Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

The last thing I want is to have a conversation with Uncle Mortimer about my future accommodations. I don't know what is supposed to happen when we die, but I hope it is nothingness. I don't want to be an angry ghost haunting people like Conrad. Spending an eternity watching what I can't have sounds like the thirteenth level of Hell.

Actually, it sounds like my current life.

Not that I know the actual levels of Hell, but I'm pretty sure Dante's Divine Comedy got them wrong. If I remember the literature correctly, to paraphrase, he thought disloyalty to your appointed master was the worst sin, more so than violence.

I think of all the violence and death I've witnessed. I think of Paul's eyes draining of life as he stopped breathing in my arms.

Yeah. Dante got that wrong.

My mind is eager to continue the philosophical debate over what constitutes the worst kind of living hell. I could rant for a century about the idea that it's worse to disobey your appointed master than being the one who's subjugated. Ask any abused wife or victim of assault in a power dynamic which sin is worse.

If I'm thinking about this, I'm not thinking of other things.

I stare at my reflection in the library mirror, the dark room wrapping me like a shroud. The tinted glass of the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows mutes the glow of city lights, and forms one wall. I like being fifty stories high in a city full of people. The streets are so crowded that it feels like up is the only way to escape. Sometimes, I imagine the lights from other buildings are stars, and I'm drifting through the universe untouchable.

I close my eyes and think of Paul's face, the gentle warmth of his smile, the way he made me feel safe. That feeling is beginning to fade, and I do everything I can to hold on to it. Unfortunately, it's being replaced by the sharp dread of imminent danger. Conrad's hauntings are taking a toll.

I have come to this room to hide from my family. It's tucked into a quiet corner. Something about the dark wood paneling on the walls and rows of old leather-bound books on the custom-built bookshelves sets it apart. Some shelves are so high a ladder is needed to reach them. Brass sconces would give ambient light if I bothered to turn them on. A dormant fireplace anchors the wood with ornate marble.

It's a room of reflection and intellect. So many secrets fill the volumes, ones I can't read because I don't speak the ancient languages. No one thought it necessary to teach me.

I hate to admit it, but the room reminds me of Conrad—the Conrad I thought I knew before he betrayed me and tried to kill everyone I care about. He might be bad, but that doesn't mean I don't miss the brother I thought I knew. Even now, I can hear the distant echo of his voice telling me about a spell he'd read about. I imagine I'll see him if I turn around, limbs draped over the arms of a tufted leather chair with an old tome braced on his stomach. Conrad had taught himself how to read the books. I should have insisted he teach me as well.

I wonder why I never tried. I wasn't lazy or stupid. I think maybe I was scared—of failure, of my limitations, of proving everyone right. My whole life, I've been told I'm delicate like a butterfly and monsters trample butterflies. I hid in that cocoon my family gave me, believing it to be safe. If I didn't think about it, if I went along with their plans, everything would be all right.

Then I met Paul and Diana.

I don't move, not even blinking as I meet my eyes reflected back at me. My vision wavers and blurs, distorting me like I'm staring into a funhouse mirror. I want it to pull me into the reversed world where I can be with Paul.

But Paul can't save me from Conrad or the supernatural. It's not fair to wish that he could. He's human, and I know better than anyone what being mortal means. Even the fantasies of shared normality are filling me with guilt. I need to forget him and move on. This isn't a romance novel. It's reality.

The fact that my features are shadowed feels like a blessing. I don't want to see how tired I look. Even the slinky red dress I found laid out on my bed when I got home, and a layer of makeup can't hide my exhaustion.

Lady Astrid picking out my clothes is nothing new, but the dress indicates that more than Uncle Mortimer might be coming over. The scarlet V-neck chiffon clings to my hips before flaring at the skirt. The spaghetti straps leave my arms exposed, and I feel a chill from the air conditioning. I lift the toe of my shoe and twist the high heel into the rug. They pinch my feet, but I'll trip on the floor-length skirt if I take them off.

This outfit is not what I would've picked out for myself. It reminds me of my childhood. I'm Astrid's living doll, and to her, appearances are everything.

Suddenly, my senses prickle with intense awareness, and I stiffen.

