Free Bleeding Violet by Dia Reeves Page B

I told her the whole story, minus the part about Wyatt pouring from the glass.
    “Always something going on at that school,” she muttered, tossing her knife on the counter. “Turn around.”
    I did as she said, stunned as she looked me over. She seemed almost … concerned. “You’re all right,” she decided before going back to her potatoes.
    “I am,” I agreed. “You know why? Because I won the bet.”
    The sound of chopping ceased momentarily, the knife trembling in Rosalee’s hand. “Is that right?”
    “Yes. I have a friend now. Kids like me at school. They think I’m a
hero
at school. I win. I get to stay.”
    “You got half-hypnotized by a lure,” she said, popping araw potato slice into her mouth. “You admitted yourself that that boy of yours had to keep telling you what to do. If that’s your definition of a hero, it’s pretty lame.”
    “But I get to stay, right?”
    “You’re dead if you stay here. A ghost.”
    “Is that why you want me to leave?” I said, the truth dawning on me like flowers unfurling. “Because you’re worried about me?”
    She said nothing.
    “I can take care of myself. I’ll prove it. Tell me how to prove it. Momma?”
    Silence.
    The flowers wilted. “So you’re going to ignore me?”
    “Why not?” said Rosalee, dumping the potatoes into the pot. “What’s the point of talking to a ghost?”

Chapter Twelve
    Wyatt came over the following evening in a green button-down shirt and black jeans, but from the way he carried himself, he might as well have been in full dress uniform. His every movement, every gesture, had an air of formality. Like the way he handed me the angel food cake he’d bought on the way over, half bowing as he held it out to me.
    “It was Pop’s idea,” he said as I led him into the kitchen and sat him in the red chair. “He said it’d be classy to come bearing gifts.”
    “He was right. Thank you.” I found a dish for the cake and poured Wyatt a cup of coffee.
    “Is Rosalee here?” he asked, hopeful, as I handed him the cup.
    “She’s in her office, working.” Actually, I had no idea whatshe was doing in her office. I’d knocked on the door earlier and told her that company was coming, but as far as Rosalee was concerned, I was still a ghost.
    Wyatt was grinning.
    “What?”
    “It must be cool having her as a mom.”
    I tried not to be mad that his smile hadn’t been for me. “Must it?” I brought the food to the table. “Why is everyone so in awe of my mother?”
    “The whole Mayor thing. I mean, forget about it. Rosalee’s the badass of the universe.”
    “The Mayor?”
    “You don’t know?” Shocked. “Damn. Her own daughter, and you don’t even know. What’s all this?”
    “Veriohukaiset,”
I said, sitting in the garden chair. “It’s a type of pancake.”
    “All that gibberish means pancakes?”
    “It’s not gibberish just because you don’t understand it.”
    “You burn ’em?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Why are they
black
?”
    “The blood darkens them.”
    “What blood?”
    “Pig’s blood. Eat, eat,” I said. “A person would think you’d never had blood pancakes before. And there’s more coffee. I can’t indulge anymore, so have as much as you like.”
    “Why can’t you indulge?” he asked, staring at his forkful of
veriohukaiset
as though it might bite him.
    “Caffeine no longer agrees with me.” I poured myself a glass of milk. “So tell me about Rosalee.”
    He made the sign of the cross and then finally took a bite of my cooking; he seemed amazed that he didn’t fall over dead.
    “It starts with Runyon Grist, this guy who used to be Mortmaine. Maybe the greatest one ever. Killed more monsters, saved more people. But then he lost his daughter and everything changed.
    “The reason we have to deal with shit like lure is because of all the doors. Portero’s full of ’em, doors to everywhere and nowhere. Porterenes, the Mortmaine especially, keep an eye on the doors because