The Beast

THIRTY-SEVEN

Ultimately, Mary chose to go with jeans.

Normally, she was not a 7 for All Mankind girl, but for Bitty’s ice-cream trip, she didn’t want to wear her blouse-and-slacks professional uniform. The goal was for this to be a relaxed, fun outing, and somehow showing up in a bunch of stuff that needed dry cleaning didn’t exactly say Baskin-Robbins, thirty-one flavors with sprinkles on top.

“How do I look?” Rhage said from behind her.

Turning away from their bureau, she did a double take.

“Well?” he said, pivoting in a circle. “Is this okay?”

“That Hawaiian shirt”—she laughed—“was supposed to be a joke.”

He pulled out the hem of the tarp-sized eyesore. “It’s the only thing I’ve got that isn’t black.”

Well, that was true—and talk about mission accomplished. The shirt was about as far away from dour as you could get: which was why she’d bought it. The thing had a hundred variations on teal, green, and sunset peach in an absolutely retina-shattering palm tree–frond pattern.

“I just don’t want to be all soldier, you know?”

“That’s why I’m doing jeans.” She grimaced as she looked down at herself. “Even though I’m not really a fan of them anymore.”

“But they love you,” he murmured, coming over and wrapping his arms around her. As he slid his hands down to her butt and squeezed, he murmured, “This past day was amazing, by the way.”

She put her hands to his chest and played with one of the shirt’s pink buttons. “Even though I fell asleep on you?”

“Especially because of that.”

They kissed for a while, and then Mary stepped back and gave him the once-over. “Honestly, I think you have to go with what you feel comfortable in.”

“This is not it. Someone my size in this much color? I’m like a living, breathing migraine aura.”

As he headed back to the closet, she stared down at the jeans—and decided to take her own advice.

Ten minutes later, they left the mansion in all black for him and yoga pants and a red fleece for her.

Stepping out of the vestibule, Rhage put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “We’re going to have a great time.”

“Thanks for doing this. I know you had to switch your shift around.”

“Tohr was happy to take over for me. He’s really interested in killing things right now.”

“Why?”

“Oh, God, too many reasons to count.” Leading her down to the cobblestones and by the winterized fountain, he stopped at the passenger side of the GTO and opened her door. “Madam? Your conveyance.”

After he got her settled, he got in himself and off they went, barreling down the mhis-covered mountainside and shooting off over the winding road that took them to the highway. Safe Place was a good twenty minutes away, but the time passed fast.

Next thing she knew, she was getting out and telling her male she’d be right back.

Mary jogged up the walkway to the front door, put in the code, and then she was in the toasty interior. Heading for the stairs, she—

“I’m here.”

At the sound of Bitty’s voice, she stopped. “Hey. How are you?”

The little girl was dressed in one of her other shifts, that black parka folded on her lap as she sat with a straight back on the living room sofa.

“Did he really come?” Bitty asked as she got to her feet. “Are we really going?”

“We are.”

Bitty went to the closed drapes and pulled them apart. “Oh, he brought his car.”

“Yup, just as he said he would. I think you’ll find that my hellren pretty much always does what he says he’s going to.”

Mary had already told Marissa about the plan, and gotten a resounding approval from the boss, but she wanted to check out properly.

“Can you give me two seconds in my office?”

When the girl nodded, Mary rushed upstairs. Marissa wasn’t at her desk, so Mary headed across the hall to send a quick e-mail to all the staff.

She didn’t get that far. At least, not immediately.

There was a cardboard box on her desk, one that was about the size of a shoe box, just more square instead of rectangular. An envelope was on top of it, although she knew what was inside before reading anything.

The note was short, but kind. Mary read it twice, and then carefully lifted the lid. Inside, there was a simple brass urn.

A trusted nurse of Havers’s had dropped off Bitty’s mother’s ashes at nightfall, because the female had wanted to spare Bitty any return trip to the clinic. It had been a very kind gesture; the sort of thing that made you blink quick and have to take a couple of deep breaths.

Shaking herself back to attention, Mary went around and signed in at her computer, sent the e-mail, and then hustled back downstairs. Bitty was on the sofa once again, waiting patiently, but she had put her coat on.

“Ready?” Mary asked.