"In all my centuries, I have never seen a beautiful woman so angry with her reflection," a man whispers. The softness of his voice doesn't hide the danger in it.

I inhale sharply. The surprised sound is more audible than I would like. I didn't hear anyone join me in the library. I'm not even sure how he got in here. Still, I don't make sudden movements.

"Hello, castoff."

I let go of my breath, recognizing that mocking, bored tone. The vampire scares me, but I don't think he'd attack while I'm in my parents' home. Closing my eyes, I acknowledge, "Hello, Costin."

The vampire gets off on calling me a little castoff. There is no world in which that's a compliment.

My disposition continues to sour. What is the bloodsucker doing here? I'm not in the mood to deal with him.

Lord Constantine, master vampire and pretentious asshole. I'm unsure how he'd feel about my title for him, but it's true. He's been lurking around my family's shadows since before I was born. I remember seeing him at my parents' parties, hoping he wouldn't notice me peeking out from my hiding place. His eyes always seemed to find me, though.

I should be nicer to him, but there is just something about his predatory nature that puts me on edge. He was never inappropriate with me when I was a child, and he's never threatened me directly, at least not in any way that would hold up in front of a supernatural tribunal. But he looks at me strangely, like the only thing keeping him from devouring me is my family name. Even now, there is an intensity in him. I used to think he didn't like me, maybe even hated me. But then I realized he didn't think I was important enough to hate.

I'm human. Food.

The fact I'm untouchable is the only thing that would make me interesting to an elitist creature like him. He can't kill me, but he can be annoyed by my existence.

Then why has he been invading my thoughts recently? He keeps appearing at the edge of my nightmares, watching me. I can hardly blame him for my brain's fucked up dreams.

When he doesn't move, I can't stop myself from glancing in his direction. There is something about him that makes me both uncomfortable and inexplicably drawn to him. I assume that's his vampiric nature. Everything about him is made to lure humans into his death trap of an embrace.

He is the Venus flytrap, and I'm the fly.

My gaze goes to his parted lips, to where I'll find sharp fangs. They're hard to see in the shadows, but my mind can easily fill in the darkness. I use it as a reminder of his threatening nature. Feigning bravery, I turn my attention back to the mirror.

I don't see my reflection. Instead, flashes from my erased timeline fill my memories. Costin had died in my birthday fire. I had tried to save his life and put him out, but he'd turned to ash beneath me. The tactile sensation of his death fills my hands, a pressure triggered by memory. Later, his sister Elizabeth had led a brood of vampires to attack me. If not for my amulet, they would have killed me. The memory locks my legs into place and makes it hard to breathe. I remember the feeling of them surrounding me behind a dark gas station in the middle of nowhere.

I reach for my neck, but the amulet's protection is no longer there.

Vampires. There is a reason they hold a high throne in the horror echelon.

I drag in a breath, forcing myself not to panic. That moment no longer exists.

Of course, Costin won't remember any of that. Why would he? No one else does .

He's not speaking. Or moving.

It's creepy.

I turn toward him, not making direct eye contact. Vampires can mesmerize, and it's one of those fears I've carried since childhood. I don't want my will to be taken away from me. Most kids worry about an invisible boogeyman under their bed. I met the boogeyman and all his supernatural friends. My parents invited them over.

I ignore every instinct inside of me to scream and run.

I stare at Costin's chest. Power radiates from him. Not some visual aura, but a magnetic energy I can feel. It hangs thick in the air, demanding attention. It's not magic, not like the members of my family wield. It's more primal and primitive. I imagine it to be death trying to suck the life from everything around him like a black hole making its own gravity. At his core, Costin is a predator. He needs to drink blood to live. This isn't a monster I want to be alone with.

I need to remember that. He's not my friend.

My gaze follows his long black hair upward before darting back to his chest. His face is cast in shadows, but the windows outline his body to reveal his shape. He looks exactly the same as when I was five—a monstrous sculpture built of nightmares and bloodlust. It's unnerving, but I'm used to it. My parents don't look like they age either. It's strange to think that in twenty years, I'll look older than they do.

The difference between when I was a kid and now is that now I appreciate Costin's handsomeness. I would never admit it out loud. Most women I know like to fantasize about bad boys, and vampires tick those tough, naughty boxes. However, admitting someone was attractive in the abstract is one thing. Pursuing a vampire, in reality, is quite another.

