Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs

But when I dropped Fitz off for their first sleepover, Zeb looked, well, weird.

Dazed and weird, while Jolene was practically jumping out of her skin. “We have something to tell you,” he said.

It was curious how quickly they’d become a “we.” “We wanted” and “we have.”

And I used to be a “we.” Zeb and I were “the” we. And I was suddenly relegated to being a “you.” I would have sulked further if a loopy, stupid grin hadn’t split Zeb’s face as he said, “We wanted you to be one of the first people to know that—”

“We’re gettin’ married!” Jolene crowed, waving a ringed hand in front me. “We’re engaged!”

“What the hell?”

Jolene’s head snapped toward me as I let loose the first words that came to mind.

Damn my nonexistent internal filter.

“Not the reaction I expected,” Zeb said, putting his arm around a paled Jolene.

Clearly, it was not the reaction she expected, either.

“I think I’ll just go get a snack,” she mumbled as she walked away.

“What is wrong with you?” Zeb demanded as he pulled me outside onto his back deck.

“Me? What is wrong with you? You’ve known her for two months,” I hissed, jerking my head toward the kitchen, where Jolene stood, nervously gnawing on Fritos.

“Could you be more rude?” Zeb demanded.

“I like Jolene, Zeb. She seems nice and everything, but you can’t spring ‘Hey, my girlfriend’s a werewolf’ and ‘Hey, we’re getting married’ in the same month. It’s just too much. Wolves mate for life. Did you know that? If you want to get a divorce, she could, I don’t know, eat you or something. And what about her family? We’ve already established that they don’t like vampires. How pleased are they going to be that she’s marrying outside her species?”

He rolled his eyes. “Humans marry werewolves all the time. Sure, there are some old-school packs who pride themselves on their pure old blood and refuse to breed with outsiders. They’re the ones who turn out cross-eyed cubs with extra toes.

“Progressive packs, like Jolene’s, they’re actually grateful to have fresh genes stirred into the pool,” he said. “All right, fine, some of her cousins are kind of pissed about it. But her parents are really nice, much nicer than mine. Our children would be half werewolf, giving them fifty-fifty chance of being able to turn. Personally, I kind of hope they can, because that would be cool.”

I ignored the second abdominal twinge at the thought of Zeb having children. “But what if you’re not safe? What if she hurts you while she’s all, you know, grrr?”

“Funny coming from the girl who tried to make me her first vampire meal,” he said, ignoring the face I made at him. “Look, I didn’t think of you as any less human after you changed.”

“You stabbed me.”

“After my initial shock, I got over it, and I still saw you as the same Janie,” he said.

“You’re the same person you always were, which, of course, means you’re a giant pain in my ass. But you would never let anything happen to me. And neither would Jolene.” He held up his hand to shush me when my mouth popped open to protest. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.”

He huffed out a breath. “She could be suspicious of me having a best friend who’s a woman, but she’s not. And trust me when I say that being territorial is her nature. I would hope that you’d show her the same, I don’t know, courtesy.”

Well, that made me feel awful.

“Yeah, but Zeb…” I whispered. “Werewolf.”

“Vampire,” he said, pointing at me.

“Noted,” I muttered.

“I know, I don’t know everything about her, but I want to spend the rest of my life learning.” He sighed. “I love her. This is a woman I look forward to seeing every day, Janie, and I’ve never felt that way about anyone, except maybe you. I always figured, well, that you and I would end up in some nursing home together, fighting over the last pudding. But then you had to screw it up and go all immortal and ageless on me.

“Your change has opened my eyes to a world I never even imagined could be real.

I knew vampires were out there, but I never thought I would know one, much less have one for my best friend. And seeing how well you’ve handled things…in your own special ass-backward way…I never would have had the courage to marry into Jolene’s family.”

I snorted.

“You are the wind beneath my wings?” he offered.

“If you start to sing, I will bite you,” I growled. “So, when are you planning to do this?”

“As soon as possible. Jolene has been waiting a long time to be, um, married,” he said, struggling with the choice of words.

“Last single cousin in her pack?” I asked.

Zeb looked embarrassed. “Well, wolves mate for life, so…”

“So she’s never…wow,” I marveled.

“Yeah.”

I wanted this for Zeb. A nice woman who, after lots of time, and possibly medication, I would able to share Zeb with. Not in a gross way. Jolene was someone who was dealing with her own “special circumstances.” Someone who would be able to understand my special circumstances and embrace them instead of making Zeb find new

“normal” friends and join a progressive dinner club.

So, why was I being a jerk about this?

“We were sort of hoping you would be the maid of honor,” Zeb said. His expression made it clear that he knew how I felt about wearing another bridesmaid’s dress. “We both know you’d be the best man for me, anyway. And Jolene has too many cousins to choose one without causing a blood feud.”

I made a distressed little noise. On the other side of the window, Jolene’s millionwatt smile beamed. I would worry about the fact that she had heard our entire conversation later. “But I barely know her.”

“She likes you. And this would be a great way to get to know her,” Zeb said in his special “I’m making a point” voice. “By the way, her colors are peach and cornflower blue.”

Dizzied by thoughts of giant butt bows and matching shawls, I stammered, “Butbut I can’t do this again—” Zeb tipped his head, all smiles and Precious Moments eyes. “I love you.”

“Dang it, Zeb. That’s not fair.”

Because vampires tend not to trust perceived bias in human media sources, they depend largely on “word of mouth” to stay informed of current events. This can lead to a localized and somewhat limited world view. (From The Guide for the Newly Undead).

With Fitz safe and sound, I threw myself into my work. It had taken me just a few nights for Mr. Wainwright to leave me unsupervised. I think once someone returns your wallet to you, cash intact, four times, it tends to cement your faith in that person’s character. I wasn’t returning the same wallet repeatedly. It was various wallets from over the years that I found misplaced all over the shop. Mr. Wainwright had to be public enemy number one on the credit-card companies’ frequent-card-loser watch list.

Mr. Wainwright never had to worry about my productivity in his absence, though I did take frequent breaks to study the books. I had missed that smell, old paper and starched cover canvas. Cozied between the crowded shelves, my feet propped up on a stack of Encyclopedia Demonica, and my nose buried in a first edition of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, it was like returning home after a long exile. Mr. Wainwright, who lived in a little apartment above the shop, had a hard time getting me to leave in the mornings. I wanted to wallow in the old volumes, some priceless, some cheap reproductions, all housed together in a mishmash. I had a purpose here. I belonged. The books needed me.