"If he'd been a vampire, that would have been a pun." Nathan's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I don't want to blame you, Carrie. I just want to talk to you."

"I'm not going to complain. You kept everything in before." It is the central irony of my life that when I want something and end up getting it, it makes me profoundly uncomfortable.

Shaking his head, Nathan reached for one of the many books on the coffee table. "Grab a book and start reading."

"I said I was too tired," I protested.

"I know. Consider it payment for your new office." He settled back in his chair and turned his attention to the open page.

I grumbled, but complied. I'd only managed to halfheartedly scan two pages when the phone in the kitchen rang.

Nathan stood and went to answer it, taking his mug with him. "Want me to top you off while I'm in there?"

I shook my head and covered the rim of my mug with my palm.

On the page, the letters swirled and blurred before my tired eyes, and I had to double my concentration. I wasn't paying attention to the phone call, until I noticed the change in Nathan's tone.

"Fine. I'll tell her." He hung up without saying goodbye and returned to the living room, "That was Cyrus. Dahlia is going to be there tomorrow after sundown. You should go over at ten."

"You didn't let me talk to him." It was part accusation, part question.

Nathan shrugged. "He didn't ask for you."

I tried to not look as rejected as I, for some reason, felt. "Are you going with me?"

"I'd rather not." He resumed his position in the armchair and picked up his book. "You can take my cell phone if you're worried he'll try something."

"No, nothing like that." I waved my hand to dismiss the idea that Cyrus would try to harm me. "But you don't mind me going, do you?"

"Of course not," Nathan said, a little too confidently. "It's the reason we came back here."

Something in his tone said he wished we hadn't, but it didn't matter. Tomorrow, I was going to see Cyrus.

Chapter Eight
A Bad Case of Nerves

Of all the horrible things Max could have envisioned happening on their trip, Bella being horrifically carsick every fifty miles was not one of them.

"You know, we could get a lot farther if I didn't have to stop and hose puke off the back seat four or five times a night," he grumbled, wiping his hands on coarse, gas station bathroom paper towels.

Bella lifted her head from the toilet seat—it was proof of her bravery, or stupidity, how close she let her face get to the damn thing—and tried to respond, only to let loose a spectacular arc of vomit.