The Witch's Handbook to Hunting Vampires by Amy Boyles

Author:Amy Boyles [Boyles, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-09-04T23:00:00+00:00

We left in Stone’s new ride, an SUV that he drove much slower, which I approved of.

He handed me a plastic bag. “What’s this?” I said.

“In case you get sick.” He flashed me a wicked smile. “But I promise to try to drive slow.” He pressed a palm to his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

My own heart went pitter pat at that. I shoved it back down into the dungeon, where it wouldn’t be exposed and I couldn’t get hurt.

I sighed. I’d loved Dex so much. I didn’t want to live through losing someone again. After he died, I’d lay in bed every morning as long as I could imagining his fingers threading through my hair, his lips nuzzling my neck. A shiver raced down my spine. I shook the thoughts from my head.

“You know, that’s supposed to be two raised fingers for Scout’s honor.”

He shrugged. “Close enough.”

We pulled outside a small yellow house with gingerbread scroll running along the top. It was storybook pretty, with a picture window on one side.

“This is Jehoshaphat’s house?” I said.

“Yep. He lived with his mother.”

Stone parked, and I stepped onto the curb. A cool breeze threaded through my hair, plastering a lock to my lip gloss. I spit out a hunk.

“Eat hair much?” Stone said.

I rolled my eyes. “All the time. It’s my favorite snack.”

He smiled. “Mine too.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s your game; I’m just playing it.”

I shook my head. “There’s no game.”

He locked up the SUV. “Let’s go meet Mrs. Jehoshaphat.”

Stone rang the doorbell. I heard the shuffling of feet as Mrs. Jehoshaphat, presumably, approached. The chain lock tinkled and tumblers rolled as she undid the locks. The door opened to a mousy woman with light blonde hair twisted up into a bun.

“Hello?” she said.

“Mrs. Jehoshaphat? We were friends of Justin’s,” I said. “We wanted to ask you a few questions if you have time.”

She nodded. “Come on in.”

A few minutes later we sat with coffee cups in our hands in the delicately furnished living room. Mrs. Jehoshaphat had a love for all things porcelain that either portrayed animals or babies—which, in my opinion, meant she could collect just about everything ever cast in the breakable commodity.

“Justin was such a good boy,” she said, sniffling into a tissue. “He had a heart condition and wasn’t supposed to exert himself. As a child he avoided sports and got a decent job at the school. I always knew there was a possibility that he might pass sooner than me, but I never hoped so.”

She released a sob. I squeezed her knee. “I’m so sorry. He was a nice young man. I always talked to him for a few minutes whenever I saw him.”

Mrs. Jehoshaphat’s eyes brightened. “Would you like to see his room?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

She showed us into the dimly lit room. Rock posters covered the walls, and a few musical awards were displayed on shelves.

“He played the oboe,” she said, leaning against the door frame.

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

She brushed a speck of dust from her thigh.

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