As the girl got to her feet once more, Mary decided to wait to talk about the delivery. The child deserved an easy trip out for ice cream—

“Did you see what was on your desk?” Bitty looked up. “The box?”

“Ah . . . yes. I did.”

“It’s my mother’s ashes.”

“Yes. There was a note.”

Bitty dropped her eyes to the floor. “A nice female brought them. I was down here waiting already, so I took them. I put them up there because I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.”

“Do you want the urn in your room?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. You don’t have to decide anything now.”

“I want to save them. You know . . .”

For your uncle, Mary filled in, in her head.

“For my uncle,” Bitty concluded. “But I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep with them upstairs. I mean . . . it’s her. But not.”

“It’s perfectly all right for you to think about it. And change your mind. They’re safe in my office. I’ll leave them right on my desk. Nothing will happen to them.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause. “Are you ready to go now?”

“Yes, please.”

Mary let out an exhale. “Good. I’m glad. Come on.”

Bitty headed for the door, but then stopped halfway there. “Ms. Luce?”

“Yes?”

Those brown eyes flicked up for a split second and then returned to the floor. “Thank you very much.”

All Mary could do was blink as Bitty kept on going over to the exit.

“You’re very welcome,” Mary said in a husky voice.

Standing next to his car, Rhage found himself tucking in his black shirt under his jacket—or rather, re-tucking the thing. Then he ran his fingers through his hair. Man, he needed to get the stuff cut. It was like a blond rug from the seventies, all shagged out.

At least the close shave he’d given himself before leaving the mansion was holding tough. And he was clean. He’d even washed behind his ears and in between his toes.

As the door to Safe Place opened and the females appeared between the jambs, he raised a hand, and got two raised back at him, one from each. Then Mary and Bitty were in front of him, the little girl staring up at him as if he might have been bigger than she remembered. Or blonder. Or maybe weirder-looking. Or something.

Who the hell knew.

“Hi,” he said, opening the car door for her. “You ready?”

“Yes.” Bitty scooted in. “Thank you.”

“Do you know what flavor you’re going for?”

“Vanilla?”

Frowning, he put the seat back into position and helped his Mary in. “Huh. Well. That’s good.”

When he was behind the wheel, he wrenched around. “You know, vanilla is great. It’s a good traditional choice. But they’ll let you try some of their other flavors before you pick. You might want to give that a shot—or stick with vanilla. Whatever works.”

“What kinds of flavors are there?”

“Oh, my God, sooooo many.”

He punched the clutch, threw the gearshift into first, but stopped himself before he nailed the accelerator. There was no time constraint here, and he didn’t want to paint-mixer the poor kid.

“Hey, is your seat belt on?” he asked, glancing up into the rearview.

“I’m sorry.” Bitty scrambled around, pulling the strap into place across her torso. “I didn’t think.”

Rhage reached up and put the light on. “Here.”

Click. “Thank you.”

Easing them out from the curb, he kept to the speed limit. And the traffic laws. And glared at an SUV who swerved out in front of them.

Bessie’s Best Ice Cream Parlor was painted bright pink on the outside, and milk-cow black-and-white on the inside. With pink tables and chairs, fifties music piped in from the speakers, and a waitstaff that had poodle skirts for the girls and soda-jerk shirts and pants for the guys, Rhage had always been impressed by how close to right they got the Elvis, goin’-to-the-hop vibe.

As someone who had eaten ice cream in 1950, he remembered firsthand what things had looked like, thank you very much.

And yup, he had chosen the right joint.

Bitty was enthralled by the place, her big eyes roaming around as if she had never seen anything like it—which was, sadly, no doubt the truth. Fortunately, there were only a few human customers: a couple who was over sixty in the corner, a father with three kids in the middle at one of the larger tables, and a pair of teenage girls who were taking selfies with their motor oil–glossed lips pursed out and their ice cream melting off to the side in little paper cups.

Leading the way over to where you ordered, he smiled at the twenty-year-old in her poodle skirt—and then really wished he hadn’t.

“Oh!” was all she seemed to be able to say as she stared across the tubs of ice cream in their glass-topped refrigerator units.

“I’d like to try out some samples?” he asked.

And could you please, please, please stop looking at me like that? The only whipped cream you’re putting on anything goes on my banana split.

