Simon barely knows Tobias. Not like Cody. But there’s more than just Simon’s habitual wariness of strangers. “Tobias met Dima in person. What if Dima enthralled him?”
Cody’s face slackens, then hardens with a snarl. “It’s possible. He shouldn’t have been so tired.” Another snarl. “I should have noticed something was off.”
Forgetting the latch might not have been an accident.
“Don’t blame yourself.” More sparks dance around Simon’s fingers. He’s fled town before. He knows how to do this. “We have to go back to the house. If we’re running, I need my car.”
Cody nods sharply. He puts his phone away and draws his gun again. “You wait here. I’ll get it.”
“No,” Simon snaps. Then on a softer breath, “It’s safer together. We aren’t human, so Dima can only enthrall one of us at a time. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Simon expects an argument. For Cody to insist on doing his job, when this is far beyond contracts and protocols. Instead, Cody’s face softens, and he slides a gentle hand against Simon’s cheek.
“Good,” Cody murmurs. “Because I’m not letting you out of mine.”
He seizes Simon’s lips in a burning, grounding kiss. Calluses scrape Simon’s cheek, and he leans in for more, no longer capable of denying the comfort offered. Cody’s touch feels like a heartbeat, and Simon wants this forever.
Anything could happen. Simon still tastes the precious gift of Cody’s blood. He can’t let Cody disappear out of sight, like Francisco and Tania and so many others. All the mortals he’s ever known, lost between moments and years.
He and Cody aren’t bound by any lasting bite. Cody isn’t as strong as he could be. Simon can’t find him if he vanishes. The idea burns his lips, trying to break free. But now isn’t the time for impulsive demands.
Cody pulls away, looking just as reluctant as Simon. “Stay close behind me.”
Simon grabs Erica’s backpack. “Easy enough. Like I said, Ilove the view.”
The joke falls flat as the backpack thumps his shoulder. He might need its contents—stakes and holy water, against his own sire.
Cody thankfully doesn’t say anything more before taking off. They race through forest corridors, quicker and quieter than any mortal could. As they run, Simon remembers vividly, violently the night he turned.
He was twenty years old and high off a late-night performance. His third week playing the latest in a string of beautiful ingenues. Women weren’t supposed to be on stage, not at that time and place, so young men like Simon filled those roles. He thrived on the attention. Exhausted, elated, Simon had been stripping off his bodice when a stranger slipped backstage. The other players turned away, poorly muffling their laughter. A temporary pretense of privacy that would turn to taunting later.
The stranger was a nobleman, his hawkish features recognizable from the audience that night. And the previous night, and the one before that too. Already, the centuries had washed the color from his marble-cold skin. His pale eyes were haunting, but his voice was irresistible when he asked Simon to join him for a meal.
Simon had accepted such offers before, but never so eagerly. They spoke all night and didn’t even kiss until Dima departed at dawn. The pattern repeated for a week, and Simon quickly sensed something was wrong with the mysterious aristocrat.
“Not wrong,” Dima said when asked. “Special. I think you could be special too.”
The attention was better than any performance. Simon couldn’t resist the promise of a costume he didn’t have to remove. He bared his neck eagerly for the shadow-gift.
Until tonight, Simon had never wondered if Dima had enthralled him. If accepting the shadow-gift wasn’t a choice at all.
Just as likely Simon made the fateful choice. He was a reckless youth anyway, easily tempted. But even the doubt sickens him, like a fresh dose of poison. Century after century, he’d clung to one cold truth. No matter how many promises he broke, when it truly mattered, Dima would always return. No matter how implausible, Dima always truly cared for him.
The curtain has fallen. The masks have shattered. But Simon isn’t alone. His heart sings with the strength of Cody’s blood. Every touch, rough or tender, fleeting or purposeful. Somehow, Simon trusts Cody not to leave him.
Cody slows as they approach the fence, and Simon keeps close. Not because he’s obedient. He just wants to.
“I don’t sense him,” Simon whispers, both relieved and disappointed.
“I don’t smell him, either.” Cody reaches for the gate. His every move is focused. “Anything you need at the house?”
His coffin. His record collection. His painting supplies. The walls themselves, the promise of every unfinished mural.
“Just the car,” Simon says. “The key’s in the kitchen.”
Cody leads the way across the lawn. Each second stretches with anxiety, exposing them under the moonlight. But nothing happens. They reach the side door safely.
Strange hopes lighten Simon’s mood as they slip inside. As if familiar walls reinforce his emotional scaffolding. He grabs the keys from the kitchen drawer, then follows Cody towards the garage.
