Prologue and the first two chapters! It's time I face facts that this monster of a novel, pun intended, won't be available by Halloween, but I'm so pleased with its progress, and I can't wait for everyone to read it! Here's a Friday look-see.
From:
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book Three)
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Gilley
*Warning for mostly raw text!
Prologue
Tîrgovişte, Wallachia
1439
He woke to the pain of his brother’s elbow in his
ribs.
“Val,” Vlad murmured, half-asleep. “Stop kicking
me.”
“Oh.” Val blinked up at the ceiling, the faint
shadows from the fireplace that flickered over it. “Sorry.”
Vlad sighed and rolled toward him. The furs
flapped, letting in a shaft of cold air that made Val gasp. But then his
brother wriggled closer until there was no room for anything save soft shirts,
body heat, and warm, sleep-sour breath between them.
The lantern Mother had left on the desk had all
but burned down, only the last sputtering fraction of the wick. The fire
crackled low in the grate, a diffuse glow that washed up over the bed where the
two brothers slept together beneath a heap of furs and blankets to keep warm in
the winter-chilled palace. There was just enough light for Val to make out his
brother’s face, the glimmer of his cracked-open eyes through a screen of
tousled dark hair.
“Where did you go this time?” Vlad asked,
sounding more awake now.
The dream still clung to him. The dream that
wasn’t a dream at all, but a visit. “I
don’t know,” he said. “There was gold everywhere. And columns. Tapestries. I
think it was a palace. There was a man. A prince, maybe.”
Vlad grunted in obvious disappointment. He liked
specifics.
The very first time Val went dream-walking, it
was to see his brother. His nurse had tucked him in for a nap, the sun high
above, the light of his bedroom pure and without shadows. Val’s mouth still
tasted of berries and cream, and his muscles burned pleasantly from playing,
and his eyes had closed the moment his head touched the pillow.
But then, suddenly, he’d found himself awake. And
out of bed. Standing in the center of the room where Vlad sat perched on a
stool at a low, book-loaded table, reading from a tome almost as big as he was.
Vlad had jumped, startled, his serious reading-face dissolving into an
expression of intense shock. And then he’d frowned and huffed angrily. “You’re
supposed to be napping.”
“I…I am. Or…I was.”
Vlad slid off the stool with a sigh, and came
around the table, reaching for Val’s hand. “I’ll take you back,” he said.
But his hand passed straight through Val’s. As if
it wasn’t even there.
Val stared down at his own small hand, agape, as
he watched his fingers blur and swirl, like smoke, before resettling and
becoming solid again.
Solid-looking.
Vlad let out a string of curses he’d learned from
the wolves, no doubt, and tried again. The same thing happened.
Vlad was in the process of stepping right through him when Fenrir poked his head
into the room and startled both of them with one of his booming laughs.
“Dream-walking is it, my lords?” Fenrir was very
old, and very wise, even if father said he was a “great stupid lout of a wolf,”
and he’d explained to them that Val was still very much upstairs in their
shared bed, that this was his mind projecting itself.
“Not all vampires have the gift,” he’d said, “but
some do. You do, my lord.” And he’d
bowed low, beard swaying, so that Val had a view of the top of his head.
Val had laughed, and tried to clap his hands
together, but of course he wasn’t really there, so that hadn’t been possible.
In the months since that first discovery, the
dream-walking had happened with greater consistency. Mother had promised he’d
some day be able to choose his destination, to drop into his strange not-dreams
at will, and go visiting with others of their kind across vast distances. But
so far, it happened when it wanted to happen.
He thought Vlad might have been jealous of his
skill, but Vlad never said so. He only asked about his travels, pumping him for
details, trying to experience it vicariously.
Vlad’s nose wrinkled. “Are you sure it wasn’t
Father again?”
“No, it wasn’t him. This prince wasn’t speaking
Romanian.”
“Father speaks lots of languages.”
“But it wasn’t
Father.”
“Uncle, then?”
“No,
it–”
Footsteps in the hall. Their mother’s scent
reached them before the door swung open. They both froze; Vlad’s dark eyes went
comically wide. Candlelight stretched across the floor and Mother entered with
a soft, musical chuckle.
“Boys,” she chided, coming to sit on the side of
the bed. The candle’s glow fell over them, gentle as the hand she smoothed
across each of their foreheads in turn. “I seem to remember putting two
handsome princes to bed two hours ago.” When Mother scolded, it was always with
a smile, and it always made Val want to promise that he’d never step so much as
a single toe out of line ever again.
