truly special. And I love having him home with me—I just wish, tonight, it was for a different reason. (Looks up at me.) You know, it’s so weird. I’ve been doing my own thing for a long time . . . you can’t be mated to a Brother and not be really independent. But since John’s started living here, the house is empty when he’s not around. I can’t wait to see him by the time he gets home from the training center.

J.R.:

I can understand that.

Wellsie:

(rubbing belly again) John says he’s all excited for when the little one gets here—he wants to help out. I guess at the orphanage he was in, he liked to watch after the young.

J.R.:

You know, I have to say you look great.

Wellsie:

(rolls eyes) You’re kind, but I’m, like, big as a house already. I have no idea what size I’m going to be right before the young comes. Still . . . it’s all good. The young is moving all the time, and I feel strong. My mother . . . she did well with her children. She had three, can you believe it? Three. And that was before modern medicine for my sister and my brother. So I think I’m going to be like her. My sister did just fine. (looks back down at the pot) This is what I remind Tohr of when he wakes up in the middle of the day. (turns off stove and gets serving spoon out of drawer) Let’s hope John will eat this time. He’s been off his food.

J.R.:

Hey, what do you think of Rhage’s getting mated?

Wellsie:

(spooning rice into bowl) Oh, my God, I love Mary. I think it’s great. The whole thing. Although Tohr was getting ready to kill Hollywood. Rhage . . . doesn’t take direction well. Hell, none of them do. The Brothers . . . they’re like six lions. You can’t really herd them all that well. Tohr’s job is to try to keep them together, but it’s tough . . . especially with Zsadist being the way he is.

J.R.:

Wrath said he’s on a rampage.

Wellsie:

(shaking head and going to refrigerator)