No, not that banana split . . .

And you can skip the nuts—

Okay, come on, was he really arguing with himself over his own innuendos here—

“As many as you like.” She actually batted her eyelashes. “What flavors? And you can try the sprinkles out, too. If you want?”

The words were spoken fast and accented by all kinds of leaning over and flashing everything that that little button-down tucked into that big skirt failed to cover.

“Let me ask my wife.” He deliberately used the human term. “Mary?”

Mary’s smile was easy and relaxed and he loved that about her—she was so confident in herself and his love for her, she never balked, no matter how many females got up in his grille. “I’m fine with chocolate-chocolate chip in a waffle cone.”

“Bitty? Would you like to branch out from vanilla?”

The little girl surprised him by stepping in close. “I think . . . yes, could I please try some?”

As Bitty stared up at the human female, the waitress straightened a little, like the dimmer switch on her libido had been cranked down some. “You want me to get you and your dad a sampler? I’ll bring it over and you can try ’em at the table.”

Everyone froze. Him. Mary.

No, wait, Bitty didn’t freeze. “He’s not my dad. But yes, please.”

The human didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She just turned around and got out a little tray with twelve different tiny paper cones arranged in a cardboard holder.

He’s not my dad.

The words had come out smoothly and without hesitation, as if Bitty were naming a destination on a map or pointing out a book on a shelf. Meanwhile, Rhage was still stopped in his tracks as the mini-scooping was done, and the tray was set on the counter, and Mary’s waffle cone was delivered into her ever-so-slightly trembling hand.

As their eyes met, it was obvious she was worried about him, and he was a little worried, too. He felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut.

“—table?”

Shaking himself, he looked at the waitress. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you want to take this with you? I mean, I can carry it to your table if you want.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks. I’ll be back to order more and then we’ll pay?”

“Sure. Fine.”

The whatever was silent. Not that he gave two shits.

Over at the table by the rear emergency exit—which he chose out of habit in case, you know, the ten remaining lessers in the city of Caldwell happened to bust through that pink door looking for a rocky road—he put the tray down and handed a pink spoon to Bitty.

“Have at it. And then you can tell me what you want in a cone or a sundae, or decide you’re full enough.”

Bitty just stared at the display of various colors and textures. From the brilliant greens of pistachio and mint chocolate chip, to the beach-sunset coral of some kind of sherbet and the cheery pink of strawberry, it really was a fine representative sample.

“Where do I start?” she asked.

“Anywhere,” Mary said as she sat with her cone.

“You want me to go first?” he asked.

“Yes. Please.”

Yeah, wow, for the first time in recorded history, he faced off at ice cream and had no interest in it.

“I guess I’ll start here,” he murmured, spooning up something that didn’t register on his tongue in the slightest.

“Is it good?” Bitty asked.

“Ah, sure. Absolutely.”

When she leaned in and put her pink spoon into the half he’d left behind, he glanced across at Mary. His shellan was focused on Bitty, as if something in the way the little girl tried the dessert might offer some important clue as to how the mourning was going. And it was funny . . . as he looked back and forth between the two, he was amazed as he noticed for the first time that they both had brown hair.

In fact, Bitty looked as if she could be . . .

Yeah. Wow.

He needed to pull back here. After all, there were how many vampires on the planet? And humans? So the fact that the pair of them both happened to be female and both had dark hair as opposed to blond or red or straight-up black was not a huge surprise.

There was, he told himself firmly, absolutely nothing cosmic or preordained about the three of them sitting here in this ice cream shop—other than the fact that the particular kind of dessert served under this pink roof just happened to prove the existence of a benevolent God.

“—please?”

“What?” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted by the menu above that counter over there.”

“I think I like the chocolate–chocolate chip the best?” Bitty said.

Rhage glanced at Mary again and then had to look away. “Consider it done. In a cup or a cone?”

“I think . . .”

Waffle, he finished in his head.

“Waffle,” Bitty said.

“Roger that.”

As he got to his feet and headed back to the human woman in that poodle skirt, he said, Nope. All kids liked chocolate. With chips. In waffle cones.

There was not some kind of destiny at work here.

Really.

Totally.

There wasn’t.