The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

65

Greg Vasilescu, PI + A Good Guy

Three generations of werewolf women sat opposite Isla and me in the train car.

Denise D'Onofrio was a stern looking matriarch, white but well-tanned for this time of year, appearing to be somewhere in her mid-sixties. Her gray hair was shorn short with bangs swept over one side of her face. Zebra-striped glasses were perched at the tip of her nose; a beaded lanyard looped behind her ears to keep the spectacles from wandering off. She wore acid-washed jeans, beat up running shoes, and down jacket.

Bouncing on her knee was a toddler in a tutu. Arabella, I presumed. The girl's perfect, auburn ringlets hung to her elbows. An oversized bow secured a bushel of them on the crown of her head, out of her eyes. She seemed intently occupied by the picture book in her lap.

Beside her mother and daughter, was Mrs. Cabroni, dressed in another one of her tracksuits. Her long hair was styled to match the child's strand for strand. She had a thick ring of badges braced around her neck. Dang. Was more than a bit gob smacked to see her up and out of the hospital so soon. But gee whiz, guess the Pack had at least a couple of family doctors on call.

She glared daggers at me.

Stuffed my hands in my blazer pockets to protect my fragile fingers.

"Uh, Mrs. Cabroni," said Isla. "You're... looking... fab."

"Call me Vesper," she croaked. "D'Onofrio. Going back to my maiden name."

"Your family name," grumbled Denise in her ear.

"Ma, they get it."

"Shhh," the Alpha wolf patted her daughter on the knee. "Save your voice."

I cleared my throat. Just as Isla was about to open her mouth and probably say something silly and more than likely Traumatic Brain Injury induced. "Ms. D'Onofrio, I, firstly, would like to apologize for how I mishandled our communications—"

Denise raised a hand. "You the vamp that shot—"

"Ma! My kid!"

"Earmuffs, Ari."

The child smacked her hands over her tiny ears, smiling up at me in an unsettling, borderline demonic way. Made me shiver.

"Are you the vamp," Denise continued, "that shot my son-in-law in the face?"

Oh fangs.

Beside me, Isla stiffened. Her pulse spiked in my own veins. Blood rushed through us both at identical, breakneck paces. Felt like a donkey tap dancing on my chest. Oh, this was going to be problem, wasn't it?

As subtly as I could, I slipped a hand from my pocket and into Isla's. Gave her swollen knuckles and scabbed palm a little squeeze. An effort to try and calm her pulse before it got us both into trouble. Not out of affection. Course not. I was still mad at her. Seemed to work though, a small bit. She threaded her fingers through mine, and her heartbeat calmed by a fraction.

Behind us, Sloane whistled. Not sure if werewolves had the same hearing and ability to read a pulse as vamps did, but for the sake of Isla's blushing cheeks (and chest and ears) I hoped they didn't.

But I was getting away from the question, wasn't I?

Here it goes, old boy. You were bound to have to answer for your actions sooner or later.

"Yeah," I said. "I put the dog down."

Isla sniggered, "nice," then, quickly added: "It wasn't in the face though."