“So in love,” I repeat with a smile. “Can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ll meet you at the White Pines Estate.”
“I’ll be looking for the car with the Romanian front plate and all the dents in the bumper.”
“You know me way too well.”
“I like that! I like that we have no secrets from each other. That’s why I can tell you that... That I’m not worried about what happens after the ball. Even if we’re not very experienced, or we’re not going on some fancy vacation or getting a suite at some swanky hotel, if we have each other, that’s enough for me.”
“So glad to hear you say that, Kell. As for secrets—well, I’ll share all of mine with you. Some might be a surprise.”
Ooh. He does have a ring, I bet. I bite my lip and hold in a squeal. Then I decide, what the heck. If you can’t squeal with your best friend, who is also your boyfriend, the guy who says he wants to marry you—or at least hints at it, then who can you squeal with? “Eee! Can’t wait, baby! I’ll see you soon.”
Chapter Three: Bogdan
When sunset approached, I pulled off at a rest stop on I-81. First rule of driving with my “condition” should be “don’t,” but since I don’t live like a Transylvanian peasant in the 1800s, I have to abide by the second rule. Pull over when you’re transforming so you don’t crash the car.
I had just finished when Kelly’s call came in, and then I was back in the car, much closer to her little town than she thought. I was hoping I’d get to Pine Ridge before sunset so I wouldn’t have to drive in my man-bat form, but a broken-down tractor-trailer and an abnormally long stop for gas ruined that.
Now, I have my windows open and my seat as far back as it can go as I rush through mountain roads, passing ominous yellow signs bearing the warning “Watch for Falling Rocks” every five hundred yards.
Maybe that’s how the curse will get me.
Or maybe one of these sudden, sharp fall breezes that seems to have pumped itself full of steroids as it comes whistling down the peaks into the foothills will just tip my ancient fifth-hand Honda down the mountain.
I know what you’re thinking. Shut the windows, you idiot.
No can do. To hold the wheel, my left elbow has to poke out through the window, and my right arm billows like a broken sail into the driver’s seat.
You think this is bad? Try driving after dark in the winter. Ihatedriving at night in the winter.
Why?
Because my wings are attached all the way down to my hands, because that’s how cursed seventh sons of seventh sons Lupescu hybrid shifter messes are.
Whew. Okay. I needed to vent.
See, I planned to fly to visit Kelly—it would be easier and faster, honestly, but then I wouldn’t have all my stuff to spend the weekend. Plus, she’d be like, “How did you get here, Boggie?” And how would I take my gorgeous girlfriend out to Saturday brunch after our magical night together? (I hope to God it’s the good kind of magical.) So, I’m driving in a car, with my small suitcase in the back and my grandmother’s prayerbook in a net bag full of garlic and silver crosses dangling from my rearview mirror (currently acting like one of those speedbags that boxers practice with, swinging wildly in the wind as I zoom along).
My phone rings again. My heart leaps. Maybe it’s Kelly, calling back to tell me again how excited and nervous she is.
I think I have her beat in the nerves category.
But no. It’s my other grandmother, the one who doesn't live with us, the one who still lives in the Carpathian Mountains (and the 1800s, apparently).
