Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dev curtly waved off theserving woman when she tried to offer him champagne.

Enjoying a glass of bubbly with the pre-dinner amuse-gueules—his mother's word, not his—was one of Pettrila's Sunday dinner customs that he hated, especially in his current dark mood: his always-mood these days, after another week gone by of evading Marissa. Champagne was for celebrations, and there wasn't anything in his life worth celebrating.

Pettrila gestured Eisenbel back to him. "You drink wine, Devid. Champagne is made from grapes, as well."

The serving woman returned to Dev on scurrying feet. He was tempted to send her scampering right back where she came from with a flash of his teeth, but the poor woman was only doing her job. Jaw tight, he snatched a flute off the tray.

Eisenbel crossed the room to offer a glass to Luvera, who was seated on a hand-embroidered divan that looked about as comfortable as sitting on a giant-sized page of Braille. But who cared about comfort when la-de-da impressions had to be made.

His sister caught his eye with a wan smile as she accepted the champagne, looking about as celebratory as he felt.

"It certainly is a surprising pleasure to have you join us this evening, son."

He tightened his jaw another degree. What was it about mothers that made them able to convey the concept of you're-about-to-catch-max-shit with just a tone? Or maybe it was only his mother.

"You haven't been to Sunday dinner in quite some time."

No shit? He plunked his unwanted glass on the coffee table. Why is that, I wonder? But, hell, at least Criticism Number One had been deployed: you're an unfeeling wretch of a son. So far no surprises. "I've been busy."

"Consorting with that human."

"She has a name, Mother." He shifted positions on the couch. Eight Heads In A Duffle Bag, that Joe Pesci movie, that's what it felt like he was sitting on with this couch and its mountainous cushions. "It's Marissa."

"Pah. I'm not at all surprised she tossed you aside like an old purse. You've never excelled in matters of love, Devid, and this was just another of your mistakes, like giving up Shaston Dodrescu."

His ears burned. Criticism Number Two, a blast from both barrels: your skills with women suck the root. "Well, thanks so much for boiling down one of the most painful experiences of my life into that little nugget of wisdom."

Pettrila lifted her fluted champagne glass, her pinkie held at a snooty angle, and took a sip. "Don't be bourgeois."

Locking a retort behind the barrier of his teeth, he snatched his champagne glass off the coffee table in a tight fist, and—even though he hated to give his mother the satisfaction—downed it in three hard gulps. He clunked his glass back down. "If you'd recall, giving up Shaston was sort of a required-by-law thing."

"An idiotic decision," Pettrila adjudicated, sweeping a hand out as she added, "and now this town's overrun with humans."

He snorted. Fourteen total Dragon humans lived in the community: the residential six females, plus Alex Parthen, plus seven newbies who were still hanging tight two weeks after the V-bomb had been dropped. That hardly equaled overrun.

"I want you to date Shaston again," his mother proclaimed. "It's long past time that you found a suitable mate."

The blatant implication being, of course, that Marissa had been unsuitable. Criticism Number Three aimed at the woman he loved; again no surprises, but a dangerous push toward the limit of his temper. "I see," he drawled, his voice edging toward nasty. "You'd like me to give you dead grandchildren, is that it?"

"Don't be an ignorant fool." Pettrila's voice whipped at him. "That genetic problem only occurs with the lower-grade Varcolac."

Out of the corner of his vision, he caught Luvera rolling her eyes.

"Varcolac like you and Shaston," his mother continued, "who have the purest of all bloodlines, wouldn't suffer that problem. Purity must be preserved, Devid. All of this mixing with Dragons and now humans is ruining the race."

Dev leaned against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. His mother needed to have her head examined. Just the opposite was true. Centuries ago, the Varcolac breed would've died out the first time around had they not intermarried with the Dragon race. Now today their survival depended just as vitally on the introduction of fresh human genes. "Dragon humans are our salvation, Mother, and you treat them like lepers."

"A human killed your father."

Dev straightened and gave his mother a look of strained patience. "Dad was hit by a car."

"It's a blood-debt, all the same." Pettrila gave him a disapproving look down the length of her patrician nose. "And I'd think that you, as the last living Nichita male, would be more sensitive to that."

