Page 17 of Her Dark Salvation

Gina came back with a crystal single of whiskey and an ice pack.

“What about dinner?” I asked.

“Dinner can wait.” She handed me the drink and the ice. “Drink that and ice your lip while you tell me what happened.”

“I don’t need ice.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Humor me.”

“Bossy little sisters,” I grumbled and swigged the whiskey. I lifted the ice to my lip. The wound was almost healed from the power in my blood, but I had to admit the warmth of the whiskey and the chill of the ice eased the remaining discomfort and a lot of my tension.

She leaned back in the rocking chair and folded her arms across her chest. “What happened?”

“I pulled a mugger off a guy on Salem Street. He landed a lucky punch.” I moved the ice from my lip to my knuckles and threw back the rest of the whiskey. “I landed more.”

“No doubt,” she said, her tone sharp.

She narrowed her eyes, but before she could begin with a barrage of questions, I lifted my hand to hold her off, ice pack in tow.

“They’re both alive. Vito’s handling it.”

The tension in her shoulders eased. “Did anyone notice you change?”

“Yes, but you know they won’t say anything. Even if they do, no one will believe them.”

She nodded and stared into the empty fireplace, worrying her lip.

For the most part, blood demons hid in plain sight. We didn’t flaunt our extraordinary abilities, and human Sources were as motivated as we were to keep our secret. They didn’t want to lose their income or, for some, their kink fulfillment. But more importantly, the average human didn’t want to believe in the supernatural. They’d explain away most paranormal experiences, convince themselves there had to be a rational explanation. No one wanted to be labeled crazy.

Gina’s focus drifted back to my face, and she examined me with the unnecessary intensity typical of overprotective sisters. “You look pale. You haven’t fed in a while, have you? You shouldn’t wait so long. And now this? You need to feed, Marco.”

“How’s work? Is everything lined up for the Foundation gala next month?”

“Dannazione,” she snapped. “Don’t change the subject. You’ve always had such a hang-up about feeding. I don’t get it. It’s not like we didn’t grow up in the same house. You should be feeding at least once a week.”

She wasn’t wrong on either account. I did have a hang-up about feeding, but I wasn’t about to admit that to her or explain why.

I dropped the ice pack into the tumbler I’d left on the end table and pushed myself out of the recliner. I knelt before my sister and took her hands. “I’m fine. I’m just hungry.” She scoffed and looked away. “Forfood, Gina.”

She turned back to face me, still chewing on her lip.

I squeezed her fingers. “I promise I’ll feed tonight, okay? But after dinner. Per favore,” I whined. “I’m starving.”

She swatted my arm, this time with her hand, and a genuine smile transformed her worried face. “All right, all right.”

I stood and pulled her to her feet.

“Vino?” she asked over her shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Yes,” I called back.

I picked up the empty glass and ice pack from the end table and paused, running my tongue over the fading cut in my lip. It already felt better. So did my hand. Still, I was drained.

Had it already been a week? I’d lost track of time dealing with my European office, extorting permits out of city hall, and planning the new front I was determined to build in the financial district. I needed blood more than the food I was about to eat, and I wouldn’t regain my full strength until I fed. I pulled out my cell and texted Vito.

I need to visit Sarah. I’ll text you when I’m finished with dinner.

Sarah was hearty and athletic. I could drink my fill. And our transactions were detached and professional, just the way I liked them.

---