Page 22 of By the Pint

What would I say to Killian?

I needed to get dressed, get home, and figure out how to salvage this. I had not wasted thirteen years to fail this spectacularly.

I crossed the floor to the wardrobe and—

Well, that was weird.

My clothes — my suit pants, jacket, and shirt — had been folded neatly on the dresser. Spots of blood lined my shirt collar. I brought a hand to my neck to feel the places where Dima’s teeth grazed me. My cock twitched at the memory.

How dare he taint the best sex of my life by running away?

I glanced at Dima’s quilting book, still open to his ‘nude’. And, yes, it was pretty accurate for AI. Dammit, why’d he have to be so … unexpectedly hot? I slammed the book shut and shoved it in my case. Hung my suit back up and tucked it into its bag. I’d spit on my shirt collar later to get rid of the blood. Or not. Perhaps I’d leave it as a reminder of how badly I’d fucked everything up.

Did I fuck it up, though? It wasn’t as if I didn’t try to penetrate his thoughts. Several times. And then we got a bit … distracted.

I showered and dressed in my casual clothes, cream chinos and an off-white linen button-down. Wouldn’t be heading straight home in any case. I needed to think, and there was only one place where I could do that without interruption.

I checked out of Dreadmourne Castle and drove to the gym.

Since vampires didn’t need to work out — their physiques frozen at the moment of turning — the only gym in the City of the Undead was in the familiar-run district known as the Dawn Quarter. And since most familiars were well paid — modern labour laws to the rescue — and hoped to become vampires themselves one day, many of us were keen to achieve, or in my case maintain, the silhouettes we’d be content with for an eternity. The gym was large, well equipped, and clean. Likemystandard of clean. Even better, unlike a lot of places in the city, it was open during daylight hours.

“Casey!” said the receptionist, Lola, as I reached the front desk.

“Hey gorg,” said the other receptionist, Jonas.

Lola and Jonas were a swinging couple that could have easily been mistaken for siblings. Both half-fae, half-human,both blonde, both desperate for me to join them in their sexcapades.

“Guys! Who needs cardio with you two around?” I said, placing a hand dramatically over my chest. The pair trilled with excitement.

The trick to mind control was understanding what motivated each person. Some people were motivated by fear. Fear of being left behind, fear of losing something or someone, fear of rejection. Some were motivated by rewards. Food, success, sex, money, power … immortality.

Mind control?I meant mind reading, obviously.

“Room six,” Jonas said, handing me a swipe card to a semi-private room used by the elite gym members. People like me. The rich, the famous. Or ex-famous.

“Thanks, J,” I said, taking the card and grazing my fingers against his wrist. I waited for his internal flutter at our contact, but it never came. Maybe Iwaslosing my touch with my gifts.

Room six was empty, save for two guys on the rowing machines. I headed straight to the weights. Pumping heavy shit always helped me to feel in control again.

Not that I was feeling out of control. What an absurd thought.

I dropped my towel and bottle onto the bench next to the mirrors and tried to ignore the rowing machine blokes. Their internal conversations weren’t particularly bothersome or noisy — one guy was composing his dinner schedule for the week based on what ingredients in his fridge would sour first, and the other guy was assembling a list of viable reasons to give his mother why he didn’t make it over for Winter Fest this year — but I could’ve done without the distraction.

I started with bicep curls. Twenty kilogrammes. Ten reps.

Why couldn’t I penetrate his thoughts? Mr Black. Dima. How was it possible? How?

Telepathy worked like this: I heard people’s most prominent thoughts as though they were speaking them out loud, but I could also access their minds. Slip inside. Browse things. Rummage around. Unearth things they were ashamed of. Things they’d love nothing more than to forget about forever. Things they had actually forgotten about.

But not Dima.

His mind was quiet. Every time I’d tried to force my way in, I was met with the same baffling images. Him, quilting, smiling obviously, and contemplating utter nonsense. Fat quarters, and applique, and selvages, whatever the fuck they were. And that was it. There was nothing else there. No holes or gaps at the edges of his thoughts to squeeze through. No cracks or fissures to pry open wider.

Surely that wasn’t everything. No other feelings? No hopes? No fears? No daydreams? No memories? No reactions to me?

Bullshit.

Of course he had reactions to me. I fucking saw them. Felt them as he kissed me under the moonlight. As he fucked me against the wall. As he licked the blood from my throat.

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