Page 81 of House of Crimson Hearts
The carriage is so smooth and the tunnel so dark that I don’t realise until we pull into the Midnight Market station that I’d fallen asleep.
“Good evening,” Octavia says. “Was your nap restorative?”
I wipe my face. “Did I snore?”
“Terribly,” Octavia says, smirking.
“Oh my gods, did I actually?”
“No,” she laughs. “A little light breathing, occasionally on the loud side, but that was it. You’re quite beautiful when you’re asleep. Far less angry, anyway.”
Beautiful? Hearing that word in her mouth makes my insides squirm.
We make our way through the Midnight Market hunting for the Whisper Club door.
We pass through the main square at the back of the heart of the market, and it’s packed full of people. Humans and vampires alike, the air is palpable. Thick with unease and skittish glances. The square is divided in half, though the division isn’t vampire versus human. It’s cure versus anti-cure and neither side is happy to see the other.
Those opposing the cure have hideous signs that depict a person being burned at the stake.
“Is that supposed to be a dhampir?” I breathe.
Octavia nods and then closes the space between us. Goosebumps rise up my arms.
“They’re awful. Why would they want to kill the first dhampir in a millennium?”
“Humans can be awful.”
“Do you think they’ll actually try and kill the dhampir when they’re activated?”
She glances at me, her face grave. “I think humans generally try and kill anything new and different.” She walks half a pace in front of me, her body edging across mine like a barrier.
“You don’t need to protect me, I’m not some defenceless weakling,” I say.
“You’re on my team, which means you’re my responsibility, and this gathering doesn’t look too healthy,” she says, scanning the crowds.
There are banners and placards. People jostling, shouting and jeering at each other. A dozen hunters and a dozen vampires line the front of the crowds, keeping them back and contained. In the middle of the square is a lectern and two queues of people, one stretching from each side of the square.
“It’s just a rally,” I say.
“Rallies quickly turn nasty, and I don’t want our win jeopardised.”
She’s not wrong, and I’ll give her that these crowds, while usually here, are bigger than normal. I wonder if news of the competition has spread already.
“So this isn’t about me but the win? I’ll try not to be offended by that.”
She tilts her head at me. “You want me protective, you don’t want me protective. Make your mind up, little hunter.”
What I want is to ignore that line of questioning. “Come on, let’s get out of the square, there’s an alley down there.”
We veer back towards the heart of the market. I notice a few market stalls I’ve been meaning to stop at, so I touch Octavia’s arm and tug her to a stop so that I can peruse. I need more art supplies. It’s been a couple of days since I drew anything or painted anything and half my supplies in the apartment are low anyway.
It’s cold tonight; the chill makes mist roll off the canals. It drifts in bubbles and billows through the air, making my breath plume out every time I breathe or speak. I wrap my coat tighter around me.
We stop at my favourite seller, and I have a nosy through the items, picking up a few sets of paint tubes and a brush or five, several pencils of varying strengths, some charcoal, and oil pastels.
“You draw?” Octavia says, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I do. I’m an amateur really. But that tiny bit of magic in our family I mentioned mostly materialised in the form of party tricks. But both Mum and I loved using it for art.”
