Darkwyn had them put it in the corner of the Master’s Den. Puck flew in behind them. “Watch the bloodsuckers. Eat some garlic. Can’t drink my blood!” Darkwyn put Puck in his cage, and leaned in to whisper. “One more comment about Bronte’s customers and there’s a black cage cover between you and them. Just sit here, watch the nice, ordinary freaks, and keep your bird mouth shut.” “Ordinary?” Puck ruffled his feathers. “Faith: Belief without evidence in what is told by one who speaks without knowledge, of things without parallel.” Feathers flew. “Weirdos!” Bronte had to smile at the way Darkwyn attempted to keep Puck in line. “Nice ordinary freaks, indeed,” she whispered in Darkwyn’s ear. “Weirdos?” Darkwyn grabbed the cage cover. “No. No freaks, no weirdos. Just sweet, kind vampires. Puck’ll be good. Nice Puck. Smile for the vamps.” He click, click, clicked his beak, Darkwyn put the cover away. “For now,” he said, and returned to work. “Bronte, I understand the private stock of blood drinks, but what if someone wants a mixed drink?”
