Ivy was still in a shocked quandary, and she returned it looking numb.

“Skimmer,” I said as they broke apart and the shaken, subdued woman took a thin jacket from the hall closet and put it on. “This isn’t what you think.”

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, looking at Ivy for a long moment with deep regret. “It’s not what I think that matters,” she said as she opened the door. “It’s what Ivy wants.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she left, latching the door softly behind her.

Seventeen

Skimmer’s departure left an awkward silence. As the cab accelerated down the drive, I looked at Ivy standing in the sterile white entryway with its elegant decorations that utterly lacked any warmth. Guilt was thick on her. I knew it was from the reminder that she still harbored the belief that someday I’d be her scion—apparently with a little extra something on the side. It was a position that I think Skimmer had moved out here hopefully to fill.

Not sure what I was feeling, I faced her. “Why did you let her think we were lovers?” I said, shaking inside. “God, Ivy. We aren’t even sharing blood, and she thinks we’re lovers.”

Ivy’s face closed, the barest tightening of her jaw giving away her emotion. “She doesn’t think that at all.” She strode out of the room. “Do you want some juice?” she called back.

“No,” I said softly as I followed her deeper into the house. I knew if I pressed the issue right now, she would likely become more closed. This conversation wasn’t over, but having it in front of Erica wasn’t a good idea. My head hurt. Maybe I could get her to talk about it over coffee and cheesecake while we were shopping. Maybe I should move to Timbuktu, or the Tennessee mountains, or somewhere else where there weren’t any vampires. (Don’t ask. It’s weird, even for Inderlanders—which is saying a lot.)

Erica was tight on my heels, her mindless chatter an obvious attempt to cover up the issues that Skimmer had raised. Her bright voice filled the sterile house with life as she trailed after us through large dim rooms full of hardwood furniture and cold drafts. I made a mental note to never get Erica and Jenks in the same room. No wonder Ivy didn’t have a problem with Jenks. Her sister was cut from the same cloth.

Ivy’s boots were slow on the polished floor when we left a dark blue formal dining room and entered a brightly lit, spacious kitchen. I blinked. Ivy met my startled gaze and shrugged. I knew that Ivy had remodeled the church’s kitchen before I had moved in, and as I looked around, I realized she had patterned it after the one she grew up with.

The room was nearly as spacious, that same center island counter taking up the middle. Cast-iron pots and metal utensils hung over it instead of my ceramic spoons and copper spell vats, but it made the same comfortable spot to lean against. There was a heavy antique table—twin to ours—against the near wall, right where I’d expect it. Even the cupboards were the same style, and the counters had an identical color. The floor, though, was tile instead of linoleum.