Page 15 of A Whisper in the Dark

“Good morning,” Ada says to all three of us. Her gaze lands on my face and lingers there—she knows I’ve fed. “I trust you slept well, Charlotte.”

Reminding myself that I broke no laws and just took what was freely offered, I clear my throat. “It’s Charlie now, actually. And yes… thank you again for your hospitality.”

Ada nods curtly, her expression inscrutable, then gestures to the black-haired man next to her. “This is Hideshi Takahashi.”

Moving so quickly that even I don’t catch it, Hideshi pulls out a piece of unbreakable plastic that serves as his identification. My eyes scan over it quickly. He’s a city employee and a kitsune.

A girl I used to drink with at the clubs was one—she’d used her nine tails to hold shots.

There’s no sign of Hideshi’s tails, sadly. He wears his human shape like a uniform, not a hair or a feature out of place. Most creatures I know prefer to live somewhere between their two forms.

“Um, hi,” I say, waving awkwardly. Sensing Ada’s rising temperature, I glance at her again, hoping for some kind of clue about this visit. Her eyes are darker than usual, her lips drawn into a tight line of displeasure. “Is everything okay?” I ask.

Nina sighs as if we’re boring her to death and leaves the room. Drew, however, lingers at my side, his posture somehow protective.

Protective towards… me?

“Go. I’ll catch up with you,” I tell him, but he acts as though I haven’t spoken and remains where he is.

“We just processed your paperwork,” the kitsune says crisply. “Normally, I don’t make house visits, but as this is a high profile case, protocol needs to be followed to the letter.”

“Paperwork?” I repeat, and Ada’s nostrils flare. When I look back at the kitsune, something clicks in my mind. Of course. The tattoos. The marks every slave wears to let everyone else know what they are. Owned. Weak. Lesser.

Horror gnaws a hole in my stomach.

The tattoo is put in two places—around the right wrist and on the left side of the neck—and at least one of them needs to be showing at all times. The wrist tattoo is a black band and the neck is the wearer’s citizen number.

Tattoos are particularly painful for vampires. Not only because of our sensitive skin, but also because the needles have to go deeper for us, in order to be permanent.

“Can you make this quick?” I force out, balling my hands into fists so no one can see how they’re shaking. “I can’t be late for my first day of work.”

I’m not even sure what happens to Lavender slaves who irritate their masters.

“It takes about sixty seconds for each mark.” Hideshi moves to a bag that’s resting on the apothecary table. He pulls out something that looks like a cross between a gun and a hairdryer. His calm gaze asks the question.Are you going to cooperate?

I swallow a lump of fear in my throat, school my features into a bland mask, and give the kitsune a brief nod. I scoot around him and lower myself onto the hard couch. Drew follows and sits next to me, our legs brushing. I turn to look at him, and he shoots me an easygoing smile, as if he’s trying to calm my nerves. I do my best to smile back.

With quick, practiced movements, Hideshi sets the tattoo gun down, pulls on some rubber gloves, and picks it back up again. Ada chooses that moment to leave the room, and her footsteps thunder in my ears as she walks past. The cat darts after her, mewling pitifully.

With obvious reluctance, Drew shifts over to give the kitsune better access to me. The dark-eyed shifter sets his gun against my skin—apparently he’s decided to start with the neck tattoo—and pulls the trigger without warning or hesitation.

The pain makes my fangs slide out.

Digging into the arm of the couch, I breathe hard but refuse to make a sound. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe I don’t want to give my father the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me—although I doubt he’ll even hear about this. To the Travestys, I no longer exist. As the years pass, I will become nothing more than a bad memory.

“Hey, want to hear a joke, Charlie?” Drew asks abruptly.

I swallow a ball of pain lodged in my throat. “A… a joke?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know? I tell thebestjokes. So, okay, why don’t vampires make good artists?”

How many seconds has it been since the kitsune pulled that fucking trigger? I try to focus on the air going in and out of my lungs. Drew taps my knee with his free hand, an obvious bid for attention, and I look up at him through my lashes, unable to hide a flash of annoyance. “Yes?” I say through my teeth. Am I even halfway through the sixty seconds?

“Fine, I’ll say it again. Because you clearly weren’t paying attention the first time. Why is it, Charlie Travesty, that vampires don’t make good artists?”

It feels like acid is burning through every layer of my neck. “Considering Monet was a distant cousin to the Vampire King, this joke is off to a wildly horrible start.”

“Because they always like to draw blood,” Drew concludes, ignoring this. A bizarre sound bursts from me, and I think I meant it to be laughter.

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