Past the sink where I had a single window overlooking the graveyard, there was a bank of windows that showed a long snowfield running down to the gray ribbon of the Ohio River. Ivy’s parents owned a lot of property. You could graze cattle down there.

A kettle steamed on the stove, and as Ivy moved it off the burner, I dropped my bag on the table where my chair would be if I was home. “This is nice,” I said wryly.

Ivy gave me a cautious look, clearly glad I had shelved the pending discussion about Skimmer. “It was cheaper to do both kitchens at once,” she said, and I nodded. It was warm, and I took my coat off, draping it on the back of the chair.

Stretching to show the small of her back, Erica stood on one foot to reach a glass jar half full of what looked like sugar cookies. Leaning against the counter, she ate one, offering Ivy another but none to me. I had a feeling they weren’t sugar cookies but those awful cardboard-tasting disks that Ivy had kept shoving down my throat last spring when I was recovering from a massive blood loss. Sort of a vampire pick-me-up that helped support their—ah—lifestyle.

A muffled thumping grew louder, and I turned to what I had thought was a pantry door. It creaked opened to show a staircase leading down. A tall gaunt man was coming up and out of the shadows. “Hi, Dad,” Ivy said, and I straightened, smiling at the softness in her voice.

“Ivy …” The man beamed as he set a tray with two tiny empty cups down on the table. His voice was gravelly, matching his skin: rough and pebbly. I recognized the texture as scars left from the Turn. It had affected some more than others, and witches, pixies, and fairies not at all. “Skimmer’s here,” he said gently.

“I saw her,” Ivy said, and he hesitated at the lack of anything more.

He looked tired, his brown eyes content as he gave Ivy a quick hug. Gently waving black hair framed his serious face softly lined with what looked like worry rather than age. It was obvious that this was where Ivy got her height. The living vampire was tall, with a refinement that turned his gaunt frame pleasing rather than unattractive. He was wearing jeans and a casual shirt. Small, almost unseen lines scarred his neck, and his arms showing past his rolled-up sleeves had the same marks on the underside. It must be hard being married to an undead.

“I’m glad you came home,” the man said, his eyes flicking briefly to me and the cross on my charm bracelet before settling back on his daughter with an obvious warmth. “Your mother will be up in a bit. She wants to talk to you. Skimmer put her in a rare mood.”

“No.” Ivy dropped back out of his touch. “I wanted to ask you something, is all.”