Blood dealers aren’t exactly known for quick meetings.
I watch Greasy gesture animatedly while Stark listens with that infuriating calm he always seems to have. Eventually, Stark rises from his chair and leads Greasy and his two meatheads toward the back of the shop.
I edge closer and brush a finger behind my left ear, activating what I call my zoom rune.
The familiar magic spreads across my skin.
The world snaps into focus.
Every crack in the mortar.
Every speck of dust on the tiled floor.
Which, annoyingly, isn’t many. The place is ridiculously clean for a vampire den.
To my disappointment, the leeches choose a table buried in shadow. I can make out movements. Gestures. The occasional flash of Greasy’s face turning progressively redder.
Then movement farther down the street catches my attention.
The dark-haired woman.
The one who shouldn’t have been able to see the shop.
The one Stark made a pizza for despite the fact that every supernatural knows Fangerella’s is little more than a front for blood-bond deals.
With my enhanced eyesight, I can make out the unusual lavender of her eyes. The freckles scattered across her nose. The way she smiles without a care in the world.
She’s either incredibly brave or catastrophically stupid.
I’m leaning toward stupid.
Her messy-haired friend throws an arm around her shoulders.
Something twists unpleasantly in my gut.
I ignore it.
The guy’’s painfully obvious, anyway.
Every glance.
Every smile.
Every ounce of attention aimed in her direction.
The idiot’s in love.
Ugh.
What a fucking sap.
I turn my attention back to the pizza shop, hoping she’ll stay away tonight.
Of course she doesn’t.
The messy-haired guy opens the door for her, his attention glued firmly to her as they step inside.
Interesting.
