Page 111 of The Art of Exiley

I’m insanely resentful. This is my world, and he’s doing it better than me. But it’s hard to stay annoyed when I see our room.

It’s opulent and cozy at the same time. Lots of crisp white and rich gold. There are two queen-size marshmallow-soft beds and a view of New York that makes it look like the sanitized movie version of the city instead of the real one I grew up in.

The bathroom has more gold and more white with beautiful marble tilesand a bath big enough to swim in. Once I’ve dumped all my things, I take a luxurious shower with sweet-smelling soaps and towels made of clouds. It’s only when we’re both scrubbed clean and wearing fresh clothing that I realize that I’malone in a hotel roomwith His Highness Raphael Vanguard.

“I’m famished,” Rafe says. “Let’s go get some food.” Well, that solves that problem… for now.

Rafe stands out on the streets of New York. Even though he’s wearing his regular-people clothes—jeans and a T-shirt and his leather jacket, which I did eventually return to him—with his looks and his build and his man bun, admiring eyes are constantly drawn to him. I see the assumption that he must be someone famous, an actor or a model, because regular people just don’t lookthatgood. Those eyes all then slide over to me questioningly, then quickly away when they realize I’m no one special. It’s an incredibly familiar feeling. The exact way I always feel alongside Kor. It’s been months since I’ve felt this invisible.

Rafe is under the mistaken belief that he has tasted good pizza since he had some in Naples where “pizza was invented.” So I have no choice but to set him straight with real New York pizza, which we eat on a bench in Central Park. Then, because we don’t plan to move forward with our plan until nightfall, we wander around the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I’ve been to the Met countless times, but now it’s with new eyes. I see the foundations of Maker life chronicled in the Renaissance art. Rafe gets very worked up about one Raphael painting that he says is absolutely a forgery, as his family has the original hanging in their home in Avant. I steer him to the modern art section so he doesn’t make a scene, but there he quickly loses interest.

“Ada, this has been lovely, but I’m fatigued and want to rest up for later. I’m going to go back to the hotel for a nap. Why don’t you stay here? You’re clearly having a good time, and there’s so much more to see.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. He lifts my hands to his lips, brushes a kiss across my knuckles, and says, “I’ll see you later.” And then he’s gone.

I can’t help but feel disappointed. I didn’t want to go separate ways. I was having a nice time together. I continue to explore on my own, my enthusiasm deflated. Why did he even suggest coming here if he was gonna ditch me?

Then it hits me. Like a truck through a red light. What time did the receptionist say her shift was over? Four thirty? It’s four forty-five now. Of course he’s horny after weeks of not getting any while pretending to date me. I feel sick to my stomach. And angry. Before I can think about what a bad idea it is, I’m storming back to our hotel.

I crash through the door to our room, ready to let my anger burn hot, but what I see stops me cold in my tracks.

Rafe looks up sharply, shocked by my entrance. He is indeed with the receptionist in an intimate embrace, but not in flagrante delicto, as I had expected. They are both shirtless, but I assume that’s for the practicality of cleanliness rather than anything else. Rafe sits on the bed, and she is draped over his lap. I’m pretty sure she’s unconscious.

And then there’s the blood. Lots of it.

Rafe’s mouth is wide open in surprise. His teeth glisten red in stark contrast to the pearly white peeking through. Blood drips down his chin, down his neck. His chest is a sculpted canvas for a messy Jackson Pollock painting of crimson spatter. None of it is his blood. It’s all hers. Oozing out in a wine-red river from a gash in her slender wrist. Rafe’s spoon is on the bedside table, open to a mod with a sharp, now scarlet-tipped, point.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” he states, as if I’ve caught him borrowing a book without permission or something equally ordinary. His words sound moist and sticky from the blood coating his teeth. He notices this too and closes his lips. As if in slow motion, I watch the skin around his lips rise and fall into slopes and valleys as he sweeps his tongue around the inside of his mouth. His throat bobs as he swallows. He looks straight at me, as matter-of-fact as ever. “I do apologize. I didn’t want you to see this.”

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I’m dumbly, numbly trying to process what I’m seeing.

“What—” I don’t even know what to ask. I contemplate just turning around and running as fast as I can.

“Blood doping,” Rafe explains simply, as if it should be obvious to me. His pupils are dilated, and his muscles look pumped and defined, bigger than usual.

The feeling of him biting my neck tickles my memory. I remember thinking he wanted to break through the skin and suck out my soul.

“By consuming her blood, I absorb her blood cells into my bloodstream, which gives me extra energy, stamina, and strength.” He states it all so factually while the woman lies limp in his lap. “The Vanguard family line has enhanced digestive systems that produce protective enzymes that prevent the blood cells from being broken down. Blood consumption is used at times when we need an extra advantage.”

“You drink blood to make you stronger?”

He nods.

“You’re telling me you’re a vampire?”

“The earliest Vanguard experimentation did make the subjects morereliant on blood than we are now, and some even had fangs. They are likely the source of the vampire mythos.”

Consider my mind officially blown.

I look at the girl. “Is she…?” I can’t even say it.

“She’s fine. I didn’t drink that much, and I muddled her.” I see the empty cup on the bedside table. “She’ll wake up, think she fell asleep watching a movie with me, and be on her way, no worse for wear.”

And then I gasp as the pieces click together. I grasp my arm, remembering the light pink scratch from Carnevale. Rafe sees the movement and nods. “Yes, when the Guard traitors stole your blood, they took it for doping. They were likely looking to have some fun at your expense before they handed you over to the Inquisitors. As a Sire, your blood would have a much more profound effect than usual; it could even temporarily grant the drinker your Sire abilities.” He shifts the girl off his lap and smears patch paste on her wrist. “However, the Testament of the Guard has long forbidden the consumption of another Maker’s blood. Only philistine or animal blood can be used for doping.”

“How… can you just compare humans to animals like that?”

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