“No,” I said, recovering my wits. “Of course not. No. Rossi, what the hell? You know there is no feeding in Ordinary.”
“I said taste, not feed.”
“Whatever. No fang-on-vein. That’s the rule. It’s why we hold blood drives every other month, remember?”
“You...right, of course, you do.” The words seemed to come out of Ryder without his permission and he firmly shut his mouth. He was probably wondering if Mr. Tudor, a sweet balding man who ran the community blood drives was a vampire.
He wasn’t. He was a bloodthirsty little redcap.
“It only breaks the rules if the mortal is unwilling. If they are willing, well, it’s a free country, baby.”
“The country might be free but the blood isn’t. No.”
“What will it do if you taste me?” Ryder asked.
“It will break rules set in place long before you got here,” I said. “No.”
“I will know the truth of you,” Rossi told him over my head.
Rude.
“You said that. What does it mean?”
“I will know your truths. I will know your deceptions. Perhaps I will know your soul.”
That sounded like hippy-dippy stuff, or maybe vampy-wampy stuff. Or maybe it was the truth. Maybe a vampire, a very old prime vampire like Rossi could know the what and why of a person with one little sip.
Myra was scowling. She shrugged.
Jean’s eyes were twice as wide as they should be. “Oh, shitballs. Are you going to do it, Ryder? Are you going to let a vampire bite you?”
“No. But I’ll give him a taste if it means he’ll believe I didn’t kill Sven.” He slipped two fingers into his front pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. He flicked open the short blade and held it over the tip of his ring finger.
“This really isn’t necessary,” I said.
“Oh, let the man make up his own mind. You’re not his mom.” Rossi strolled—no, more like glided—across the room to stand in front of Ryder.
I’d never seen Rossi drink blood. It just wasn’t something he ever did in public. As a matter of fact, all the vamps in town kept their blood habits quietly to themselves.
So I could admit there was a tiny bit of utter fascination on my part.
Would Rossi really know all those things about Ryder? Was drinking his blood like reading tea leaves? Would he know everything Ryder wanted to hide, all the good, all the bad?
Was I ready for the truth to come out, no matter what that truth might be?
No.
But then, this had never been my choice. I’d mostly been stalling this moment of truth, wanting to decide for myself on Ryder’s innocence or guilt. Wanting a chance to stand between him and Rossi when the truth—Ryder’s guilt—was confirmed.
I’d been harboring a very real fear of Ryder being guilty.
“I didn’t kill Sven,” Ryder said. “I don’t know who did.” He flicked the blade against his fingertip, just a tiny slice. Blood welled there in a rich, thick drop.
Rossi didn’t even look down at Ryder’s finger. He was watching Ryder’s eyes. Then he bent just enough to lower his face so close, if either of them exhaled too far, Rossi’s lips would touch Ryder’s finger.
But neither of them exhaled. I didn’t think they were breathing.
Which was normal for Rossi. But not for Ryder.