I mean, he's hundreds of years old, eats people, and is a supernatural chauvinist. I can't get past any of that.

He is the exact opposite of the safety and mortality that Paul represents.

He tilts his head. The subtle movement breaks my thoughts, and I realize I've been staring at the elaborate stitching on his waistcoat.

Did I mention he often dresses like he's about to strut an 1800s catwalk?

I watch his chest lift as he takes in a deep breath.

What is he doing here?

"Did you come here to stare at me, or did you need something?" The rude words come out before I think to stop them.

I'm grouchy and on edge. Maybe I shouldn't have skipped dinner .

"You're bleeding," he says in a way that makes me think he's looking for a snack. "It's distracting."

I frown and look at my palm to where the dot of blood has dried. I instantly ball my hand into a fist to hide it behind my back.

He steps closer and smirks. A chill runs down my spine. The scent of him—dark and earthy—tickles my nose. He looks clean, but I can imagine him sleeping inside a coffin deep within the earth. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, bore into me, as if daring me to move, to flinch, but I hold my ground. A soft glow enters his gaze. I watch from my peripheral as he gives a meaningful glance downward.

"Oh." I gasp in surprise as I realize his meaning before instantly grimacing. "Ew. I'm not discussing my period with you."

He arches a brow. This conversation is clearly more uncomfortable for me than it is for him.

Before I realize he's even moving, he's suddenly closer, invading my personal space with ease. I glance up. It's a mistake. I find his eyes peering deeply into mine. The way the inner light swims in his gaze mesmerizes me.

Fuck.

I can't look away. He's pulling me in.

"You're tense," he says like he's telling a secret. "I wonder why that is."

"Maybe because you're standing too close," I answer defensively. It takes everything in me to resist his pull.

"Maybe." Cold fingers wrap around my wrist and lift my limp arm. I feel him rub his fist against my palm in a strange caress. The action feels vaguely familiar, but I can't place it. His fingers slide against me as if he's going to lead me in a waltz.

I want to pull away but can't.

He draws my arm to the side before gliding it between us. He holds it up and turns me so the dim light reveals a cut on my forearm. A small trail of blood mars my skin as if the drop had already dried. I realize that is the blood he was referring to.

I don't remember cutting myself. I never even felt it.

His eyes move from mine, and I feel a rush of air enter my lungs as if he's released a hold over my chest. It pants out of me, loud in the library's stillness.

My heart hammers in fear. Danger radiates from him. This moment feels intimate. I want to be repulsed, but I'm not.

Cool lips brush the wound. A gentle kiss before the hard bite? It feels like a warning, and I'm helpless to stop what's coming. I shiver at the touch, and the sensation floods my entire body with awareness.

I feel myself drawn to the death in him. He could take the decision out of my hands. I can let go… just… let go.

I think of Conrad's fate.

I think of Paul and Diana.

My pain doesn't matter.

"Stop," I whisper.

To my surprise, he releases me. I rub the spot he licked against my waist, trying to erase the feel of his mouth. The soft brush of the dress material does the exact opposite. It makes the sensation worse.

His expression is unreadable, and he gives nothing away. I hate that about him.

This is me brewing for an argument. I'm in a rotten mood, so maybe that's why I can't shut up, even though it would be prudent.

"This is a bad habit of yours. That's the last time, Costin. I'm not on a tasting menu."

He has the audacity to chuckle at the statement like I'm some cute little kid throwing a tantrum. "Are you sure? You always seem to bleed around me. It feels like an invitation. I think there is a part of you that enjoys feeding me."

Is he serious?

Is he… flirting?

"Not on purpose." I grind my heel into the carpet. I wonder if my shoe could double as a stake. Maybe then he'd respect me .

He places his hand over his heart like he can read my mind.

"When I was a kid injured on the driveway? You think that was an invitation?" I demand.

"You were such a sweet, giving child." His look seems to add, what happened?

"Right. Giving," I drawl sarcastically. "As a twelve-year-old, I thought, ‘Hey, I wonder if my parent's guests are hungry,' and so I jumped off a balcony and broke my arm hoping you'd like your snack. I guess you did because you were ready to eat me until my grandfather stopped you."

