Авторизация
“Right you are, my lord,” Baldrick would say, picking something unspeakable from his fangs. Baldrick was a ghoul. A simple ghoul. “Though I did have a turnip once. Felt a bit wobbly about it.”
Perdita grinned. “Knew it. You’re not a monster, Edmund. You’re just a grumpy cat who needs a good walk.”
Their first encounter was at the monthly Monster’s Masquerade, hosted by the tragically boring Lord and Lady Flensmark (a mummy and a banshee whose marriage had been a “screaming” joke for three decades).
She didn’t excuse him. She crossed the room, took his raw, reddened hands in her warm, calloused ones, and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a kiss of teeth, of near-misses, of a werewolf and a vampire finding a surprisingly comfortable middle ground. For a moment, Edmund forgot to be cynical. His heart didn’t just lurch. It raced .
When the Duke’s minions dumped the “poison,” nothing happened. The pack drank deeply. Perdita, in her towering wolf form, lifted her head and sniffed the air. She caught Edmund’s scent—ancient, dusty, and laced with expensive cologne—lingering by the stream bank.
His sterile existence was shattered, however, by the arrival of a new neighbor: Lady Perdita von Hissingbrook, a werewolf of considerable fortune and even more considerable inconvenience. She was tall, silver-haired, and had a laugh that sounded like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. Worse, she was cheerful .
His unbeating heart had just given a very inconvenient lurch .
“Right you are, my lord,” Baldrick would say, picking something unspeakable from his fangs. Baldrick was a ghoul. A simple ghoul. “Though I did have a turnip once. Felt a bit wobbly about it.”
Perdita grinned. “Knew it. You’re not a monster, Edmund. You’re just a grumpy cat who needs a good walk.”
Their first encounter was at the monthly Monster’s Masquerade, hosted by the tragically boring Lord and Lady Flensmark (a mummy and a banshee whose marriage had been a “screaming” joke for three decades).
She didn’t excuse him. She crossed the room, took his raw, reddened hands in her warm, calloused ones, and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a kiss of teeth, of near-misses, of a werewolf and a vampire finding a surprisingly comfortable middle ground. For a moment, Edmund forgot to be cynical. His heart didn’t just lurch. It raced .
When the Duke’s minions dumped the “poison,” nothing happened. The pack drank deeply. Perdita, in her towering wolf form, lifted her head and sniffed the air. She caught Edmund’s scent—ancient, dusty, and laced with expensive cologne—lingering by the stream bank.
His sterile existence was shattered, however, by the arrival of a new neighbor: Lady Perdita von Hissingbrook, a werewolf of considerable fortune and even more considerable inconvenience. She was tall, silver-haired, and had a laugh that sounded like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. Worse, she was cheerful .
His unbeating heart had just given a very inconvenient lurch .
