Page 11 of Ophelia's Vampire

Shamefully glad to have an excuse to leave, I stand and follow her from the room without a backward glance.

But even so, I swear I feel a crimson gaze following me all the way out the door.

4

Casimir

Seven years has not lessened the impact of seeing Ophelia face-to-face.

If she was a temptation at twenty-three, then at thirty she’s a force of nature. The same dark hair and warm brown eyes, but the richness of the intervening years has added a depth to that beauty, a confidence and self-possession.

And a few more sharp edges, apparently.

You want me to work withhim?

It’s clear enough she still holds resentment for that night on the rooftop. For her plans being thwarted or for my own barbed condescension, I don’t know, but her prickliness and guarded skepticism are enough to signal this job we’ve been tasked with is already off to a poor start.

Seeing her here, sitting across from one of my oldest friends, was an unexpected shock. Blair had given no details about who the operative he wanted me to work this case with would be, and never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined it to be her.

Still, I would have no issue with setting the past aside and taking on this work for the Bureau as a favor to Blair.

Even if that means partnering with Ophelia.

It’s been years since I held her actions against her. Far be it from me, with all the centuries I’ve lived, to hold on to the ire and wounded pride I felt that night.

Ophelia was young, out of her depth, and by the way she all but disappeared from the city in the months following, I’d assumed she realized that as well.

I’ve never been one to hold a petty grudge. Although memories of her have had the tendency to creep into my mind more often than I care to admit these last seven years, it’s not resentment at the forefront when they do. No, those particular memories have a different bitterness to them, something that tastes very much like disappointment and exhaustion, with the familiar weariness of my too-long life and the reminder of exactly why I was given this form. To be used. To be a means to someone else’s end.

That doesn’t mean, however, I lay it all on Ophelia’s shoulders.

She was a sharp stick poking at those age-old wounds, not the creature who made them. The tangled darkness her actions dredged up is mine to deal with, not hers.

But perhaps Ophelia hasn’t been quite so eager to set aside her animosity where I’m concerned.

“There is a history between me and sweet Ophelia.”

I sink into the chair she just vacated, some of her body’s heat still lingering on the upholstery, along with the scent that hasn’t made my fangs ache any less keenly after all the time that’s passed.

Rich wine and spice. Something dark and floral and unmistakablyher.

Blair huffs a laugh. “You don’t say.”

I open my mouth to elaborate, but he interrupts before I can.

“Is what you’re about to say something that would prevent the two of you from working civilly together? Or something that would put either of you in danger?”

I shake my head, half a lie considering what could reasonably count ascivilitybetween Ophelia and I.

“And is it something Ophelia would rather I not know?”

“Yes. It likely is.”

I can’t imagine she’d be pleased with my recounting the details of that night with her current employer. Or with anyone, for that matter, and I haven’t. Besides whatever Cassandra and Marcus may have inferred from what they saw, there’s not another soul who knows. Or, at least, no one who’s heard it from me.

“Then I don’t need to know. If there are any issues once the two of you are out in Boston, then we can discuss it.”

I contemplate that for a few moments. “You think she is the right person for this work?”

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