And just when she was wondering what to do about the filmy curtains on her east-facing windows, Garrett yawned, showing long, catlike fangs, and crawled beneath her bed.

“I guess that’s that,” she said. “Hey—there really is a monster under the bed!”

There was no answer, so she got up, showered, dressed in her last outfit (she’d have to shop today—ugh—or borrow something), and went downstairs.

Sinclair was still up, reading the Wall Street Journal of all the tremendously dull things. She’d read a shampoo bottle before she’d even look at that paper.

“Good morning, Antonia.”

“Hey.” She fixed herself a glass of chocolate milk, stirred through the other papers on the counter, and finally picked the Minneapolis Star Tribune.

He said, without looking at her, “That’s a nasty bite.”

“MYOB, king who isn’t my king.”

“It was just an observation,” he said mildly. “But you should know, Tina isn’t in, ah, things for the, ah, long haul.”

“What?”

“You are a stunning woman, but the very fact that your presence here is a temporary one would be, ah, attractive to her. I hope my candor hasn’t offended you.”

She sipped her milk dispassionately and thought about what fun could be had if she let him keep his silly idea. Then she compared it to the fun of telling him the truth.

“I didn’t spend the night with Tina, numb nuts. I spent it with Garrett. That’s all so fascinating about Tina not being able to commit, Mr. Nosy, but I don’t swing that way.”

“Oh.” The paper rattled. Score! He hadn’t seen that one coming at all. Har! “Well. That’s. Well.”

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Right.”

“Because it’s not.”

“Yes.”

“The only reason I’m even telling you is because you were nice enough to give me some advice. Totally unasked for advice, but never mind.”

He looked started. “Did you just say totally?”

“No.”

They sat in silence for a while, Antonia wondering about blood sharing and the nature of Fiends. If Betsy’s blood had helped him, and Laura—whoever she was—had helped him, what might werewolf blood do? Anything? Nothing?

She jumped when Sinclair broke the silence. “To answer your question—”

“I didn’t say anything,” she said, startled.

“—I have no idea what your blood would do to Garrett. Or not do.”

“That’s really annoying,” she snapped. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was just sitting here minding my own business. Your problem is, everybody’s so busy kissing your ass, they don’t tell you to cut the shit.”

“On the contrary,” he said, completely unruffled—dammit! She was longing for a fight. “My charming bride-to-be tells me to cut the shit on a near-constant basis. My question for you, Antonia, is why you’re even wondering about it.”