Blood and Chocolate by Annette Curtis Klause Page B

know.”
    Shock cut through Vivian like a sharp little knife. “Sure he would. He’d know how to keep Astrid in line. He’d stop anything bad happening.”
    â€œBut he didn’t, did he?” Esmé said. “The inn burned. People died. If he’d lived, he’d be challenged as unfit.”
    â€œThat’s not true!” Vivian cried.
    â€œYou know it’s true,” Esmé said. “In his wolf-skin he was as strong as any of them, but he was a gentle person in many ways. He’d feel so bad about failing he’d probably step aside for someone else without a fight.”
    Esmé was right, but for a moment Vivian hated her mother for saying it.
    Esmé didn’t see Vivian’s anger; she was absently shuffling the photos around on the rug as if she could read the future in them like Tarot cards. “Maybe Rudy’s right. We need a different kind of leader now. One who doesn’t hesitate to hurt if he has to, for the good of all.” She reached out a trembling finger and touched the lips of a face that would be nowhere now, ever, except on a square of Kodak paper. “But for his time,” she whispered, “oh, he was the best.”
    Esmé’s shoulders heaved in helpless sobs and Vivian’s anger shriveled. She put her arms around her mother, buried her face in Esmé’s hair, and cried with her in dissonant duet. Esmé clung to her.
    There was nothing they could do. He was gone and the world was an alien landscape.
    â€œLet’s go out,” Esmé said abruptly, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “Let’s cheer ourselves up.” She grabbed Vivian by the shoulders, then planted a quick kiss on her daughter’s nose. “We’ll treat ourselves to dinner. We deserve it.” She leaped to her feet.
    Vivian, momentarily confused by her mother’s change of mood, didn’t answer.
    â€œWe’ll go to Tooley’s and see if any of the pack are there,” Esmé said. “But I can only afford burgers.”
    â€œI can’t do that,” Vivian said. “I’m underage.”
    â€œNonsense,” Esmé insisted. “As long as you don’t drink, no one’s gonna throw you out. Especially since you will definitely improve the décor.” Esmé smiled proudly at her daughter. “You look just like me.”
    Vivian couldn’t help chuckling. Esmé was her usual arrogant self again. Maybe it would be fun at that. Maybe she’d enjoy some roughhousing and teasing in the local bar. Maybe she’d like the feel of her palm across the cheeks of some fresh young fool who’d only laugh if off. “Sure, Mom. Let’s kick ass.”
    â€œIt’s a deal,” Esmé said. “Now I gotta go wash my face. I know I look like shit.”
    At the door, she paused and turned back to Vivian. There was a slight tremble back in her lower lip. “Thanks, my precious,” she said.
    Â 
    There was a scattering of people among the tables and booths at Tooley’s; some bikers were at the bar, and four men gathered around the large-screen television watching the Orioles lose. No pack, Vivian thought until they were greeted by an enthusiastic howl from a shadowed corner booth.
    â€œWatch it, Bucky,” Esmé warned, hand on hip, but Vivian knew she would have been disappointed if he hadn’t noticed.
    â€œYou ain’t workin’ tonight,” growled the owner, Terry O’Toole, from behind the bar. “What you doin’ here?”
    â€œCan’t tear myself away from you, honey,” Esmé said, and slid oh so sweet and slinky into a chair.
    Vivian saw Tooley color slightly, and saw the twitch of satisfaction on his lips. “She ain’t drinkin’,” he snapped, pointing at Vivian with a dish towel.
    Vivian shrugged. “Not me.” She sat down with her mother and crossed her legs in a way she knew