“Val went dream-walking,” Vlad said, shifting
onto his back so they were both looking up at Mother’s quietly radiant face.
Her hair fell in thick gold waves to her waist,
the ends trailing across the blankets. “Oh? Where did you go, darling?” She
pushed Val’s hair out of his eyes, smile impossibly warm.
“He doesn’t know,” Vlad said.
“I don’t know,” Val echoed. “I was by the sea. I
could smell the salt. And there was a man – very tall, and handsome, and he had
curly dark hair. I think he was important.”
“Hmm, he sounds important,” Mother agreed,
smoothing his hair again. “What else do you remember?”
He felt his face scrunch up as he fought to
recall. Every time he dream-walked, it became easier to recall the details. The
first few times had left him foggy, his thoughts distorted. But the more he
walked, the more pieces he was able to bring back with him. Now, tonight, he
remembered a velvet night sky studded with stars, the distant shush and slap of
gentle waves. He remembered buildings packed cheek-by-jowl, smooth pale stone
that gleamed in the moonlight, architectural angles that reminded him of…
He gasped. “Greek. They were speaking Greek.” The
man he thought might be a prince, bent over a wooden table with another man, a
silver plate dotted with burning, melting candles. They’d spoken in Greek.
“Ah.” Mother’s smile became proud. The same smile
she bestowed on Vlad when he slid down from his horse’s bare back, a brace of
hares clutched in one small hand. “My son the triumphant hunter,” she would
always say. She looked at Val like that now. “Did you go to Byzantium, love?”
“I…” He wracked his brain, searching, searching.
He’d made a nose, a quiet clearing of his throat, and the two men had turned
around in their chairs to look at him, looking startled. Humans were always
startled by what he could do.
But before that, before they’d noticed him, one
man had called the handsome, curly-haired stranger by his name.
“Constantine,” he said. “That was his name.”
Mother beamed.
“My clever boy. You went all the way to the seat of the emperor.”
Val felt himself smiling in return.
“Wow,” Vlad breathed beside him, breath warm where
it tickled Val’s neck.
Byzantium. Constantinople. The eastern seat of
the Roman Empire. A fitting destination, he supposed, for a son of Rome.
~*~
An Empire Away
Nightfall in the palace gardens of Edirne smelled
of a strange blend of jasmine and mountain laurel. The climate here was that of
Eastern Europe, of Wallachia, and Transylvania, and Hungary. But the Turks had
brought plants from farther east with them, and architecture and customs as
well. Overhead, the sky wheeled dark and star-studded. A breeze stirred the
flames of the torches; they scudded and smoked, and lit the way with bright
flickers. Mehmet admired the patterns on his bare toes as he walked down the
pebbled path, wending his way beneath the shadows of climbing roses.
He still missed his mother, living with her and
the other women in the harem. But it was time for him to start acting like a
man, as Father had said. And men didn’t hang off their mother’s dresses.
Did men eavesdrop, though? He hoped they did,
because that’s what he was doing now, moving toward the low murmur of voices
just ahead beneath a wisteria bower. One belonged to his father, but the other
was a stranger.
Silent from long months of practice, Mehmet
skirted one of the bower’s stone support columns and ducked down into the
shadows of a decorative hedge. When he peered through the leaves, he saw two
figures standing in the flickering torchlight: his father’s familiar stocky
build, and a tall, lean stranger, a hood hiding most of his face. Mehmet caught
the wet gleam of dark eyes, and the end of a prominent nose.
They spoke in Turkish. “I’m afraid,” Father was
saying, “that I fail to understand your reasoning for this, my lord. Generous
gifts are not given without the expectation of reciprocity.”
The stranger chuckled. “You really think me so
mercenary, Your Majesty?”
Father didn’t join in his laughter. “I know who
you are, and what you’ve done.”
“Ah. You disapprove, then.”
“I did not say that.”
The stranger rolled his weight back onto his
heels, obviously surprised.
“Sometimes,” Father continued, “it’s a man’s own
flesh and blood that stands in the way of his empire, and steps must be taken.”
A gleam of teeth beneath the hood as the stranger
smiled. “Then we understand one another.”
Father cocked his head. “I understand much of
you. Still. Choosing my son, when you have nephews – that I do not understand.”
It was quiet a moment, save the rustle of leaves
and the pounding of Mehmet’s heart behind his ribs.
“My nephews are fine boys,” the stranger said at
last. “But they are content. They lack…imagination.”
