Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Read Free Book Online Page A

another
Death & Destruction
type of computer game. Distraction was the only answer, he thought, as he saw her squinch up her eyes and try to read what was written on the screen on his laptop. Distraction, plus a little bit of laying the foundations for his newly hatched plan to acquire some of her blood. . . .
    Titus took a deep breath. “Pan . . . ,” he began, leaning backward on Mrs. McLachlan’s bed in a manner more designed to obscure his sister’s view of the computer than to afford him any comfort, “d’you think I look a bit pale?” Titus opened his eyes a little wider and sneaked a quick glance at Pandora to see how this was going down.
    â€œNope. Not even slightly,” she stated. “In fact, you’re blushing.”
    â€œUm, no, I meant—d’you think I’m looking a bit flushed?” Titus hastily amended. “Running a temperature kind of thing?”
    Pandora gave up trying to read Titus’s screen and stood up. “Titus, what
are
you on about?”
    â€œIt’s just that I’m a bit worried . . . ,” Titus improvised. “Last night I—it was awful—I woke up and found myself lying on the stairs—I don’t know how—not the foggiest idea of how I got there.”
    â€œYou were probably sleepwalking,” Pandora said, delivering this statement in the uninterested tone of a weather forecaster predicting icy spells in January.
    Delighted that Pandora had swallowed this fictional hook without any difficulty, Titus pressed home his point. “But . . . I could do
anything
—end up
anywhere
when I’m sleepwalking . . . and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I wouldn’t even
remember
what I’d done.”
    Pandora rolled her eyes and exhaled noisily. “I wouldn’t let that worry you, Titus. You
never
remember what you’ve done. You’ve got the cognitive capacity of a goldfish. If you were a computer, you’d crash as soon as anyone switched you on—”
    â€œWHAT?” roared Titus. “I’ve got a memory like an
elephant
!”
    â€œNo, Titus.” Pandora opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the corridor. “Your memory isn’t like an elephant’s. Just your appetite.”
    The door slammed shut behind her.

Quid Pro Quo
    T wo weeks dragged slowly by. The Strega-Borgia hotel bill swelled into an alarming five-figure sum, much to the dismay of Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia. Over breakfast, Signor Strega-Borgia waded his way through a sheaf of slips, commenting bitterly on each one as around him the family tried to eat breakfast as inexpensively as possible.
    â€œHow on earth did we manage to run up a phone bill for four hundred and eighty-three pounds ninety-six?” Signor Strega-Borgia waved the offending item at his wife, who wisely declined to answer.
    Titus, recalling his hours spent on the Internet, failed to quell the blush advancing across his cheeks.
    â€œWe’ve only been here for sixteen days,” moaned Signor Strega-Borgia to the array of bent heads across the table. “Look at this—laundry facilities: two hundred and ninety-five pounds plus VAT—we could
buy
a washing machine for less. . . . And here—room service: eight hundred and thirty-seven pounds, forty-two—that’s
ludicrous
!”
    Signora Strega-Borgia looked up from her toast. “That’ll be the food for the beasts, darling—”
    â€œWhat have they been eating, for heaven’s sake? Beluga caviar? Lobster thermidor? Wild boar and truffles?”
    Signora Strega-Borgia ignored the interruptions. “Since they’re not allowed in the dining room anymore, the poor dears do need their creature comforts.”
    â€œSUNDRIES!” bawled Signor Strega-Borgia, spotting another attempt to plunder the family’s diminishing finances. “Look—one linen tablecloth: three hundred and ninety pounds;