“What about you being a psychic? And the ability to turn people into toads?”
“Between you and me, I don’t have a magical bone in my body.” Isis waves a hand dismissively, in a way that makes me think that maybe she’s trying to convince herself. “I know everything there is to know about magic, but I’ve never actually been able todoany. My sister, on the other hand …”
“What about Dora?”
Isis pauses. “Ignore me, I’m just being silly.” She looks away. “Where are you heading now? Back to your vampire’s lair?”
“Reginald will be waiting for me at the Rose & Wimple.” I smile. “He enjoys the weekly excuse to come into the village. Alaric doesn’t like to leave the castle.”
But maybe I can change that.
Even if I can’t make Alaric want me, at least I might be able to give him the gift of vulnerability.
“We certainly don’t get many sightings of him in the village, and never during the daylight hours.” Isis taps her fingers on the vampire charm she’s hung around her neck. “I know Ican be a little much, but it’s only because I’m worried about you. Mina already defeated a vampire once before, and it nearly cost her everything—”I still can’t tell if this is a joke or not.“I don’t want anyone else I love to get hurt. But I don’t have to be a real psychic to see that you’re hurting right now. If you ever need to talk about anything, supernatural or not, you know where to find me.”
The urge to blurt out my humiliating kiss and all the strange things I’ve seen at Black Crag over the last few weeks dances on my tongue. But it’s mortifying enough to think that the Nevermore Murder Club know about Patrick leaving me for Claire. I’d like to maintain the illusion that I’ve got my life together a little longer.
Besides, everything vampiric about my boss – his aversion to sunlight, his lightning-fast reflexes, his centuries’ worth of hobbies, the coffin in his private wing – has a rational explanation.
Sort of.
“Anyway, think about it. Good night, Winnie. I’ll see you next week.” Isis presses a card into my hand and darts off towards the other side of the green, where she and Dora live above their magical shop. I wave at her and start towards the pub.
“Winnie.”
Alaric steps out from behind a streetlight. My heart leaps in my throat.
“You’re …” I can’t find the words. “You’re outside the castle.”
“It seems so.”
Beneath the pale streetlamps, his alabaster skin glimmers, as though veins of gold run beneath the surface. His sharp cheekbones and strong jaw stand in stark relief, and the way he steps towards me, oozing power and possession and danger, makes me understand why dark romance heroines are so ready to be tied up in a basement and punished by the villains.
“You’re in the village. People might see you?”
“Don’t sound so panicked. I brought a disguise.” He removes an object from his pocket and holds it under his nose. It’s a small cardboard moustache. “No one willrecognise me now.”
Why is he evenmorealluring when he’s being silly? It’s unfair that one man should possess so much raw sexiness.
“You’re ridiculous. What are you doing here?” I ask. “How did you get into the village?”
“I am … trying to be vulnerable. I thought you might like some supper.” He holds out his arm. “Would you allow me to take you for a meal?”
The corner of his mouth quirks a little as if something he said is funny in a dark way.
He’s trying to be vulnerable.
For me.
The butterflies in my stomach invite some friends over for a rager.
“Okay. Sure. I’d love to have you for supper. I mean, have supper with you! That’s what I meant.”
I find myself slipping my hand through his arm in an old-fashioned way that feels perfectly natural for him. Alaric leads me across the green in the direction of the pub. A chill bites in the air. How long has Alaric been standing out in the mild summer evening? His skin is as cool as ever. He shouldn’t let himself get so cold. If the sunlight makes him bedridden for three days, then I can only imagine what he’ll be like with man flu.
Alaric settles us into one of the outdoor tables. He gives me one of his enthusiastic lectures on the pub’s history – how the building had been an inn along a popular pilgrimage route, how it had been the centre of village life for centuries and is almost definitely haunted. He doesn’t answer my question about how he got into the village, but he does glare at a couple who were headed to the table beside us until they turn away. Once our territory is secure, he ducks inside, returning a few minutes later with a gin and tonic and a glass of red wine for himself, and a menu tucked under his arm.
“I think I feel like bangers and mash, but the pulled pork sliders also look good.” I glance over at him. He leans one arm on the table and sips his wine. His outward appearance is one of total control, but there’s a fierceness in his eyes that betrays howon edge he is.Is he putting himself through this because of what I said to him?“What’s good here?”