Mehmet didn’t know why, but he shivered.
The hooded face turned toward him. “Speaking of
which, it seems your son has joined us.”
Oh no! He’d tried so carefully to be quiet.
Father turned toward his hiding spot, expression
shifting from surprise to outrage. “Mehmet–” he started.
The stranger lifted a staying hand. “No, it’s
alright. Don’t scold the boy. Mehmet, come out now, you’re not in any trouble.”
He hesitated, thinking of the mullahs and their
riding crops, their assertions that they would make a mannerly boy of him for
the sultan.
The stranger pushed his hood back and revealed a
high forehead, and strong jaw, bold cheekbones. Fierce and beautiful, like one
of the Greek statues he admired so much. “Come here, Mehmet,” he said, smiling,
“let me look at you.”
Mehmet left his hiding place, brushing leaves
from his kaftan, trying to look as upright and respectable as possible – a
waste after hiding, but he wanted, suddenly, to impress this man.
The man looked down at him, and his smile
widened. In the dancing torchlight, his eyes seemed to glow. “Hello, Mehmet. My
name is Romulus, and I think you and I shall be great friends.”
1
Denver, Colorado
Present Day
The first time it happened, Mia was coming off a
twelve-hour day at the barn. She’d climbed into her first saddle at six,
schooled four horses, handled a tricky lameness exam with a client’s horse and
a man-diva of a vet who sniffed at her contemptuously every time she asked a
question, and then she started teaching lessons. At some point, Donna shoved
half a peanut butter sandwich into her grubby hand and said, “Eat that before
you fall over.” When she got home, bone-weary and ready for bed by seven p.m.,
she’d noticed a bit greasy spot of peanut butter on the collar of her polo.
Figured.
She took an obscenely hot shower, threw her
schooling clothes in the direction of the hamper, and reheated a Tupperware of
leftover pasta. Hair still wet, she collapsed into her comfiest chair, dinner
and a glass of wine on the side table, favorite ugly socks on her feet, her
current vampire novel du jour in one hand. It was a boring evening; the kind a
busy trainer/working student gunning for the pro circuit lived for.
And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
She glanced up from her book, intent on spearing
a difficult hunk of chicken with her fork, and froze.
A man stood in the center of her living room.
Her fork fell out of her hand, landing on the
edge of the plate with a clatter.
The first thing she noticed was his hair. It was
impossible not to notice: long, full,
pale gold waves that fell nearly to his waist.
Then the eyes: blue.
The face: narrow and regal.
The clothes: red velvet, and a black fur cloak,
and knee-high polished boots.
He was stunning.
He was impossible.
Slowly, Mia set her book aside on the table.
The man wasn’t looking at her, was instead
inspecting the room around him, making a slow turn in the center of the rug,
tilting his head side to side as he took in her TV, Ikea furniture, and
overloaded bookshelf. He stopped, finally, blue eyes widening, and stepped in
closer to inspect the titles on the spines.
Later, much later, she would remember the way it
was the books that had captured his interest first, and she’d carry that little
kernel of gold with her for the rest of her life.
But for now, she had an intruder in her apartment,
and the closest weapon to hand was the lamp on the table beside her. Slowly,
slowly, she leaned over and wrapped her fingers around the base. It was a
chunky faux-bronze thing that she thought was supposed to look antique, and it
was heavy. She gave it an experimental tug and it eked toward her a half-inch,
shade wobbling alarmingly. She bit her lip, wincing. It would take both hands,
but she thought it would make a good projectile. She’d get only one shot,
though, so it had to count.
“Hmm,” the man hummed, back still to her, “you
can throw that if you like, but it won’t do any good.”
She snatched it up in both hands, heart leaping
wildly, and chucked it at him.
He didn’t move, but the lamp didn’t strike him.
It seemed to pass through him, his
back and shoulders swirling like smoke a moment, then resettling. The lamp
crashed against the bookshelf; a handful of well-loved hardbacks toppled to the
floor, pages crumpling. The frame of the shelf had cracked.
Silence, save the rough scrape of Mia’s breath in
and out of her lungs. Holy shit, she
thought. What the…
The man turned, unhurried. A sharp little smile
lifted one corner of his mouth. “I did warn you.”
A dozen potential questions gathered on the back
of her tongue, but what left her mouth was, “What are you?”
His smile widened; the lamplight caught on sharp,
white canines. “Oh, well. This is interesting.”
He tipped his chin down, and his eyes flashed, and he leaned toward her in a
way that sent goosebumps rippling down her arms. There was such an inherent
threat in his posture. Like the villains in her favorite novels.
