12

Casimir

Triumph and satisfaction and the remaining buzz of Ophelia's decadent blood run through my veins as I surreptitiously glance down to my driveway from a second-floor window.

Our conversation when she arrived here was short, succinct, to the point. It was nothing more than business as I gave her a key that will let her into the main house where she can use the bathroom and the kitchen and any other room she pleases—not that I expect she will—then directed her to an outlet where she can hook up her van's electrical, and bid her goodnight.

It was an effort to stay neutral, to not let all that warmth and pleasure at her being near show itself on my face.

I shouldn't be feeling any of it. There's no reason having her close should draw on those same instincts that gripped me while I had my fangs in her, the same instincts that have always had me by the throat when Ophelia is near.

Shaking my head, I abandon the window and wander down the hall to my bedroom.

It's not a room that gets much use.

Which makes it a fine fit with the rest of the house, beautiful and hollow as it is. A showpiece in the truest sense, purchased and polished and existing as nothing more than a place to come and go from, to take care of paltry needs as they arise, though any much simpler dwelling would have done just as well.

Vampires my age have little need for sleep. Though I might indulge in a nap or a night of unconscious slumber when the mood strikes or when my physical strength is depleted, I'm also more than fine going weeks, maybe months, without.

I don't need to avoid the sun as I did in my younger years, the bright rays no longer burning new vampiric eyes or itching against cold, marble flesh as they did in the first decades after my transformation.

Vampires harden as we settle into our new forms, no longer vulnerable to all the lesser slings and arrows of life. Our aging slows down to a trickle, and means we might live a millennia if we don't meet some unfortunate, violent end. We're stronger, faster, more durable than humans, with heightened senses.

All of it means I can come and go as I please. I can enjoy the night, or the day. I can live a life free of mundane needs. Even eating is hardly necessary beyond what I might do for pleasure, and though fresh blood strengthens and invigorates me, a year between feedings is no great strain.

The benefits of time, I suppose, and the curse. The dreadful ennui of having a vast, yawning existence stretching before me and yet feeling less and less human with each passing year to enjoy it.

At least until tonight.

Because with Ophelia's blood in my veins, the hands of time itself might have reversed.

Muscles and sinew and synapses long dormant have sprung back to vibrant life. I'm invigorated and exhausted at once, like I could run to New York and back, but also like I could sleep for ages. Dreamless, soul-deep sleep I haven't experienced in as long as I can remember.

It's one more reason I never should have invited her here.

When I offered to drive her home, I certainly never intended to. But seeing where she was parked—in the middle of some darkened industrial park, in a lot lit by only a single dim lamp mounted to the building, with no security cameras and not a single other soul in sight—the offer sprang out without my meaning it to.

And now, having her so close is a comfort and a warning both. A reminder of what I can't have, what I can't want, what I won't allow myself to be foolish enough to feel again.

I shrug out of my suit jacket and leave it hanging carelessly on a chair at the side of the room. Loosening my tie and undoing the top two buttons of my shirt, I walk to the bathroom and turn on the faucet, splashing my face with a few handfuls of cold water before I finally meet my own gaze in the mirror.

Gods, I look a mess.

Eyes bright, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed— flushed , for fuck's sake—blood-addled in a way I haven't been in centuries.

I turn away.

Back in the bedroom, I kick off my shoes, my trousers, strip my shirt and tie and undershirt away and sprawl onto the bed in nothing more than a pair of boxer-briefs.

Lazy, indulgent, more than a little disgusted by my lack of discipline, I tuck my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling.

The tangle of all I'm feeling closes in, tighter and more undeniable with each beat of my undead heart.

Energized and exhausted. Deeply, darkly pleased to have Ophelia so close. Mortified that it matters at all to me where she lays her head tonight. Irritated by Marcus's disrespect and already plotting my next move to unearth what the coven is so very obviously hiding.

Our next move, I suppose.

Mine, and Ophelia's.

The ceiling fades in and out as my heavy eyes close, then open, then drift shut once more. Tense muscles relax, and the last hazy thoughts that filter through my mind before sleep claims me are ones of wry disbelief and languid surprise at just how easily I sink into that lush, decadent slumber.