Page 44 of Reapers Don’t Ride

“Crucible? Sounds like a demon. I thought you weren’t with anyone.”

“My ferret isn’t just anyone.”

“Ah. You have a ferret. Why need a creature to worry about? Why Crucible? That’s an odd choice.”

“Why the questions that aren’t relevant?”

He frowned. “You aren’t very civil.”

“No. But I am wearing shoes, and that’s practically the same thing.” I scowled at him and he frowned back. Finally, I shrugged. “It was the name of my mother’s bookshop.”

He flinched. Hard. His eyes were on me so intent, so fierce, so enraged, I took a step back, came up against Gavriel, and braced myself for being turned to stone. “How long have you been a vampire?” he demanded, his question a command.

“A century and a decade. Is this really relevant to giving me glasses?”

“Very. What did you do before you were turned? Did you wear glasses?”

“No.”

“And your mother? How did she die?”

“Her death is relevant? How?”

“Was it eye-related?”

I snorted. This was ridiculous. “No, it wasn’t eye-related. She had a heart attack and died instantly. I was right there.”

“No pain? That is lucky. What about your father? Did he have any eye problems?”

This was going to go on forever. Gavriel moved around me, sitting in a wingback with a stool in front of it. He was a clear target in that position. I sat down on the stool, trying to sit tall, the better to block whatever attacks the clearly unbalanced angel might make.

“I don’t know about my father. He was a soldier back in the old country where they met, before she crossed the ocean and opened her shop, so he must have had good eyes.” It was so ridiculous to talk about my life a century ago. Was any of this relevant?

“She never remarried?”

It was not relevant, but some people were like that: incapable of focusing on the topic at hand. I could either leave now, or humor him, and we were sitting. “No. She had me and the books. She didn’t want anything else. She smuggled many valuable texts out of her country during the war. There were so many wars in those days.” Hopefully, that was enough trivia to satisfy him.

“Yes. There’s always war somewhere.” He sat in the wingback chair across from us, shoulders hunched, face a sour frown, apparently lost in thought.

“Do you have any hot chocolate?” Gavriel asked.

I turned to stare at him. What was he doing? He gave me a sweet smile and touched my hand.

“Ruby gets cold, and this place is incredibly drafty.”

The angel grunted and then gestured, and an earthen mug appeared in his hand, steaming. He handed it over. “A vampire gets their warmth from their live victims. Why do you only drink from bags?”

I held the mug, feeling awkward. Another pointless question. Then again, he had given me hot chocolate. “I prefer to not get connected to another life.” I sipped the drink and then nodded at him after the rich chocolate had saturated my tongue. “It’s not too sweet.” It was actually perfect.

“Of course not. Sweetness destroys the flavor. Hartshorn, I don’t suppose that chocolate is what you want.”

“No, thank you,” Gavriel said, his hand lingering on mine. “You said you can help. Will you?”

The older angel snorted. “Me? Yes, I suppose I will. At ease, angel. I’m thinking.”

Gavriel finally pulled his hand away, leaving me with hot chocolate but not him. I wanted to sit on his lap, wrapped in his warmth, his wings, and relax with this incredibly perfect drink. But I’d just said that we weren’t together. I certainly wasn’t going to lean my head on his shoulder and revel in his warmth. Of course not. I’d never do that in front of a stranger. Or any other time that wasn’t required for the mission.

I drank my chocolate and inhaled the steam, also Gavriel, but I didn’t touch him.