“Stop.” She threw up a hand, as if that could
keep him back. “Just…” She couldn’t breathe. “Stop.”
He relaxed a fraction, head pulling back on his
slender, pale neck. “I can’t actually touch you, you know. Not even if I wanted
to.” To demonstrate, he reached behind him and passed a spectral hand through a
shelf on her bookcase.
I’m
dreaming,
she thought with sudden relief. She’d been even more tired than she thought,
and she’d passed out in the chair; probably dropped her book; probably spilled
her wine.
Or what if
it’s worse than a dream? an insidious voice whispered in the back of her mind.
No. She couldn’t think that. Not right now.
She was dreaming.
And yet…
“What are you?” she repeated.
He smiled, but it was softer this time, almost
delighted. “You could have asked all sorts of things, you know. Who. Why. What
are my intentions. But you went straight to what.”
His smile became almost a grimace, but he folded his arms and cocked his hips
in obvious challenge. “What am I? I’m many things. A prince. A prisoner. A
brother. A legacy. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
“You look…” Her eyes moved over his glorious
hair, his fine features, his elegant clothes. Beautiful. “…like an elf.”
But that wasn’t right, and when he smiled again,
she saw his canines, that sharp flash, and knew. “Close, darling,” he said.
“But not quite.”
Mia took a deep breath that did nothing to calm
her pounding heart. She glanced over at the book she’d laid on the table; its
cover depicted a long-haired vampire in medieval armor, arms around a human
woman.
She exhaled in a rush. “Of course there’s a
vampire in my living room,” she muttered, gaze flicking back to the intruder.
“Of course.”
His grin was blinding. He sketched a deep, formal
bow, hair sliding over his shoulders in gorgeous disarray. “Prince Valerian of
Wallachia, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
She blinked at him. “What kind of accent is
that?” Because if she was dreaming, why not play along? It was the most
entertaining thing that had happened to her in months.
He sighed. “I’ve just told you. Wallachian.” When
she continued to stare, he said, “That’s in Romania, darling.”
“Ah.”
“I speak many languages, though. English,
obviously. And I’m fluent in Slavic – written form, mostly; all the books were
in Slavic when I was a boy – and Latin; Russian; French; Turkish; Greek. A
little Italian.”
Breathe, Mia reminded herself.
“Okay. Um. So you’re a vampire.”
“Quite.”
“Can you…turn into smoke? Is that what this is?”
She gestured to him.
“Smoke?” His nose wrinkled and his lip curled.
“No. This isn’t smoke. It’s an astral projection.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not really here, you see. Only my mind.” He
tapped the side of his head. Then glanced around the room again. “Where is here, actually?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“Fascinating,” he hummed, but looked more
concerned than fascinated. He turned back to her, clasping his hands behind his
back; the movement pulled his cloak wide, revealing broad shoulders and a tiny
waist encased in brocaded red velvet. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“Because this isn’t real.”
He tilted his head. “Of course it is.”
They stared at one another – studied one another.
One of those long moments, stretched out slow like taffy. Almost sweet in the
way she relished it. A moment for a careful decision: continue the charade? Or
go call her doctor?
In the way of all drowning people, Mia grabbed
for the charade.
“So…you’re a Romanian prince, huh?”
He smiled again, a kind of smile he hadn’t shown
her yet, full of gladness. “What’s your name?”
“Mia. Mia Talbot.” She held out her hand, like an
idiot.
His brows jumped, and for one fast second, he
looked like he’d been slapped. But then his expression melted back to the way
it had been, and he stepped forward. “Mia.” He extended his hand toward hers, slow
and careful, and she marveled at the way his narrow fingers passed right
through hers. “Pleased to meet you. You can call me Val.”
2
“If you’re not really here, then where are you?”
Val sat on the end of her kitchen island – at
least he appeared to, swinging his booted feet and frowning down at them in
contemplation. He’d left off the cloak and velvet coat this time, was dressed
in a simple shirt with a vest over it, the cuffs trailing laces. His hair
caught the evening sunlight that slanted through the windows, rivers of gold
spilling over his shoulders. “In a cell,” he said, and his voice had lost all
the bright spark it had held only moments before, when he’d asked what she was
making for dinner.
It had been a week since he first appeared in her
apartment, and he’d returned every day since. Shortly after she arrived home
from the barn, once she’d showered and changed, he materialized in the living
room, beautiful and smiling.
