Page 12 of She Who Was Once the Sea

Unfortunately, it was looking more and more like I’d have to break that code if I wanted to avoid breaking my promise to Ordina. I also wanted to avoid the fate that had befallen my father, but, strangely, that desire echoed less in my mind than the stubborn urge to simply prove to Ordina that I could manage both finding the men and returning home full and satiated with their blood.

But it was well past two in the morning, and I’d not encountered them in any of the tourist bars I’d slipped into. Rossaia wasn’t a huge city, but the number of bars, restaurants, and carved-out holes in the wall where tourists could find alcohol was high. High enough that I couldn’t possibly hope to make it to all of them in one night.

Could I have misjudged them? I’d been targeting the kinds of places where young, wealthy tourists could snap photographs with overpriced alcohol and drink in the crumbling remnants of stones that once belonged to churches and universities—the kinds of places that begged for proof of the experience. But after hours of searching, I’d not seen the slightest trace of them.

Maybe, apart from drunkenly assaulting statues after lunch in broad daylight, they were actually more mature and discerning humans. Maybe they were drinking 100-year-old wine in a basement enoteca. Maybe they had already imbibed for the evening and were curled up safely in their hotel beds, dreaming of the stories they’d soon be able to tell their friends overseas.

I refused to let myself think that they’d already left the city. In my bones, I needed them to still be here.

But just in case, I began scanning the crowds for something else as well. Leering stares and drunken conversations, unwanted hands drifting too close to non-consenting bodies… the kinds of actions that would allow me to feel no remorse as I sank my teeth into the soft flesh of a neck.

Many, if not most, places in Rossaia had already closed for the night, and my options were dwindling. But that also meant that the people still out partying were sloppier, drunker, and more ready to reveal their true natures.

It also meant that they’d taste terrible, and I might very well end up stumbling back to the square half-drunk myself. But they wouldn’t put up much of a fight either.

After wandering for hours, I found myself standing outside the last place I’d let myself search for the night before giving into my need to feed.

In the north part of the city center, there was a trendy cocktail bar that I knew was heavily favored by tourists and locals alike. Built in the ruins of an old basilica, it had been transformed into a sprawling club, where strobe lights flashed across ancient frescoes on the ceiling and sweaty bodies pressed against one another until daybreak most nights of the week. There was always a line out the door, and many people ended up spending their entire evenings standing in it without ever making it inside.

I never had this problem.

The witch had not made the act of fitting into society—at any point in history—difficult. I wore a tight-fitting black dress that flowed slightly around my calves and dark red boots that disappeared beneath the hem. A simple black jacket covered my shoulders. I knew, even without a mirror, that the clothes, in combination with my short, severe bob and soft features, created an intriguingly striking facade, even if I was not outright beautiful by the current standards.

I smiled at the doorman as I walked up the stone steps towards the door, and he nodded at me as I entered, much to the chagrin of the young, denim-clad women in the line.

"Are you fucking serious?" I heard one shout before her argument was drowned by the pounding rhythm of the music inside. As I moved through the crowded press of sweating bodies, I scanned each face, looking for just one of the men I’d seen. It was him I was truly after, but I’d happily drag any one of them into the shadows tonight.

I made my way to the bar, slinking through the line with practiced precision. I heard a few annoyed snorts from those behind me, but no one said a word. When I reached the front of the line, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the countertop and letting my arms press my breasts together in a way I knew men here couldn’t resist.

The bartender was standing in front of me with a glass of wine in less than forty-five seconds. I walked away, swirling the dark liquid inside the cup like my own personal whirlpool.

Then I heard his voice.

"Come on, bro. We’ve been waiting for like twenty minutes!"

I froze, smirking against the rim of my glass, and turned slowly back towards the bar.

There he was, leaning against the far side of the L-shaped counter, clearly standing on something—a stool?—to make it look like he towered above the crowd. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned to reveal his chest and tucked into white shorts.

The combination was honestly revolting.

The bartender was paying him little attention, making the universal calm down motion with his hands and gesturing to the waiting crowd.

"I just saw you serve a girl who cut the entire line!" the man yelled. Honestly, his voice was impressive. It was not quiet in this space, and his ability to vociferate above the music and chatter was almost nerve-racking. He was a man used to being heard.

He was also clearly used to getting what he wanted without waiting. So, seeing my opportunity, I began snaking my way in his direction.

It’s disappointing, really, how certain kinds of men are so easily moved. It took me all of thirty seconds to reach him at the bar, where he was now vehemently arguing with a server. For a moment, I worried he might get kicked out with his friends, and I’d lose the chance to get him alone.

But the bartenders here were used to obnoxious tourists. Until and unless he actually raised his fists, he would simply wait longer for the drinks he so desperately wanted.

I sidled up to him and leaned against the counter once more. From this vantage point, I could see that he was standing on the foot bar of a stool, raising him up precariously. From this height, however, I knew he could see directly down the center of my dress. I smiled up at him as if to apologize, blinking through my eyelashes. He stopped yelling almost immediately, a smarmy grin spreading across his disgustingly smooth face.

"What are you drinking?" I asked, too softly.

"What?" He had to lean down to hear me, making him lose his balance on the stool. He didn’t fall, but the movement forced him to step down to the ground. It was satisfying to see that, with my boots, he was barely the same height as me.

His skin absolutely reeked of alcohol, and given the pristine condition of his all-white outfit, I knew it wasn’t from spillage. He was drunk. Maybe not drunk enough to stumble away, but drunk enough that I knew my job would be easy.