“Fuck it. We’re drinking out of wine glasses,” said Boris. The sink turned on, then off. Jack slumped to the floor, leaned back against the cabinets, tried to breathe. Boris shoved a glass into his hand. Jack downed it, then got to his feet for a refill.
Downstairs, Carla blinked at the wineglass, gave a feeble laugh. “That’s not for water.”
“Yeah, but you should drink it anyway,” said Jack. Behind him, Boris nodded sagely.
“Fine,” she said, sipping weakly. Water sloshed over the rim as her hand trembled. “You killed Ronnie.”
“He’s not dead,” said Jack, so loudly that Enzo startled. “And I didn’t do that.”
“Yeah,” said Carla, shaking her head. “Sure, you didn’t.”
“He took control of me, Carla. I pulled, like, every muscle in my body doing that.”
“You lied,” she mumbled, staring into the glass like she expected to see her future reflected in it.
“I didn’t?—”
“You didn’t tell me you could do all that.”
“Because Ican’t! Carla, I-I’ve never done that before.”
“I told you I was gonna leave him. You didn’t have to kill him.”
Jack was pretty sure Ronnie wasn’t actually dead (not yet, anyway), but the words hit him like a punch to the gut. “Carla…”
The yellow-eyed man watched them, silent, unmoving. Jack swallowed the urge to drive his fist into that stupid, smirking mouth.
Nightfall neared. The dim light from the windows shifted, shadows growing longer as afternoon stretched into evening.
In the darkness, everything would change.
The memory of the vampire returned to him. Goosebumpserupted on his arms, heady and devouring. Terror curdled alongside bile in his stomach, and his throat tightened. Already, he could feel those icicles, frozen and piercing. With them came the pain at this neck, that odd, intense arousal…
He swallowed, reminded himself that he was armed, he wasn’t asleep and vulnerable, wasn’t the weakest person in the room. The creature, if it came, would not target him.Probably.
But there were already scars beneath his skin, twining around him like an-ever constricting vine. Enzo would haunt his nightmares, Carla his waking moments. Boris would remain in the back of his mind as an ache, a regret half-remembered, found in the last drops of wine at the end of a long night. Carla would watch him in the reflections of mirrors, dog his every step. And Enzo would follow him like a drumbeat, an echo chasing him through the city, relentless as a pounding heart.
He couldn’t save Enzo. Couldn’t keep Carla or Boris. Could only watch as the world around him crumbled into fragments so tiny and jagged that they could never be reassembled.
Boris claimed he needed to use the bathroom again. Jack followed him, sore and anxious. When the door shut behind them, he found himself immediately pressed against the wall, caught in a strong grasp, warm lips against his.
He melted into it. Made a sound of panicked approval. Boris drew back, questioning, and Jack chased his mouth, afraid of what might happen if they paused.
When they parted for breath, Jack found himself saying, “Finally.”
“Yeah.” Boris wiped his lips with the back of his hand, smiled a soft smile. “Fucking finally.”
Jack kissed him again.
They left the bathroom a few minutes later, disheveled and red-faced, one after the other. The yellow-eyed man only shook his head.
Carla glared at Jack with red-rimmed eyes and said nothing. He looked away, shame building in his chest like a panic attack. It didn’t matter that they weren’t exclusive, that they hadn’ttalked about things. So far as she was concerned, he’d killed her boyfriend and then cheated on her, all in the same night.
There was no coming back from this. But if death was the only thing waiting for him, then he couldn’t bring himself to regret anything.
Darkness fell. The light from the lamps barely pierced through. Jack couldn’t find a comfortable position on the couch. Not with Carla just a few feet away him, glazed over and angry.
Enzo was silent, probably magicked to sleep by the yellow-eyed man (or perhaps exhaustion, coupled with pain and shock, had finally dragged him under). Ronnie stirred but never woke. Jack was grateful—didn’t think he could handle the confrontation, the shame.