On the first day, she knew this was a bad sign.
At the very best, she’d gone batshit crazy and invented herself a handsome
imaginary friend to combat the quietly crushing loneliness she refused to
acknowledge. At the worst…
She couldn’t think about the worst.
By the third day, when Val appeared between the
turning of two pages, cross-legged and splendid on the rug, she’d felt a
traitorous swooping in her stomach. She was looking forward to his impossible
visits. To his questions about her books, and her favorite TV shows, and her
job. Learning she was a horse trainer had lit his face up like Christmas
morning. “Are you really?” She’d
ended up pulling down one of her horse albums, full of photos chronicling her
equestrian journey from the days of jodhpur straps all the way to last year’s
regional win.
He’d tried to touch the album page, divot marring
his smooth brow when his fingers passed through. “But you sit the horse so
well,” he’d murmured. “You’re a natural.”
She’d blushed at the quiet praise.
So far, they hadn’t talked about anything
serious. Why waste a good imaginary friend on mundane drama? But he looked
tired today, shadows like soft indigo paint smudges lingering beneath his eyes.
So the question slipped out.
Mia stood at the island chopping veggies, and she
set her knife down. “A cell?”
“Yes.” His boot heels drummed soundlessly against
the cabinet face.
“Val,” she said carefully, moving around to the
end of the island so she could see his face. “Are you in jail?”
He didn’t answer a moment, gaze still trained on
the floor, chest lifting as he took deep breaths through his mouth. When he
spoke, his voice was almost a growl, bitter and hurt. “Does that matter? Are
you one of those people?” He lifted
his head, eyes flashing; his fangs were more prominent than normal. “Do you
take incarceration for guilt without knowing the circumstances?”
She’d spent her whole life communicating with
creatures who couldn’t speak; learning the little body language tells.
Val bared his teeth in a challenge…that was also
a way to brace for rejection. His words taunted, but his eyes begged. And
doubted.
“No,” she said, simply, and returned to her
vegetables. “If you’re innocent, you shouldn’t be locked up. But thanks for
making assumptions about me.”
It was silent a beat save the clean slice of the
knife through bell pepper.
Then Val turned to look at her over his shoulder,
mouth gone soft, eyes wide. “Oh.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not…especially.”
“Okay. So don’t.” She scraped the peppers over
with her knife and started in on the squash.
Silence stretched for so long that she thought he
might have fritzed out. Every evening, after she’d loaded the dishwasher and
her eyelids started to flag, he would always say, “You’re tired. I’ve kept you
long enough.” He would bow, smile one final time, and then disappear. She’d
nearly jumped out of her skin the first time, but by now it was normal.
This whole thing was becoming alarmingly normal.
She really needed to call her doctor and set up
an appointment.
Finally, she said, “Did I tell you how Brando’s
tempi changes are coming along?” and was ashamed to admit to herself how badly
she hoped he was still here.
He said, “No, you haven’t.” Clear relief in his
voice.
Mia smiled.
~*~
“I was born in 1435,” he said when she asked him
how old he was.
Mia paused with her coffee cup halfway to her
lips. Her imagination was very specific, she’d give it that. “So…” she mused,
doing the math in her head. “Five-hundred-eighty-three.” A staggering thought,
even if it was a fictional one. He looked twenty-five at most. “So vampires
really are immortal, I guess.”
“Quite.” He’d been sitting cross-legged, and
kicked his legs out, leaning back on his hands.
Mia sat opposite, back braced against the sofa.
She couldn’t help but notice that the velvet was back tonight, in all its
intricate glory. “Is that what you were wearing when you…” Were captured, she left unsaid.
“Oh no.” He waved one long-fingered hand. A
massive ruby ring on his middle finger seemed to catch the light. “I bargained
this from a French aristocrat in 1802.” He gave her one of his sharp grins. “I
just had to have it.”
“What kind of bargaining power does a prisoner
have?”
His smile stretched, until it was all teeth. “He
wanted immortality. I told him I’d turn him in exchange for his beautiful
outfit.”
“And did you?”
“Of course not. I drained him dry and tried to
escape.”
She glared at him. “You’re horrible.”
“And yet you’re the one sitting here talking to
me. What does that make you?”
“Well, after that little murder confession, I’m
thinking it makes me an accessory after the fact.”
He rolled his eyes and groaned. “Oh, you humans
and your moral indignation.”
“Murder warrants some indignation.”
He huffed a sigh. “He was one of my jailors, and
a horridly perverted one, too.”
