Neon Blue by E Frost (best big ereader .TXT) 📕

his expression and the dried blood all over both of us, I’m thinking tonight just isn’t our night.

He stands slowly, and I can see him shaking. I don’t think any less of him for it. Suddenly discovering that the world is not what you think it is – and that it’s full of witches and shapeshifters and faeries – can make anyone a little shaky.

I lead him upstairs, show him the guest bedroom, and leave him in the bathroom, using my toothbrush, which any other time would be romantic, but tonight is just sort of sad.

I head back downstairs to face the shifter and pixie in my kitchen.

Happily, they’ve separated before things have gotten out of hand. Ana’s back in the dining room with the sleeping werewolf.

I hand her a pillow I’ve brought from the spare bedroom and watch while she gently slides it under Toby’s head.

“Son?” I ask. I don’t know much about Ana’s family – she’s never mentioned them – but her gesture is very maternal. I do know shifting runs in families, but I thought it usually stayed in-clan. The way Ana’s looking at the werewolf, though, I wonder if I’ve gotten it wrong.

“Only in a spiritual sense,” Ana says. “Toby’s parents were killed several years ago. Eric is his godfather, so he came to live with us. He’s only been shifting for three months.”

“He’ll be okay,” I say. “He’s young. Strong. He’ll make a full recovery. Just give him a few days.”

Ana brushes long fur back from the shifter’s face. “He wants so desperately to prove himself.” She makes a little clucking noise. “Taking on a full-grown Hisaka.”

“He’s smart. He knew to come here for antivenin instead of trying Mass. General.” Which has a pretty liberal policy about stitching up shifters, but draws the line at stocking antivenin for mythological creatures. Can’t say as I blame them. They must have an interesting time with their insurers as it is.

Ana touches the corner of one golden eye. She could just be tired, but I think she’s wiping away a tear she doesn’t want me to see. “I told him where to go,” she says. “I just wish I’d known why he was asking.”

I pat her on the shoulder, which she doesn’t respond to, and leave her to her vigil. I stop in the kitchen to say good-night to Lilliwhite, but the pixie’s decided that the better part of discretion is leaving. She’s even turned off the coffee-pot, a sure sign she’s gone. Upstairs, I check on my human guest, who is snoring peacefully, his wayward lock of hair covering one eye.

My grandmother’s ghost is waiting for me in the bathroom.

“I’m too tired to argue, Dala,” I say, picking up my toothbrush and pouring Listerine over the bristles. On further thought, I snap a quick disinfecting cantrip over it. You never can tell what’s lurking in another person’s gums.

“I taught you better than this, beti.”

She’s not too tired to argue, evidently.

“Why did your great-great—”

I begin brushing my teeth to the greats. There are six of them. It takes a while. “Grandmother Sorina,” I supply.

“—burn to keep the Secret World a secret only to have you—”

“Reveal it to the first gorgio who comes along,” I finish. We’ve had this conversation just a few times. I can repeat it verbatim. That’s the problem with talking to ghosts. They tend to repeat things they said in life, a little too often. “He’s not the first gorgio to come along, Dala. He’s the fifth. I like him. Now’s as good a time as any to see if he could live in my world.”

I stop brushing for a moment and listen to make sure the subject of our conversation is still snoring. He is. It’s a nice sound, although I’m not sure I’d feel the same way if he was lying right next to me.

“Well, he can’t. You saw him.”

She’s not wrong about that. Peter didn’t take it very well. But, then, Saul seemed fine at first. It took him six months to freak out. And I never did find out what broke the camel’s back.

I rinse out my mouth. There’s always the memory charm. “I’ll deal with it, Dala.”

“Like you dealt with that tulla gorgio, what was his name?”

“James. And he wasn’t fat.” James was on the big side, sure. I’ve always had a thing for big men. Peter will be the smallest guy I’ve dated – if we end up dating. “He was my first boyfriend, Dala.” And if I didn’t handle him very well at the time, at least we’re still on speaking terms, which is more than I can say for my most recent romantic misadventures. “I was seventeen. Give me a break.”

“If you would only date Rom, this wouldn’t happen, beti.”

I snort into a towel. Most of the Rom men I know are cousins, or somehow related to me on my father’s side. I grew up with them. I remember them as dirty boys only interested in getting dirtier. The idea of dating one of them makes me queasy. “Good night, Dala.”

“Sweet dreams, beti.” She crosses herself before she rolls up. I flick off the lights and stand in my darkened bathroom for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of the three other people in my house.

Three other people in my house. Practically a party.

So why am I sleeping alone?

Peter’s more freaked out after a few hours sleep. I watch him covertly while I brew a pot of dark roast. His hands shake. He flinches at every small sound. A snuffle from the dining room has him jumping out of his chair.

Not good.

Regretfully, I slip the memory charm into his coffee. I make him scrambled eggs and toast, because it seems like a nice thing to do after I’ve just given him a mickey. While I cook, I watch his cute butt fill out his jeans and wish that I wasn’t such a nice girl.

I should jump his bones while I have the chance. He won’t remember