21

Ophelia

A few days after my run-in with Cas in his kitchen, I'm creeping back through the front door and stealing inside to grab dinner. I try to tell myself that it'll be the last time, and I wouldn't have even bothered unless I knew the place was empty.

Cas isn't here, which isn't exactly unexpected given the unpredictable hours he keeps doing… well, whatever the hell it is he does for his day job.

Maybe day job isn't exactly the right word, but like so many other things, I haven't felt like it's my place to ask him. What he actually does for work is a mystery. I can't imagine he's on the Bureau's payroll full-time, but I also couldn't even begin to guess what kind of work he's in.

What does a centuries-old vampire do with their time, anyway?

My mind spins up some wild theories while my dinner reheats. More takeout leftovers, despite Cas's insistence that I eat better.

Whatever. It's been a few days, and I'm feeling back to one hundred percent. Any blood loss-related sluggishness has completely cleared up, even if I'm not totally over the conversation me and Cas had about it.

I should have taken better care of you.

Days later, the echo of those soft, solemn words still makes a strange, uncomfortable sort of heat kick up in my belly.

Maybe it's because the whole concept of someone taking care of me is completely alien, or because caring for me is absolutely outside the realm of anything that should be going on between me and Cas.

No biting. No orgasms. No aftercare.

We're partners. Maybe friends, if I'm being generous, but that's it.

That has to be it.

The microwave pings, and I grab my plate before heading back outside to the van. I'd rather eat in the house so I don't have to go back and deal with the dishes later, but that would mean putting myself at risk of being here when Cas gets home, so the trade-off doesn't really seem worth it.

Instead, I climb inside and tuck myself into my little nest of blankets, fully committed to the indulgent idea of dinner in bed. Laptop open to the latest season of Bridgerton, I curl up and get cozy, content enough to be hidden away out of sight.

Until my phone rings.

I groan, half-tempted to let it go to voicemail, but it could be Audra, or Cassandra, or some other contact reaching out with news or a lead or something else important.

When I pick it up, though, I find an unknown number on the screen. After a split second of hesitation, I answer.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Ophelia. I'm so glad I caught you."

There's no reason the greeting should make a wave of icy dread slide down my spine. No reason at all except some shaky, animal instinct that immediately registers danger .

"Who is this?"

The click of a tongue, disappointed and indulgent. "You know who this is, Ophelia."

The soft, French-accented lilt of that voice sets all the little hairs on the back of my neck on-end, and dread sinks even deeper into the pit of my stomach. I swallow it back and temper my next words, aiming for smooth, controlled, cordial, though I'm not sure I get anywhere close to that.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Philippe?"

A soft chuckle on the other end of the line. "I was sorry to have missed you when you stopped by, and I wanted to call and apologize for my poor manners."

"If anyone owes me an apology, it would be Marcus."

"Indeed, and for far more than what happened at the Raven the other night."

My throat tightens with that same old, ugly, familiar shame. I don't say anything, and after a few beats of silence, Philippe continues.

"Would you join me for a drink this evening and let me offer my apologies in person?"

Irrationally, my mind searches for Cas's voice of reason. What would he say? What would he tell me to do? He certainly knows how to deal with this particular vampire better than I do.

There's no time to think, or to call him and ask. This offer from Philippe probably isn't open-ended, or one that will be extended again if I don't give him the answer he's looking for.

Despite my immediate instinct to stay far, far away from Philippe, the point still stands that we need to talk to someone who might know more about Haverstad. After the reception we got from Marcus, I'm still certain the coven knows something. At least more than Marcus was willing to admit.

This could be the break we need. And I would be an enormous coward for passing it up.

Maybe.

Or maybe Philippe just wants to fuck with me. Or Cas. Or both of us.

But he still needs an answer, and it's up to me to make the call.

"Sure," I say, nowhere near certain it's the right thing to do. "What time should I stop by?"

"Be at the Raven in an hour."

It's not an invitation, and immediately after Philippe issues the order, he hangs up.

I don't hesitate before making my next call.

Cas doesn't answer the first time I try him. Or the second. Or the third, fourth or fifth. Knowing it's going to take me at least a few minutes to pull myself together before heading to the Raven—because I'm certain Philippe would take it as a personal offense if I showed up to his fancy ass club wearing the sweatpants and hoodie I've got on now—and a full half-hour to get downtown at this time of night, I leave a voicemail and get to work.

By the time I make it to the T stop a few blocks from the house to catch my train downtown, Cas still hasn't called. I send a text, and as the bright lights of the approaching train signal its arrival, I can only hope he somehow sees it in time to call me back, to give me some sort of clue what I'm walking into.

Or to stop me from doing something stupid and reckless and making a gigantic mistake.