Page 19 of What Fools These Immortals Be
Mydesk.
“I am fine. Suspicions?”
Maurice smirks and pushes off from the door. “Hunt business.”
“You think she fed from one of the fae?”
He gives me the faintest of nods but does not verbally confirm again that our suspicions align. Very well, then.
“Are you investigating?”
That gets me an incredulous, offended look, and I throw my hands up into the air in frustration.
“I cannot assume, Maurice. You tell me nothing.”
“I cannot.”
I snort. “As if you never break the rules.”
“Do you?”
I freeze, and Maurice sees it. He pauses, one hand on one of the armchairs as if he is just about to sit down. His eyes glitter, and when he speaks, his voice comes out a purr.
“Oh, crai. I didn’t know that was something you were into.”
“I am not,” I say, far too quickly, and Maurice’s smirk only widens. He lowers himself into the chair, crossing one leg over the other.
It is not that I did not think I was breaking the rules—only that I was being careful about it. The donors I have fed from the longest have always known. Have always enjoyed it.
And as chieftain, it was never so difficult a desire to fulfil. I was removed enough from the inner workings of the clan that, if found out, Vasile would have retained his position. At least, it felt that way.
But the truth is, I like to chase before I feed. All vampires do. We are hunters, at our core, and that chase… It is all I desire.
I have not found a suitable donor since the attack. I am not sure I ever will again. The crai cannot indulge this way, and if I were caught, I would risk the future of our entire clan.
“I have no need of you for the rest of the night,” I say, aware that it is far too early to be trying to dismiss Maurice that way. Particularly now, when he looks like a shark who has scented blood in the water. Oh, I do not doubt him. Give him enough time, he will find out my secret.
Still, he appears to have something he would rather be doing because he shrugs off his glee and gets to his feet with a decisive nod. “Very well. If you do, make sure to call.”
He very sheepishly gave me a phone number two nights ago. I received the same number in a text from Deacon a few hours later, so it would appear that our bodyguards are in some amount of contact.
“I will,” I say. I think we both know I’d rather cut off my own arm than do that.
Maurice leaves my office and once I cannot hear the faint pulse of his heart, I sigh and lean back in my chair, speculatively eyeing the window at the other side of the room.
I think I can fit through it.
Two hours later, I find myself in The Green Man, a quiet pub in the centre of neutral territory. Although it is in Westminster, it stands out to my eyes. From the outside, it looks dark and shabby—which is not actually a contrast to how it is within, only it is much larger than it seems.
Vampires spot me and quickly turn their gazes away, ignoring me with an exaggeration that I do not truly mind. This is not the place to be recognised, perhaps, but then none of us are likely supposed to be here.
I make my way to the bar, spotting a handful of wolves as well as a group of hunters who appear to be off-duty. There are humans, too, and though I think perhaps some are witches, many are not. After all, there are plenty of humans in our orbit who have no magic of their own, who are dragged in by circumstance of birth or action.
And there are fae, too. At least I believe there are. They look as human as anyone else in here, but their hearts beat like hummingbirds’, and their gazes are sharp and assessing. Dangerous, some part of me deep inside knows, even as another part of me wonders what their blood might taste like.
I jerk my gaze away from a pair I’ve been staring at down the bar and focus on the very human bartender standing before me. He gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’ll it be?”
“Blood.”
