Page 72 of Discovery of the Vampire
"Look," I told her as I cupped her face and kissed the crown of her head, breathing her scent deep into my lungs so I'd never forget it. "If you need some time to think about it, I understand. But I hope you'll stay here with us while you do that where you'll be safer. My offer to sleep on the couch still stands if you need some space.”
"I don't need to think about it." She looked up at me. "Who am I to argue with fate?" Then she smiled and stepped out of my arms. "I'm tired. I'm going to go brush my teeth. Are you coming to bed?"
Like an idiot, I stood where she'd left me, watching her walk over to her suitcase. Then she remembered she didn't have a toothbrush. We'd left it at her apartment. "Do you have an extra toothbrush?" When I didn't answer, she lifted her eyebrows. "Brogan? A toothbrush?"
I rubbed the back of my neck, expecting her to tell me any moment that she was just fucking with me and she was leaving. Or to kick me out of my room. Or…or…something. It couldn't be this fucking easy. "In the bathroom. Top drawer. There should be some there."
She walked past me, stopping to give me a quick kiss before she left the bedroom and crossed the hall to the bathroom.
"Thank you," she said, then she closed the door as I stood there like an idiot.
28
ESME
Islipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Brogan's sleeping form. His chest rose and fell with unnecessary breaths—a habit from his human life that his body hadn’t forgotten, I supposed, because if I remembered correctly, vampires really didn't need to breathe.
The bond between us hummed like a live wire, a strange, almost erotic current that flowed between our very souls. As I prepared to leave him behind, I sensed his contentment, a deep, almost purring satisfaction emanating from him, and a pang of guilt twisted my stomach.
I didn’t want to do this, but I forced myself to turn away. With the people from Seattle missing, it was more important now than ever that I follow through with my original plan. I only had a few hours before sunrise to complete one final trial. The most dangerous one.
I dressed silently in the darkness in the same clothes I'd had on earlier, slipping on my most comfortable boots and tying my hair back before gathering the supplies I'd hidden in my bag when I'd left Mexico. At the time, I'd only been desperate to hang onto any kind of mementos I could find. I never expected I’d need to use them.
Brogan rolled over onto his stomach, and his hand slid across the sheet, searching for me. I froze, silently inhaling and exhaling through my mouth until he moaned in his sleep then settled again, his breathing evening out. If I'd known I was going to be in his bed tonight, I would have come prepared with a sleeping potion to make sure he wouldn't wake up while I was gone. But I couldn’t have known Marcus would come back to my apartment, and I’d had no privacy to make one once we’d gotten to the house.
For a long moment, I stared at Brogan’s strong back, wanting nothing more than to climb back into that bed with him so I would be there when he woke.And I would be, I silently swore to myself.
But first, I had to survive the night.
The house was quiet as I crept downstairs, wishing I'd paid more attention to any creaky spots on the stairs when we’d traversed them today. I hit a spot midway down and froze, listening for footsteps. A few seconds passed, and I heard nothing but the ticking of the clock in the front room and the pounding of my heart in my ears. Hurrying down the remainder of the stairs, I tiptoed across the kitchen and out the backdoor, only stopping to grab a reusable bag and a few beeswax candles from the front room that I recognized from Lizzy's shop.
Outside, the foggy New Orleans night wrapped around me like a shroud. But the French Quarter was never truly silent, not even in the dead hours before dawn. The streets still carried what were quickly becoming familiar sounds—distant laughter, the muffled bass of a closing bar, the scrape of a street sweeper against uneven cobblestones. Even Bourbon Street, usually a riot of neon and noise, had quieted to a low murmur, save for the occasional drunk stumbling home, or a pair of barbacks hauling trash to the curb.
I turned onto a side street, and the air grew thick with the lingering scent of spilled liquor and other disgusting smells I'd rather not linger on. The gas lamps flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows along the uneven pavement. Away from the heart of The Quarter, the city’s age pressed in around me as iron balconies loomed overhead, draped in vines and history, watching as I passed.
By the time I neared the cemetery, the noises and smells from Bourbon street were almost completely gone. The streets were empty other than the occasional homeless person or a lone cab rolling past, its headlights cutting through the mist that pooled near the old tombs. The towering white walls of St. Louis Cemetery rose ahead, stark and silent against the dark sky…
Waiting.
The locked wrought iron gate swung open at my touch, and I carefully closed it behind me.
Finding a secluded corner between two mausoleums, I set up my altar. Candles made of pure beeswax. A lock of my mother's singed hair that I'd managed to save from the embers. My father's worn leather wallet, melded together from the heat of the fire. And a blackened piece of myabuela'sdress. The white one with the large blue, pink, and orange flowers sewn around the square neckline. The only possessions I'd saved from what remained of my family once the fire had burned itself out.
Sniffling back the tears that tried to cloud my sight, I arranged the last pieces of my heart in a circle, the only remaining threads connecting me to the family I'd lost. With trembling fingers, I pulled out my small knife and laid the blade against my palm, closing my fist around it. I barely flinched this time when it sliced through my skin, and as the blood dripped from my fist, I carefully traced a complex pattern around the altar.
"Yo invoco a los espíritus de mi sangre," I spoke the words with power and intent, calling to my ancestors.I invoke the spirits of my blood.
The cemetery mist thickened around me, swirling in unnatural patterns as the spirits roused from their slumber. The two previous trials had strengthened me, but this—the Trial of Death—would demand everything I had. I sliced my palm again, watching as dark droplets fell onto the altar's center.
"Con mi sangre como puente, busco su sabiduría." With my blood as a bridge, I seek your wisdom.
The candle flames stretched upward, unnaturally tall and still despite the night breeze. A pain ripped through my gut, and my body felt suddenly hollow, as though something essential was being drawn from me. This was the price—a piece of my spirit to commune with those who had passed.
"Mamá, Papá, Abuela," I called out, my voice breaking. "Por favor! Guide me. Show me the path."
Again, I took the knife to my palm, offering more of my blood as I repeated my plea. Again. And again. And again. I gazed in wonder as the first cuts healed before my eyes, right before I sliced them open again, calling to the family that I'd lost. “Help me find them!” I begged the spirits.
Had my family abandoned me? The way I'd abandoned them?
