Page 39 of Ophelia's Vampire

Maybe it’s because I’ve lost my damned mind and forgotten what happened when I wanted her honesty seven years ago.

Whatever the case, and for better or worse, the question seems to have done the trick.

Ophelia nods. “Yeah, she did. My mom did, too, and Cleo definitely learned it better than I did, but I’ve got a few culinary tricks up my sleeve.”

Ophelia takes the freshly rolled noodles and drops them into a pot of roiling water. I put my questions aside for a few minutes as I watch her work, stirring the noodles until they’re cooked, then transferring them to the saucepan with a couple of ladles of pasta water.

With a few more pinches of herbs, another taste test or two, and one low, satisfied hum that does strange things to the bottom of my stomach, she declares the dish done.

“Do you want some?”

She turns to face me, and must mistake whatever it is she sees on my face to be offense, because she quickly backtracks.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to… if you don’t… eat, that’s fine. I didn’t—”

“I would love some.”

She arches a brow, but says nothing as she grabs two plates out of the cupboard.

“I confess, I never fully lost my taste for human food. Or wine. Especially wine.”

That twitch of a smile is back as she nods to the wine rack at the side of the room. “Got anything that would pair well with bolognese?”

“I think I might.”

While Ophelia dishes up the pasta and finds two wine glasses in the cupboard, I peruse the wine rack, holding myself back from heading downstairs into the cellar to grab one of the bottles reserved for special occasions.

This night certainly feels like an occasion. Something rare and unexpected, still not wholly believable as reality.

But it also feels… delicate. Like if I look at it too closely or hold it too tightly, it might crack and shatter back into the impossibility it came from.

So I grab the best bottle of Chianti that’s immediately available and meet Ophelia back at the island where she has our plates and glasses waiting.

If the night felt delicate before, it feels even more unbelievable as I pour us two generous servings and clink my glass against hers. It’s that same feeling of unreality, of stepping into some sideways-world just outside the realm of my own as we settle in to eat.

Ophelia perches herself on a barstool and glances over at me. “I had a meeting today. And I got another lead.”

“Oh? From who?”

She tells me about the demi-fae journalist she knew from her days in university, about the stories Audra has written and the suspicions she has. It echoes Blair’s words about who he thought might be behind this, and when Ophelia gets to the part about surveilling one of the victims who has a too-coincidental connection to Haverstad’s campaign manager, my interest is peaked.

“Do you have any idea where we can find the kid?”

Ophelia nods. “Audra texted and let me know she’s tracked him to a spot near Northeastern on Thursday nights. Some kind of regular meet-up he goes to. She can’t make it to scope him out tomorrow, so…”

She trails off, one corner of her mouth set into a fetching little smirk.

“So it sounds like we’re going on a stakeout tomorrow night.”

“Bingo.”

We spend the rest of our dinner rehashing her conversation with the journalist, running down other leads we’ve been pursuing to no great avail, discussing next best steps.

It feels natural, this back and forth. Easy to talk with her, so long as we’re not discussing the past or any part of the present other than the work we’ve been tasked with.

We finish eating, and I reach over to pick up her empty plate, only for her to slide it out of my grasp.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

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