Page 35 of Ophelia's Vampire

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.

Ournext 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.

13

Ophelia

Faneuil Hall bustles with tourists as I weave between families with strollers, groups of kids on field trips, and long lines stacked up at the dozens of food stalls inside. Eventually elbowing my way into an open, high-ceilinged seating area, I spot a familiar face sitting at a table in the far corner.

As I approach, a pair of startlingly amber eyes flick up to meet mine. Audra, the demi-fae those eyes belong to, smiles as I take the seat across from her.

“Long time no see,” she says wryly.

With her deep brown skin, tightly curled black hair floating in a halo around her round face, and eyes that have always seemed too keen and perceptive to be entirely human—even before she was free to move through the world without the glamour that covered her pointed ears—Audra is as strikingly beautiful as ever.

“Sorry about that,” I say, wincing. “I’ve been… well, there’s probably not a good excuse for losing touch.”

Audra was another casualty of the life in Boston I left behind after graduation. Another series of dwindling texts and a pang of guilt every time I thought about being a better friend and reaching back out.

Unlike me, she put her journalism degree to good use after leaving uni. Working first as a reporter at one of the city’s oldest papers before the Acts, and then becoming a founding member of Boston’s first paranormal-run news publication after they were passed.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says gamely. “Everyone loses touch after college.”

It’s probably more generosity from her than I deserve, and as we both dig into the lunches we picked up from the market—a bowl of delicious-smelling noodles for her, a steaming cup of chowder for me—she rests her elbows on the table and leans in a little closer.

“So, I’m guessing this lunch wasn’t just about… lunch?”

Slowly, I set my spoon down and shake my head. “No, it’s not.”

“And, if I’m guessing again, you’re back in town on Bureau business?”

I hesitate, but she just shrugs. “I heard about Cleo’s promotion. It’s not a stretch to assume they’d be interested in what’s been happening with theserogue vampires.”

She rolls her eyes as she says that last part, and I lean closer, too.

“Anything about that you can share?”

During my research, I found a series of articles Audra wrote on the attacks right after they happened, covering the facts of the case and Haverstad’s response.

It’s Audra’s turn to hesitate. She studies me for a moment, weighing her next words.

“And if there is?”

“If there is, the Bureau would be willing to assist in whatever kind of investigation you’re doing to get to the bottom of it.”

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