Hunting Tess by Kathryn Summers (best novels to read in english .TXT) 📗

that pile of weapons you bought sitting in the garage. Since you no longer have classes taking up the majority of your time, do you want to learn how to use them?”

Guilt, sadness, anger, and insecurity assaults me every time I’ve thought about that duffle bag. It’s unfair to thrust all those pent-up feelings onto something that’s inanimate. I should learn to use those weapons. Afterall, I bought them. And maybe if Parker wears that cocky grin I can learn to knock him on his butt.

“Maybe,” I concede, planning on giving it more thought. “What’s the next step with Stephany Wares? Could you track her location?”

“I could,” he admits, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his stubbled jaw. “But with a coven this size it would be safer to involve my coworkers. With an active Master there is only a short time to act.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling comfortably full. The majority of the food has disappeared which I chalk up to two people with healthy appetites.

“Master’s don’t tend to surface and when they do, they generally stay within a certain homebound area. Don’t get me wrong, there are territorial disputes which frequently occur, but to keep from constantly warring they remain tightly knit to their own faction. For a Master to have left their home base is one thing. To then travel around the world is alarming.”

“What makes you think he’s left Bolivia?”

He looks at me for a stretch of time. “If he hasn’t left yet then it’s only a matter of time.”

The unspoken peril traipsing my future narrows my already cuffed freedom. If the Master does what Parker suggests and actually comes here, there aren’t many fortified places to hide. I’m also unsure how long I could remain in hiding without losing my mind. At least in Boulder I had a five-mile radius to stay within. If I have to disappear, I doubt I’ll last long cooped up. Plus, I would rather face the threat head-on.

“Now that you’re graduated, do you have any big plans?” he questions, changing the subject.

“I want to open a dance studio.” Thinking of the dream I’ve held in my mind for a couple of years now makes possibly achieving it terrifying. And exhilarating. “That’s the plan, at least.”

“Anywhere specific?”

I envision the single level building on the main street of a well-established town. A large window in the front lets in optimal light for the dancers to see themselves in the wall to wall mirror, dancing on oak hardwood floors. I can see three-year-olds in adorably fluffy pink tutu’s learning a simple ball change while seventeen-year-olds perfect a pristine pirouette transitioning into a grand jete. In my vision I can see myself in the reflection growing older, my hair developing grey strands held in a bun at the base of my neck. My mouth is pinched in concentration watching my pupils who strive to create their own spotlight, and while I once looked content in the image, something now has changed.

“Not specific per se. But I’ve always liked the idea of a small town. One with roots and history.”

“So not a bustling metropolitan?”

I smile in response to his teasing grin. “I suppose I could be persuaded as long as the city has Thai food.”

His eyes briefly scan the table before returning to me, that flirtatious grin still firmly in place.

“What?” I ask suspiciously.

Rising from his seat he makes his way to me where he sweeps me from the chair. Placing my arms around his neck he draws me in close and I’m afraid he’s going to feel my heart jack hammering in my chest. His woodsy smell fills my nostrils, making me think of camping beneath the stars.

“Dinner and dancing?” The comment sounds normal to my ears so I can only hope it’s enough to fool him.

“Movement helps digestion,” he says with a smile in his voice. I playfully swat him on the shoulder and he captures my hand, bringing it close to his chest.

Oh goodness. I’ve never really swooned over a guy since I don’t think that actually happens in real life and is propagated through romance movies, but boy if I’m not close.

Before I can ask about music he begins humming, the breath from his nose propelling a warm breeze over my ear. His deep baritone sends a shiver of warmth down my spine and I feel like a cat stretching in the sunshine.

The melody he hums changes to a minor key, its tune one I’m unfamiliar with. “What was your favorite color as a child?” he asks, breaking off the song. It doesn’t take long to ponder the question since nearly every inch of my room was once a lawn in varying shades.

“Green.” The memory of my adolescent years is untainted by recent affairs, its ability to evoke such happiness undimmed by the passage of time. “Everything used to be covered by a layer of green in one form or another. Whether it was blankets and pillows or chairs or rugs, it was green that always drew my eye.”

“Were you fond of a particular shade?”

“Actually, yeah. Almost neon. An obnoxious hue now, but at the time I loved it. It reminded me of spring grass in a luscious meadow. I even had a fuzzy blanket with the perfect texture to make my bed look like a fallen log overcome with moss.”

“That sounds,” he pauses, “bright.”

“Oh it was,” I chuckle, remembering such a vivid color. “Looking back I’m amazed I didn’t go blind.”

My body wants to curve into him as I fight placing my head against his chest. He’s simply congratulating me on graduating even though I decided to skip the showcase. Dache was disappointed, of course. But maybe when I’m no longer being stalked by vampires I can work on a Master’s degree.

“So that was your favorite color then. What about now?” My eyes grow heavy as the warm body and soothing sway relaxes my tired muscles.

“Probably blue,” I sigh, realizing that it is entirely possible for me