subject."
I tried to shrug it away, but Gwen wouldn't let me. “If you ever want to talk about it . . . “
My stomach churned at the thought. My emotions were still too raw, like an open wound. “Thanks, but I have help. My cousin Micah—” I stopped there, not knowing if Dan had told her about Micah and the Demon Underground. Again, it wasn't my secret to share.
"Okay, but can I make a suggestion?"
"Sure.” Hey, if it would help remove some of this pain, I was willing to try anything.
"Think about who you are and who you want to be."
"Huh?"
She sank down onto my bed and asked, “Who is Val Shapiro? Are you just a bad-ass vampire hunter and a succubus? Is that all that defines you?"
I frowned and sat down beside her. “I don't get you."
She bumped my shoulder with hers. “What I'm asking is, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Fang cocked his head, also waiting for my answer. “I, uh . . . I don't know. I never thought about it."
"Do you want to still be staking vamps when you're forty?"
"Probably not.” I guess I figured I'd never live that long. “But what else can I do?"
"What do you want to do?” Gwen countered. “Do you have any other hobbies or interests?"
"Not really."
Gwen nodded and stood to look around my room, studying it like she was trying to find something. “So, you've lived here . . . what? Almost a month?"
"I guess. So?"
"So there's absolutely nothing personal here, nothing that screams ‘Val.’ It's all . . . generic."
I glanced around, noticing it did look kind of bare. Guess I didn't have the decorating gene. “Fang sometimes screams in my mind . . ."
Fang and Gwen snorted in unison. “Didn't you ask your parents for more of your things when you left?"
"What things? I have my furniture, my vampire doll, and some jewelry from Mom . . .” I stopped, realizing that sounded kind of lame. “I guess I'm just not the materialistic type."
Then again, the place did look kind of sterile, temporary. Especially compared to the decorating Gwen had done in the rest of the townhouse. She had lots of bright colors and funky doodads that really reflected her personality. What did this room say about mine?
She added gently, “I was hoping to learn more about you through the things you like to have around you.” She glanced down at Fang. “The only thing I can tell from this room is that you like smart-ass terriers."
DAMN BETCHA, the terrier in question said.
Yeah, but how was I supposed to figure out what my style was?
WHY DON'T YOU ASK GWEN FOR HELP? SHE HAS A GREAT SENSE OF STYLE.
Out of the mouths of hellhounds . . . Out loud, I said, “I guess it wouldn't hurt to add a bit of color or something.” Maybe then I'd actually want to stay here more often. “But will you help?"
Gwen grinned. “Of course. You know how much I love shopping."
I laughed. “Retail therapy?"
"Something like that. What decorating style do you like?"
What styles were there? “I like what you've done. It's fun."
She shook her head. “No, the point of this is not to copy my style, but to find one of your own. Define yourself your way. Define Val."
"Okay.” I nodded decisively, liking the idea of having something to focus on besides how miserable I felt. And it even sounded fun.
OH, JOY, Fang muttered. SHOPPING. I'LL PASS.
Just as well. I had special identification for him that said he was a working police dog, but it was still a hassle to take him in and out of stores.
"Good,” Gwen said with a little bounce. “Let's go on my next day off—"
A loud beep went off then, startling both of us. I hadn't had a cell long enough to get used to it. I glanced at the phone. It was a text message from Micah, asking if I could meet him in an hour. “I need to answer this."
"Okay,” Gwen said and exited the room. “I'll still make breakfast if you want some. For Fang, too."
YES! the walking garbage disposal said.
I grinned. “Thanks, we'll take you up on that after all."
Over
I tried to shrug it away, but Gwen wouldn't let me. “If you ever want to talk about it . . . “
My stomach churned at the thought. My emotions were still too raw, like an open wound. “Thanks, but I have help. My cousin Micah—” I stopped there, not knowing if Dan had told her about Micah and the Demon Underground. Again, it wasn't my secret to share.
"Okay, but can I make a suggestion?"
"Sure.” Hey, if it would help remove some of this pain, I was willing to try anything.
"Think about who you are and who you want to be."
"Huh?"
She sank down onto my bed and asked, “Who is Val Shapiro? Are you just a bad-ass vampire hunter and a succubus? Is that all that defines you?"
I frowned and sat down beside her. “I don't get you."
She bumped my shoulder with hers. “What I'm asking is, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Fang cocked his head, also waiting for my answer. “I, uh . . . I don't know. I never thought about it."
"Do you want to still be staking vamps when you're forty?"
"Probably not.” I guess I figured I'd never live that long. “But what else can I do?"
"What do you want to do?” Gwen countered. “Do you have any other hobbies or interests?"
"Not really."
Gwen nodded and stood to look around my room, studying it like she was trying to find something. “So, you've lived here . . . what? Almost a month?"
"I guess. So?"
"So there's absolutely nothing personal here, nothing that screams ‘Val.’ It's all . . . generic."
I glanced around, noticing it did look kind of bare. Guess I didn't have the decorating gene. “Fang sometimes screams in my mind . . ."
Fang and Gwen snorted in unison. “Didn't you ask your parents for more of your things when you left?"
"What things? I have my furniture, my vampire doll, and some jewelry from Mom . . .” I stopped, realizing that sounded kind of lame. “I guess I'm just not the materialistic type."
Then again, the place did look kind of sterile, temporary. Especially compared to the decorating Gwen had done in the rest of the townhouse. She had lots of bright colors and funky doodads that really reflected her personality. What did this room say about mine?
She added gently, “I was hoping to learn more about you through the things you like to have around you.” She glanced down at Fang. “The only thing I can tell from this room is that you like smart-ass terriers."
DAMN BETCHA, the terrier in question said.
Yeah, but how was I supposed to figure out what my style was?
WHY DON'T YOU ASK GWEN FOR HELP? SHE HAS A GREAT SENSE OF STYLE.
Out of the mouths of hellhounds . . . Out loud, I said, “I guess it wouldn't hurt to add a bit of color or something.” Maybe then I'd actually want to stay here more often. “But will you help?"
Gwen grinned. “Of course. You know how much I love shopping."
I laughed. “Retail therapy?"
"Something like that. What decorating style do you like?"
What styles were there? “I like what you've done. It's fun."
She shook her head. “No, the point of this is not to copy my style, but to find one of your own. Define yourself your way. Define Val."
"Okay.” I nodded decisively, liking the idea of having something to focus on besides how miserable I felt. And it even sounded fun.
OH, JOY, Fang muttered. SHOPPING. I'LL PASS.
Just as well. I had special identification for him that said he was a working police dog, but it was still a hassle to take him in and out of stores.
"Good,” Gwen said with a little bounce. “Let's go on my next day off—"
A loud beep went off then, startling both of us. I hadn't had a cell long enough to get used to it. I glanced at the phone. It was a text message from Micah, asking if I could meet him in an hour. “I need to answer this."
"Okay,” Gwen said and exited the room. “I'll still make breakfast if you want some. For Fang, too."
YES! the walking garbage disposal said.
I grinned. “Thanks, we'll take you up on that after all."
Over
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