Page 62 of Ophelia's Vampire

“It’s not you,” I tell her, trying and failing to curb the agitated edge to my voice.

We’re back at the warehouse, me behind my desk and Serra behind hers on the opposite side of the room. Work has been unfortunately light this week, nothing much to distract from the troubling tangle of my brooding and regret.

Serra’s hard emerald stare holds mine, unflinching, so I sigh and try again.

“Really, Serra, it’s not you.”

“So what is it, then, and whose ass do we need to kick to make it better?”

Despite myself, I chuckle. I lean back in my chair and intertwine my fingers behind my head, letting out a long breath.

“No asses to kick, unless you’ve somehow magickally got a lead on the Haverstad investigation.”

I brought Serra up to speed on the case the moment I got back from visiting Seattle, though I’d originally intended to doso in a limited capacity. It’s far beyond the scope of our usual business concerns, and I wouldn’t have blamed her for not wanting anything to do with it.

Serra, however, jumped in as she usually does. With both feet and boundless enthusiasm.

Even if between the two of us, we still got next to nowhere.

Before teaming up with Ophelia and following Audra’s lead, Serra and I had started with the campaign, and with Haverstad himself. But surveilling the mayor and doing our damnedest to weed through any information we could dig up on him didn’t reveal anything particularly helpful. At least not about the attacks. The old bastard is crooked seven ways from Sunday in his abuses of power while in office, and though the idea of using some of those other unsavory bits of information to knock the prick’s reelection chances is appealing, the Bureau case comes first.

Serra lets out a disgruntled snort. “No, nothing helpful there. Unless you’re ready to nail him for the inside deals he’s been orchestrating on those public works projects?”

Another lovely little detail we’ve uncovered, one of the many ways he’s enriched himself and his cronies over the years.

“Tempting,” I murmur. “But not yet.”

“Does it have something to do with Ophelia, then? Your mood?”

I don’t answer, but that silence seems to be enough of an answer for her.

“You two will figure it out, I’m sure.”

Serra turns back to her computer, her powers of perception only matched by her tact and her innate understanding of when to push a topic and when to leave well enough alone.

Even if that tactful silence leaves me right where I was before she spoke up.

Brooding. Stewing. A dark cloud hanging just above my head.

Ophelia and I have been awkwardly hovering around each other for the past few days. She repaired whatever it is she needed to in her van and has gone back to staying in it, and I’m not fool enough to press her on it or invite her back inside.

At least beyond my clumsy attempt to do so that night in my kitchen.

Gods, I couldn’t have handled things worse if I’d tried.

I’d regretted leaving that morning from the moment I stepped outside the house. The shame of walking out like that had gnawed on me all day. Despite whatever her reaction to waking up naked and sprawled across me might have been, I should have stayed to face it.

And when I came home and found her in my kitchen—dark shadows under her beautiful brown eyes, sneaking back out to her van like a thief in the night—it hit me like a physical blow.

I should have been there for her.

Though I can’t imagine she would have appreciated me trying to educate her about how to best take care of herself after being fed from by a vampire, I should have done it anyway.

There’s no excuse for it, no reason it should have slipped my mind that she might never have had any reason to ask or need to know.

The first time I bit her, I hardly took more than a few swallows, not enough to cause any lingering effects beyond the initial rush of pleasure.

But the second time…

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