“Oh, you started dinner without me, how rude,” Monique’s voice purred, drawing my attention away. She stood in the doorway, smirking down at the bloody pool on the floor.
“There’s enough for a little witchy banquet.” Pixie, a vampire with tiny features, dark hair and big brown eyes, grinned.
“Sounds delicious.”
A growl rumbled from Karson’s throat. A rabid dog would sound less threatening.
Pixie’s eyes widened as she took us both in. Then she dropped her head, and in a flash of movement she was out of the door.
Monique muttered something under her breath as she strutted into the sitting room.
Karson took hold of my arm and guided me back down the hall. “Let’s get you back to bed, which is where you should have stayed!”
“What if you needed my help?”
Karson rolled his eyes. “I’ve survived centuries without it. I think I can manage a few witches without you rushing to my aid.”
I rolled my eyes in return and kept my voice casual, even though inside clattered like drums. “You do realize managing witches doesn’t mean you have to kill them. There’s an art that involves conversation that can be quite effective. You should give it a try.”
“Yes, well, there’s only one witch I’m interested in having a conversation with. And right now, she should be in bed, getting her beauty sleep.”
I tilted my head to the side. “Are you saying I’m ugly?”
“On the contrary.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear gently. I tried not to notice the blood stained in his fingernails. I tried not to pull away. It’s strange to know the same hand that could tear heads off was capable of such tenderness. “You, Amelia, are the most exquisite little creature I’ve ever seen.”
Butterflies raided my stomach. I forgot about the blood, about the dead woman—at least for a few seconds. One singleline and I was a pathetic, love-struck fool. I could feature in one of those dark romance novels I loved to devour.
He opened the bedroom door and ushered me through, then went to the bathroom to wash his hands. I grabbed a bottle of water off the bedside stand and took a few heaping mouthfuls. My silk pillow had a dark, wet stain. Just from sweat, not from anything exciting. Shame.
Grabbing the pillow, I yanked off the cover and knocked the water bottle over. Water slugged out, splashing to the rug. I muttered a curse as I dropped the pillow and picked up the water bottle.
“I’m not certain what’s worse, hearing your screams at night and wondering if you are up here dying, or listening to the lewd comments that come out of your mouth.” To say he didn’t appreciate it when I swore was an understatement; it was rather uncouth for a lady to swear, in his archaic eyes.
He appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it when I talk dirty.”
His lips twitched. You could hardly call it a smile; often with him, it was a slight curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eye, and then it would vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
I smiled back. But my insides twisted. Truth was, he hadn’t touched me since those few weeks ago when I nearly died; hadn’t done more than kiss me on the cheek or forehead. Hadn’t attempted anything beyond what could be considered a friendship. I missed him. Missed his arms around me, the warmth of his body next to mine, the sound of his voice whispering my name. I missed his presence awakening something inside like moons against the dark. I was lonely and bored being cooped up inside all the time. I’d always been an outdoors girl; I loved the forests of Church Heights. I missed running. I missed home. I missed Ethan. I especially missed Ethan.
I caught the towel he tossed to me and wiped up the water. “Can you stay home tonight?”
There’s that fucking whine again.
“No. I need to keep searching.” He sounded weary as he stretched his shoulders back.
Disappointment curdled through me, but I kept my tone neutral. “Any news? Has she been seen in Portland?”
He shook his head. “No, nothing. I doubt she would be foolish enough to come here.” He began stripping the silk sheets back, revealing a large damp patch on my side of the bed. I had to change my sweat-soaked sheets most nights.
He placed the knife I kept hidden under my pillow on the bedside table, its silver blade gleaming in the dim light. No news was good, and yet I couldn’t help feeling we were in the eye of the storm, seated in a perfect calm, teetering on the cusp of all hell about to break loose.
“And yet you still search?”
“She’s unpredictable, and that is what makes her dangerous.” The traces of tiredness dissipated, as if the mere thought of her returning invigorated him.
The moonlight peeked through the crack in the curtains, falling on his face. His dark hair tumbled over his forehead as he bent down and removed the cover. He didn’t need to sleep as much as a human, but he still needed to sleep, and he’d barely had any these last few weeks. He spent every night prowling the streets, looking for hints or signs that Sarah was here. Last we heard, she was spotted in Paris. That’s where Ethan was, with Sarah’s father, Bob, searching for her.
