“Well, the personality doesn’t help either.”
Right.
That.
Even if somehow the vampires were willing to look past my physical ‘flaws’, it was how I was as a person that was their issue. I didn’t know why I’d never inherited the love of LARPing as a European aristocrat, but it wasn’t me. Maybe it was because I was from a desert, or maybe there was just something inherently wrong with me.
Either way, it wasn’t changing tonight.
There was always the chance that Orthallow was lying, but as I began to put the pieces together in my head, I knew he wasn’t. I didn’t get invited to things unless blood was needed, and not a single member of the coven had ever spent one-on-one time with me outside of that. No visits for tea, no invitations to go listen to live music. I suppose I’d been deluding myself when I’d told myself it was because I was so new—a form of mental protection when I was feeling increasingly isolated as the years marched on from Ibrahim’s departure.
“I appreciate the candor, Orthallow,” I managed to say, handing the large bouquet over to him. The hours I spent agonizing over an outfit and arrangement that would impress Celestia felt so stupid. What a waste. “I think I’m going to retire for a bit.”
“Look, Rowan, I’m sorry. You’re a good chap?—”
I held my hand up. “With all due respect, you’re from New Jersey; there’s no way ‘chap’ is in your natural lexicon. Goodnight, Orthallow.”
“Good night. And I’m sorry, man.”
“Not sorry enough to correct any of them when they said these things, right?” I asked flatly. Because yes, while I did truly appreciate him stopping me from making a fool of myself in front of everyone, there was still the issue that it had been five fucking years!While that wasn’t a long time to vampires, it was longenough.
“No.”
“Right.”
I turned on my heel and headed out the door.
Thankfully, no one bothered me as I walked home, and it was dark enough that my relatively luminescent pallor didn’t stand out. Normally, I wore makeup when going out among humans, so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself, but I’d wanted to askCelestia out wholly as me. No cover-up, no trying to fit in. Just unapologetically Rowan.
Turned out the wholeRowanpart was the entire issue.
I sighed as I flopped into my overstuffed recliner, throwing the footrest up as I leaned back. It was nice being swallowed in the softness, but it wasn’t quite enough to settle the furor burning through my soul. Because we vampires did have those, even though the legends said we didn’t.
That gaping hole within me—the one my human family once occupied and then my sire, the one meant for fellowship and communion—radiated pain all the way out into my limbs. It was agony, and it called upon the corrupted part of being a vampire that lingered in the very back of my head. That wicked shadow of evil that only wanted to kill and feed until it drowned in blood.
All vampires had that, but the vast majority knew the modern world required civilization and repressed it. Ibrahim said I had one of the weakest inner demons he’d ever heard with his limited psychic abilities, but at the moment it didn’t feel so feeble. If releasing it didn’t involve hurting anyone, I could just abandon being sentient, having thoughts, and just give into the bloodlust.
But I hated hurting people. I’d had too much of fighting since I was old enough to hold a sword, and that feeling hadn’t decreased after more than a century of being alive.
Well,technicallyalive.
I was lonely, so damn lonely, so I picked up my landline that sat on the table next to my chair and immediately dialed up my closest friend left in the world.
As usual, it rang one-and-a-half times before the line clicked on, and a deep, booming voice answered on the other side.
“Rowan! It is early. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hey, Iko,” I said, the dark cloud within me already easing. While some people had called me stodgy in my time, Iko wasold-fashioned in a way that was just about the opposite of the coven. Real fuddy-duddy type, which I adored. “Just had some plans cancel at the last moment, so I thought I might drop a line if you weren’t too busy?”
“You know I always welcome correspondence from my greatest friend. Tell me, do you have news of any events we could traverse to in the light of the sudden freeing of your schedule?”
“No, my friend, I’m afraid not,” I said with a chuckle. Ever since I’d accidentally—and quite literally—run into the cyclops in a former speakeasy that had been taken over by magical folks in 1938, we’d been thick as thieves. We were both there to listen to the new, up-and-coming jazz singer who was half-siren, half-banshee, then had discussed the performance until dawn. Iko never once mentioned my pallor, or my pale, lavender eyes, and at first, I was so impressed, until I realized that the cyclops was blind. He’d lost his sight in an accident when he was a young warrior.
That had been the real glue that had bound us, and even so many decades later, our friendship was still going strong.
“You sound a bit glum, Rowan. Is something amiss?”
“Just more of the usual.” He knew exactly what I meant. Unfortunately, neither of us could seem to find a foothold among our communities. We were always on the fringe.
