Midnight Crossroad (Midnight, Texas #1) by Charlaine Harris Read Free Book Online

out.” And Chuy was off and running . . . about the dog.
    Once Rasta was the topic of conversation, Manfred didn’t have to say a word. He’d observed that a small percentage of pet owners are simply silly about their pets, especially the owners who don’t have human kids in residence. Part of that silliness lay in assuming other people would find stories about the pet as fascinating as the owner did. But (Manfred had always figured) there were a lot worse things to make false assumptions about.
    For example, he found it far more pleasant to think about a little fluffy dog than to wonder what two strangers were doing at Home Cookin. Two
lurking
strangers. And it was far better to consider Rasta’s history of constipation than the cold hand gripping his own under the table. When Joe turned to ask Chuy a question about a television show they’d watched, Manfred was left alone with his acute anxiety.
    He didn’t want to offend the terrifying Lemuel, but he wasn’t used to holding hands with a guy. Manfred liked to think of himself as cool and comfortable with all sexual orientations, but the grip Lemuel had on his fingers was hard to interpret. It was not a caress, but it didn’t seem like a restraint, either.
    So Manfred took a sip of his water left-handed and hoped his face wasn’t all weird.
    “Manfred,” Fiji said, “do you watch a lot of television?”
    She was trying, very kindly, to draw him back into the conversation, since Joe and Chuy had transitioned from the dog’s bowels to an argument about
Survivor
with Teacher.
    “I have one,” Manfred said.
    Even Olivia laughed, though Manfred noticed that while he’d been preoccupied with Lemuel, she’d edged her chair out from the table, perhaps so she could rise quickly. She’d also told Joe and Chuy she sided with Teacher on the
Survivor
issue (whatever it was), and she’d angled her chair to align with Teacher’s, so she could see the men by the door without turning her head too much.
    “She has a gun,” Lemuel said in that voice that was audible to Manfred alone.
    “I figured,” Manfred said. He was feeling unaccountably tired. Suddenly he figured it out. “You
leeching
?”
    “I’m sorry, yes.” Lemuel turned his head to look at Manfred. His flaxen hair brushed his collar. “I am a bit unusual.”
    “No shit,” Manfred muttered.
    Lemuel smiled. “Absolutely none.”
    “Don’t they have a bottle of blood here for you? Wouldn’t that help?”
    “I can’t tolerate the synthetics. They come up as fast as they go down. I can drink the real stuff in any method of delivery. Energy is just as good.”
    “You got enough, now? Think you can let go?”
    “Sorry, fellow,” Lemuel whispered, and the cold hand slid away.
    Manfred thought,
I feel like a pancake that’s been run over by a tank
. He wasn’t sure he could get up and walk out of the restaurant. He decided it would be a sound idea to sit right where he was for a few minutes.
    “Drink,” said the sepulchral whisper, and Manfred carefully reached for his glass of water. But the white hand interposed a glass of a dark beverage full of ice. Manfred put it to his lips, discovering the glass contained sweet tea, very sweet tea. Normally he would not have been interested, but suddenly that seemed like exactly what he’d been longing for. He drank the whole thing. When he put down his empty glass, he caught sight of Joe’s startled face.
    “Thirsty,” he said brusquely.
    “I guess so,” Joe said, looking a little puzzled and concerned.
    Manfred felt much better after a moment or two.
    “Eat,” whispered Lemuel. Though his hands were still a little shaky, Manfred now finished his dinner completely. His plate was as bare as Chuy’s.
    “I got my second wind,” he said sociably to Chuy and Joe (though why he had to cover for Lemuel, he couldn’t have expressed in words). “I think I missed lunch, too. I’m going to have to watch that.”
    “I wish skipping meals was my