I realise I’m holding the rectangle upside down and flip it up the right way before replying.
“You were toying with me.”
“I was doing you a favour, Allie. If sweet young Winifred happens to be taken with my roguish charms, then that’s hardly my fault. You should bring her to my ball. The reclusive, mysterious Lord Valerian with a human on his arm – utterly taboo, completely delicious … you’ll create such a stir.”
I have no desire to speak to him any further about Winnie. He may be a rake and a wastrel of the first order, but Gideon Blake would fall on a sword for me, as I would for him. (Although only if the sword is made by a master smith. I don’t eviscerate myself on inferior craftsmanship.)
“What have you found out about this husking?” I ask.
Gideon sighs. “It looks bad for us. I have feelers out in the community, but either this is a rogue unknown to us, or they’ve frightened their kin into silence. One thing is certain – Danny O’Hare had fang marks in his neck. According to the coroner, he died from blood loss. His organs failed, he went into shock, his blood vessels literally collapsed like a house of cards. Not a beautiful death. Luckily, the police are incompetent twits – their leading theory is that the killer staged the murder to look like a vampire did it.”
I snort. “That’s absurd.”
“I agree, but there’s precedent. A few years ago there was a string of murders in the village with a similarmodus operandi, but it turned out to be a different kind of monster. You don’t remember?”
I do, vaguely. It ended up having something to do with Mina Wilde, the Nevermore Bookshop owner. But there hadn’t been as many vampires living in Argleton then. Gideon’s Sanctus development is attracting them to the area, which means he has a business incentive to catch this rogue vampire. The last thing either of us want is to risk courtly intervention.
“I don’t pay much attention to what goes on in the village,” I say. “I’m only interested this time because …”
“… because of a certain scrummy organiser?” Gideon presses.
“Because my mother is concerned,” I snap.
Gideon laughs, slow and easy. “As well she should be, as her son the lonely, grumpy lord of the castle is a prime suspect. But don’t worry, I have a plan to throw them off your scent. Don’t panic, Allie, we’ll find who did this before they hurt anyone else, and we don’t need the Mora to give this bastard the justice he deserves.”
“I told you to stop calling me Allie.”
Gideon laughs again. “You did, but I rarely listen to anything you say.”
I hang up and drop the phone back into the tray, then swipe the tray onto the floor. Keys, phone and papers filled with doodles scatter across the rug, but I don’t pick them up.
I mix my colours and absorb myself in my painting. As I work, the hunger gnaws at me, twisting my stomach into painful knots. Strawberries invade my nostrils. My skin crawls with the memory of every time she’s touched me without fear.
How I have wished with a warrior’s forlorn hope that someone might one day look at me like that.
Reginald can see I’m growing weak. But I can’t abide the solution he proposes. Just last night he offered his neck to me, something he hasn’t done for years now. He knows how I feel about it.
I’m not sure I feel the same way anymore. When I look at Winnie’s neck, when I imagine the sweetness of her invading my mouth or her body melting against mine as she embraces the Kiss, I can’t believe it is anything wrong, or evil. I’ve only known her a few short days, against my lifetimes of loneliness, but I wish that she could stay forever.
Perhaps she would want the Kiss …
No.
I cannot think such a thing. I cannot go back on the blood oath that has defined my life. I will not allow my mother to use me as a political pawn, and I willnevercurse another as I have been cursed.
So I paint and I rage and I burn from the inside out, and I hope that some solution presents itself. In my long life, I have read every book on vampire lore in the Black Crag library,so I know that there is no loophole that would allow me to pursue anything more with her than our tentative friendship.
And yet, I cannot banish her from my thoughts or my veins.
It’s sometime later that I become aware of Reginald calling my name. Reluctantly, I set down my brushes and wipe the paint from my fingers. “Yes?”
“My lord, it’s happening again.”
I fly from the room.
Reginald calls after me. “My lord, you cannot go to her in your state?—”
But I don’t listen. I cross the castle in a single heartbeat and ascend the staircase to her room. Her cries reach my ears.