I want to turn from him, but I'm too wary to let him out of my eyeline, so I focus on his chin. It's not just his looks—that perfect face or the way his presence commands the night around him. He makes me feel on edge. My pulse quickens for reasons I don't want to admit to myself. There is a pull between us, something dangerous and irresistible, and I hate that I want to explore it.

His mouth twitches up at the corner. It's a brief gesture, but I see it. I amuse him. "There was no jumping. You yelled something about being a bird, and then Conrad pushed you off the balcony. If you need to feel anger about that night, I am not your target."

Glancing around the room, I wonder where my brother's ghost is hiding. I don't feel Conrad with us, but that means nothing. I don't want to stir his spirit by talking shit on him.

Costin keeps his attention steady. I wish he'd turn his intensity away. "I know human brains are limited, but do you not remember?"

Limited?

Asshole.

Did he come here just to insult me?

"I remember everything. I remember your bloodstained fingers in the moonlight as I lay helpless on cobblestones." I put my hands on my hips. "I remember the look on your face."

"Waste not, want not."

"So gentlemanly of you to help a kid out." Sarcasm drips from my tone. My hands clench into tight fists. "Licking me while I'm dying on the ground."

"Hardly dying. It was only a broken bone." He counters. "You humans are always so dramatic."

I've irritated him. Good.

"Humans are dramatic?" I can't help the unamused laugh that escapes me. "Seriously? Supernaturals are the biggest drama queens in the?—"

"I came to your aid. George sent me away before I could do more. And I did not lick you. I do not lick children. You were dazed, and I tasted your blood for poisons. When I came to the hospital, George said it was handled. "

Was he at the hospital after I broke my arm? I try to remember.

"What more would you have me do?" he asks. "Throw young Conrad off the balcony to avenge your fall? Though I wouldn't have minded, seeing as your brother was?—"

"Okay, okay." I hold up my hands to stop him. I don't need Conrad pissed off—any more than he already is. "Just go away. My parents are in the formal living room. I'm sure they're expecting you."

He doesn't leave.

I dare a glance at his face and ask in exasperation, "What do you want? Seriously, Costin, I'm kind of dealing with a lot at the moment and I don't need whatever this interaction is. Can you just go away and leave me alone? Please."

He doesn't go. Instead, he scolds, "You think you're the only one struggling with what you've lost. But we all have ghosts, Tamara."

Ghosts? Does he know about Conrad?

I look around the room for my brother, not seeing him. But the threat of him lingers around me. It takes me a moment to realize the vampire speaks metaphorically and not of my dead brother.

My heart is racing from the rawness in his tone. It's not exactly what he said, but it's how he said it—like someone who understands loss all too well. His expression shifts before I can press him further about it, and he becomes distant again. I wonder if he regrets revealing his much as he has. It's the tiniest of cracks in his otherwise powerful demeanor, but he's shown it to me, and he can't take that back.

The knowledge that he is more than just a monster, something that I technically already know, makes me more vulnerable to him. I don't want to sympathize with the vampire. And yet here I am.

"You're…" He tilts his head. "You're scared of me."

"No," I deny. It's not convincing.

I don't think it's possible, but I feel like he leans closer. "You don't trust me."

I cross my arms over my chest in a protective gesture, if only to keep him from closing the distance completely. "Should I?"

He smirks. "Probably not. But you're not backing away."

I try to deflect the challenge in his gaze by saying, "Maybe I enjoy playing with fire."

What the fuck? Did I just flirt with the vampire?

"Careful," his voice drops in warning. "I'm not the kind of fire you can control."

The words send a shiver through me, and I refuse to back away. I don't want him to know the effect that he has on me. I remind myself that control is an illusion, and I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on to mine.

"This forcefulness in you is new. You're irritated with me," he reasons. "I spoke ill of your brother, and his death is recent. I am sure he had… qualities."

It's not exactly an apology.

I want him to leave. "My parents?—"

"I didn't come for your parents."

"Then… Anthony?" I gesture toward the library door. "He's probably with my parents."

Or in my father's office, looking for shipping schedules to get us out of the country. Initially, I thought the idea was crazy, but the more I think about it, the more onboard I am with the plan. Leaving holds great appeal.