She lifted a single brow.
“And we’re back to incarceration.”
“You won’t tell me what you were locked up for.”
“Hmm. No, I won’t.” He glanced away, pretending
to inspect the blank TV screen, but Mia could see the downward quirk at the
corner of his mouth.
Who’d ever heard of a self-indulgent
hallucination who pouted? He acted the age that he looked, not the age he
actually was.
“1435,” she said, because he was too beautiful to
frown. “I’m not much of a historian. Did you live in a castle?”
He brightened a fraction, turning back to her.
“Yes, the palace at Tîrgovişte. I don’t really remember anything from Sighișoara, before. Mother
always said it was very provincial. But Tîrgovişte was lovely. Father had just
been confirmed as Prince of Wallachia, and the city was always teeming. My
brothers – Mircea and Vlad, both older – were training to be knights. Mircea
was the eldest, and he was being groomed as Father’s heir, you know. Vlad
wanted to be a military man.” He chuckled. “He was martial from birth, I
think.”
Vlad. The named pinged something in her memory
banks.
She wasn’t a historian, no, too busy with
juggling her riding dreams alongside first high school, then her tumor, then
her recovery, then college. She’d majored in communications, intent on using
the degree to manage the riding school she wanted to some day run. And though
she loved to read, she didn’t force herself toward educational tomes; she read
novels, to unwind, to slip into the skins of women with daring, dangerous,
wondrous lives.
But she’d always loved vampire novels.
Romania. Prince. Vampire. Vlad.
“…I had this pony,” Val was saying, but trailed
off, brows pinching together, when he saw her face. “What?”
Mia’s next breath rattled a little in her throat;
a shiver moved beneath her skin as she pushed to her feet and walked across the
room to the bookshelf. She ran a fingertip along the spines, searching,
chanting no way, no way, no way in her head.
“What?” Val repeated. “Is something wrong?” He
sounded worried.
“Your brother…Vlad…” Most of her collection
consisted of secondhand paperbacks, but she had a whole shelf dedicated to the
titles she loved so much she’d bought them in hardback collectors’ editions. She
found the one she wanted and pulled it out, turning the cover toward Val with
shaking hands. “Your brother Vlad, as in this guy?”
It was her gorgeous, leather-bound version of
Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
Val’s eyes narrowed as he read the title. Then he
smiled. A closed-mouthed, tight, sideways smile laced with an emotion too faint
for her to place. “Ah, yes.” His tone seemed carefully modulated. “I always
forget they named a book after him.”
Mia let her hands fall to her sides because her
arms felt weak, heavy book thumping against her thigh. “You’re shitting me.”
“It’s all fiction. Stoker’s character is nothing
like my brother. Nothing that happens in the book is true.”
Nothing about this conversation was true.
“Dracula is real,” she said, deadpan in an effort
to keep a meltdown at bay, “and he’s your brother.”
“Yes.”
She sat down hard on the floor and covered her
face with her hands. “I have to call my doctor,” she whispered to herself,
stomach clenching.
“Why?” Val’s voice said, right in front of her,
and she startled so hard she whacked her head on the bookshelf.
He winced in sympathy and eased back a fraction;
he knelt on the rug in front of her, hands on his thighs, limned in golden
evening light.
Mia let her hands fall into her lap. “This isn’t
real,” she said. “You’re not real.”
The words scraped her throat, and she hated them, but there was no sense
letting this play out any longer.
His mouth fell open; he wore a slapped
expression. “I – I – I am real.” He
pressed his lips together, jaw clenching tight; she saw the tendons leap
beneath his fine skin. “Don’t say that, I’m real!”
“How? How could you possibly be? Vampires don’t
exist outside of books.”
His lips skinned back off his teeth; he opened
his mouth…and snarled. An aggressive punch of sound, like the tigers
she’d seen once at the zoo. No human could have made that sound.
Mia startled again, whacked her head again.
The sound cut off immediately, and Val lifted
both hands like he meant to touch her. They realized at the same moment that
that wasn’t possible; he froze, and she caught her instinctive flinch.
His hands went back to his thighs and he let out
a long, slow exhale, shoulders drooping. His gaze dropped to the rug. “Sometimes
I wonder,” he murmured, “if I really am dead. Or if I’ve been buried, and I’m
only dreaming. Maybe this is purgatory; centuries of never being able to touch,
or taste, or smell…until I’ve paid off my debts.”
“Val–” she started.
And he disappeared.
Can’t wait! Thank you!
ReplyDelete