He rasped a hand over his goatee and sighed loudly, not even trying to hide his exasperation. Criticism Number Four, addendum to Number One: you're an unfeeling wretch of a son who cares nothing for your father's memory. "Nothing vindictive was done to Dad, Mother. It was a topside accident."

The doorbell rang.

"That would be Shaston," his mother announced.

Dev snapped his eyes back to her. "What?"

"I invited Shaston to dinner tonight."

He thrust to his feet. "Then I'm leaving." The flame between him and his Varcolac ex-girlfriend had been extinguished long ago, but that didn't mean he was up for making nice with her over one of Pettrila's interminable seven-course dinners. And with his mother trying to matchmake, too? No, thanks. He'd rather go to the gym and work out with a porcupine breeding in his jockstrap.

Pettrila's cheeks pinched. "I won't have you embarrass this family by walking out on a dinner guest, Devid."

"Then I guess you should've thought of that before you invited Shaston over without asking me first." He moved out from behind the coffee table. "Shaston and I would have stillborn children, Mother, just like every Varcolac couple in this community has been doing on and off for the past thirty years. You can't rewrite history just to suit your prejudices."

The bell rang again.

He glanced at the door. "But more to the point, I don't love Shaston." If he'd ever thought he had, that notion had been wiped clean by the feelings he'd discovered with Marissa. "Get that through your head and quit meddling in my life."

"What will you do, then, boy? Crawl back to that human on your hands and knees?" Seated like a queen on her throne, his mother took another sip of her drink, then compressed her lips, as if she'd just discovered the champagne was really pig semen. Or, worse, domestic. "Even if you think nothing of your self-respect, I care for this family's reputation." Pettrila set down her flute precisely and came to her feet. "I'll never allow you to bond with a human, Devid. Do you understand me?"

An incredulous gust of air rushed out of him. Where the hell did his mother get off? "Last I checked, Mother Dearest, you didn't exactly have a say in the matter."

Pettrila's amber gaze hardened to the gemstones they resembled.

The doorbell rang a third time.

Luvera rose uncertainly from the divan. "Maybe I should answer it."

"Sit. Down," his mother commanded imperiously.

Luvera dropped like a puppet who'd had its strings cut.

But Pettrila hadn't been talking to her daughter. The steel in her eyes was leveled on Dev.

He narrowed his eyes. Unbelievable. "I'm a full-grown man," he said in an excessively exact tone. "Your days of ordering me around are long gone."

Pettrila arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him, her expression chilly. "I'd dare to say that those days never existed in your mind, Devid. Grigore"—she sneered his father's name—"always let you run wild, never supporting my attempts to discipline you. Now look what's become of it." She inspected him in a contemptuous trip from shoes to hair. "When was the last time you paid this family any attention or taken the least bit of responsibility as the man of this household?"

Yeah, yeah, second verse same as the first: Criticism Number Umpteen-Fucking-Million.

"That human was entirely correct to have rid herself of you. What woman wants to spend the rest of her life with a man who only thinks of himself?"

A growl stirred in his chest. "You leave Marissa out of this."

"You're a selfish, ill-mannered, arrogant man, Devid Nichita." Pettrila lifted one nostril aristocratically, as if she'd just caught the stench of a peasant. "And you received exactly what you deserved from that woman."

"Jesus," he squeezed between teeth. "You know, basking in the glow of your motherly love is about the same as watching your jaw unhinge."

Pettrila strode for the front door. "If you're too weak to bear the truth, boy, don't blame me for your lack of character. That triumph rests solely on your father's shoulders." Pettrila opened the door. "Shaston, my dear child, I'm sorry we won't be able to dine together tonight, after all. Devid has been called away." She stood back from the entryway, clearing a path for Dev's departure. Her eyes were the coldest he'd ever seen them. "Unfortunately, he won't be able to make Sunday dinner again for quite some time."

Dev blanked his face. So, his mother was uninviting him from her life, was she? A burst of black temper blew through him, jerking his hands at his sides. Fuck if she was. He stormed out of the door. I quit!