"I came here for you." His hand lifts toward me.

I jerk back, taking a step to avoid making contact. "Uh, why?"

"I gave you time to grieve, but it's time."

"Time for what?"

"The prophecy."

Is this some kind of strange vampire come on line? Why is he looking at me like I know what that means?

"George's prophecy," he insists.

A memory tickles the back of my mind of Costin and my grandfather, but the complete form of it eludes me .

The paranormals are always going on about spells and prophecies and magical duty. None of it has anything to do with me. I'm in their world, but I don't matter to it.

"I'm not interested." I want less supernatural in my life.

I want to be normal.

I want Paul.

I don't want a sexy blood-driven vampire.

What's that stupid quote? Methinks the lady doth protest too much?

"You mean now is not a good time?"

"No. I'm not interested. Ever."

He visibly stiffens. "It does not matter if you are interested. That is not how destiny works."

I think of all the things the supernatural world has taken from me. I wish I never knew it existed. I wish I were never born a Devine. "I'm mortal. I'm not special. But that does not make me an idiot. I'm not part of some grand prophecy. I don't know what game you're playing, but I grew up around this bullshit, and I'm clean out of shovels. Go away, Costin. I'm tired."

"George didn't tell you?" He crosses his arms and lowers his chin toward his chest to give me what I assume is supposed to be an imposing look. "This isn't a game. Far from it. You're needed."

I automatically reach to touch the amulet around my neck, but it's never there. I remember its broken pieces in the pouch now tucked away in my room. There are many things my grandfather didn't tell me before his death. The last secret I tried to uncover led me to my birth mother, who I lost alongside Paul and Diana. Now Conrad is haunting me, and it's all I can do to keep it together.

I'm not going on another magical adventure.

I wish everyone would just leave me alone.

The need to scream fills my chest and burns my throat. I suppress it.

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a small leather-bound book from his inner pocket. He tries to hand it to me.

I shake my head and take another step toward the door. If he's not going to leave, I will. "I don't want it. I'm not pulling a sword out of some stone to become king or stopping the world from ending or giving birth to the destroyer of the universe or whatever scheme has been cooked up by bored elders at a dinner party. At best, this is a prank. At worst, the prank kills someone I care about. So, thank you for the offer to be the butt of your joke, but I'm going to have to decline."

I turn to make my hasty exit and instantly crash into Costin's chest. He passed by me without me seeing him move. Before I can stumble away, he has me gripped by the arms. His fingers dig into my flesh. He lifts me off the floor like I'm no heavier than a throw pillow and lets my feet dangle. Leaning close, his swirling eyes demand attention. I want to kick him to free myself, but I can't force my legs to move.

"Do you think this is what I want to be doing? Do you think I want to be here?" There is a gravelly darkness to his voice that I haven't heard before. It strikes fear into me, and all I can do is shake my head in denial. "You don't like me. Fine. I'm not a fan of partnering with humans. A promise is a promise. Prophecy is destiny. I owe a debt, and I will repay it, and you will do your part."

I hang, helpless.

"Do you understand?" he enunciates.

I nod.

"Good. We'll continue this later."

He lowers me to the ground. The chill of his hands remains on my arms when he lets go. My heart pounds. I wonder if he can hear it. Every piece of me focuses on him. I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me.

"Mortimer," Costin states.

I frown. Not following his meaning.

Costin steps aside and reveals my uncle approaching behind him.

"Constantine." Uncle Mortimer's voice sounds jovial, but I recognize the forced tone he puts on for guests. His skin has a sickly pallor, and there are darkened half-circles under his eyes. Still, he is immaculately dressed in an Italian suit. The cut is a little more modern than I'm used to seeing him in. "I didn't know you were expected."

"I'm not. I came to speak with Tamara." Costin stands beside me. His arm brushes mine.

Mortimer looks surprised, but it's nothing compared to what I feel when Costin takes my hand in his. His cool fingers wrap around mine and hold tight. What's more surprising is that it sends a shiver up my arm and is not entirely unpleasant. I try to jerk away, not wanting to feel the sensation. The only explanation for it is that Costin is planting subconscious thoughts that are not my own.

Fucking vampires.