Page 56 of Blood and Bells

“You don’t believe that,” she says, sliding a mug toward me. “You’re friends with me because I’m right and because I keep emergency cinnamon buns on hand for personal disasters. Start talking.”

I wrap both hands around the mug, more for the anchoring than the heat.

“I think I might have made a terrible mistake.”

Marcy brightens like someone’s announced an ice-skating accident and a scandal in the same sentence.

“Excellent,” she says. “Those are always the best stories.”

“They’re not,” I say. “They’re stressful, humiliating, and usually involve me wanting to move to another country and change my name.”

“Mm,” Marcy says, entirely unbothered. “Still entertaining for me. Go on.”

I stare into my drink like it might rearrange itself into answers if I give it enough time.

It doesn’t.

Rude.

“I went to his house last night,” I say finally.

“Oh, really?” She purrs and leans forward.

“Not like that. He didn’t know I was there.”

Marcy doesn’t react immediately, which is suspicious. Marcy always reacts immediately.

Then, very carefully, she says, “And when you say ‘So this was less of a socially acceptable visit, and more of a creeping-around-outside-his-window kind of thing?’”

“…I don’t like your tone.”

“That’s because my tone is accurate.”

“I wasn’t creeping,” I say. “I was…observing.”

“From outside the window.”

“Yes.”

“In the dark.”

“It’s winter,” I snap. “It’s dark at four in the afternoon. That’s not my fault.”

Marcy hums into her mug. “Mm. Continue your completely normal and not at all concerning behavior.”

I take a sip of my gingerbread latte, mostly so I don’t have to look at her.

“I saw him,” I say. “Feeding.”

Marcy stills.

Not dramatically or a gasp or a clutch at her chest. Just…still, like a thought has decided to sit down and take its hiking boots off.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Define feeding.”

“I don’t think that needs defining.”

“I’m asking anyway.”