Page 101 of You’re So Vein

Komal sits in one of the pub’s outdoor tables, her head tossed back with laughter. Dark, wavy hair flows down her back like a gloomy waterfall. Across from her sits Dante di Sangro, his fingers clasped over hers, leaning forward like a predator studying his prey.

Cold rage descends upon me. Before I’m aware what’s happening, I’m striding across the green towards them.

That man might have killed my parents and sister, and he definitely, absolutely, crushed my young heart, and now he’s obsessed with Komal, and she’s laughing.

I reach their table and slam my printer down between them. Dante spits a mouthful of blood down the front of his shirt.

“I was going for a ‘dashing rogue’ aesthetic with this shirt, but I see I’ve ended up at ‘crime scene chic’,” Dante says darkly, regarding the stain on his silk shirt. It’s the exact blue of his eyes, I notice.

I hate that I notice.

“Augustin, hi.” Komal’s nostrils flare. I think of her soft lips against mine, the way they parted for me, and my stomach gurgles and I long for the safety of my coffin.

“Would you and your printer care to join us? You might have to get another round of drinks, though, since I’m currently wearing mine. Komal is entertaining me with stories of her friends in the Nevermore Coven.” Dante grins. “Did you know that, as well as being a fabulous baker, Celeste enjoys collecting fossils from her walks? Apparently, she discovered a new species of—”

“Komal, I need to speak with you urgently about a village matter.” I glare at Dante. “Alone.”

“Has someone defaced the Churchill statue again? Because I thought the feather boa was genius.” Komal shoves out her chair. “This better be quick. I haven’t finished my loaded wedges and I need potatoes in my life like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I shall wait here and guard your carbs, like a true gentleman.” Dante takes her hand and kisses it. “Augustin, always a pleasure.”

I gesture for Komal to follow me. She glances down at the food on her plate, shoves two loaded wedges into her mouth, and turns to me with cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

“Lefffgo.”

I pick up my printer and we wander across the green. Komal swallows and looks over her shoulder at Dante, a dreamy expression on her face. “He’s quite handsome, don’t you think?”

“You must be careful around him,” I growl, shifting my printer under the opposite arm. “He’s not who he seems.”

“This again? In case you haven’t noticed, he’s the only delegate even willing to entertain the possibility of changing the law. And he warned me about Kael, and about Lilac. Why else do you think I’m talking to him? I’m trying to get more information. Not all of us are out taking our printers for a walk—”

“I came to get more toner,” I growl. “But it appears that no one is—”

Komal snort laughs. “You ran out of toner, so you brought the entire printer to the shop?”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to do?”

“Omigod, vampires are ridiculous.” Komal turns the device towards her, hits a couple of buttons, opens up the guts and removes some kind of rectangular vital organ, which she hands to me. “You take that to the stationery store, and they’ll refill it.”

“Oh.” It seems rather simple.

“And you have the nerve to get mad at me about seeing Dante.” She laughs again, but I notice the pitch has shifted. She’s looking at the ground, not at me. “I’m doing this for you and Hannah. And to find the husker.”

“You have to be careful around Dante. He—” I glance around. Two vampires stroll hand-in-hand around the green on their way to Beth’s shop, where even more vampires have gathered to browse her beauty elixirs. I can’t risk anyone overhearing what I need to say.

I grab Komal’s wrist and lead her over the threshold of the church. The minister leaves it unlocked in the evenings, should anyone feel the need to chat to their god while he’s in his cottage, eating his pie, chips and mushy peas. It’s blissfully silent inside. Not another soul, living or undead.

Komal glances around, biting her lip uneasily. “I thought vampires were allergic to religious stuff.”

“It’s less likely one of my kin will overhear us in here. But to be certain, I need to whisper.”

She swallows. I lean in close, pressing my lips against her ear, trying not to focus on the sinfully sweet scent of plum and cedar rising from her body, or the pulse of her blood against her skin where my lip grazes her.

She’s not mine. She’s not mine.

“What’s this about, Augustin?”

She called me Augustin.