Page 43 of Dawn Caravan
“Fine.” He poured a cup of coffee. “I’ll be nice.”
Chloe looked skeptical. “If you really want to be nice, you’ll share some of that coffee.”
“Sorry,” he said. “This coffee is part of my immortal territory now. You’re going to have to get your own.”
* * *
He staredat the clothes in his suitcase, debating what to wear.
What the fuck does it matter, Vecchio? You don’t care what she thinks.
Except he did. It was foolish and petty, but he wanted her to want him. Wanted her to miss him and hunger for him like he hungered for her.
Had she taken a lover? Had she gone back to Cheng in Shanghai? Maybe she’d looked up René DuPont.
Ben picked out a pair of slim black slacks and a dark grey shirt that brought out the stone colors in his weird eyes. He rolled up the sleeves to show off his forearms. Tenzin liked his forearms.
He’d always kind of wanted a tattoo, but he never got one. Too late now.
Ben left his apartment and walked down to the club on the first floor, entering from the owner’s hallway behind the bar.
It was the exact opposite of Radu’s place, though the clubs were within walking distance of each other. Green velvet cushions softened the seats in the wood-paneled club. The long bar was burnished wood, no doubt bought from some establishment that had been in business for a hundred years. Soft music drifted overhead instead of pounding from speakers in every corner.
Human servers moved among vampire and mortal patrons, serving whiskey, blood-wine, and other cocktails. A small red pin on the collar of their button-down shirts identified which waiters or waitresses were available as donors if a patron requested it. He turned his head as one particularly attractive server passed him. She smelled like dark roses with a layer of something heady underneath.
Divorce your hungers, one from the others. Blood hunger. Sexual hunger. Social hunger. Emotional hunger.His sire’s voice echoed through his mind.All these are needs you must meet in their turn, but learning to understand their subtle flavors is vital to taming them.
In a large booth halfway down the bar, Tenzin sat alone, reading something in a manila folder. She looked up and nodded as soon as he entered the room.
What good does it do to tie sexual hunger and blood hunger together? Does it promote control? No. It only leads to loss of control when either appetite is whetted.
Seeing Tenzin—being near her—caused nothing less than a cascade of hungers, one after the other.
Sexual hunger. He hadn’t taken another lover since they had parted ways, and he was not suited to monasticism.
Blood hunger. His throat burned at the memory of her blood. He’d sampled humans across Asia and Europe now, and none of them touched the taste of her.
Emotional hunger. Maybe the deepest hunger of all. Seeing her the night before had been excruciating. Part of Ben wanted everything to be the same when nothing was. He wanted his best friend back. He wanted Tenzin to be the one guiding him through the complexities of this new body and new life. He wanted his partner.
Instead, the sight of her produced burning resentment and wave after wave of hunger.
Be nice.
Nicewasn’t the word that came to mind.
It’s not personal. It’s business.
Ben sat and examined her openly.
Unlike the previous night, Tenzin was dressed for business. Gone was the blood-red dress and lipstick. She wore a tailored jacket the color of caramel over a maroon tunic. Chocolate-brown leggings and knee-high boots completed a look that Ben knew she had not picked for herself.
“You look professional,” he said. “Did Arthur pick it out?”
She nodded. “I told him I had an important business trip to Europe, and he told me I was not allowed to pick my clothes.”
“Sounds like Arthur.”
She looked down with a small frown. “He did not give me any black clothes. I had to sneak some into my bag.”
