Page 2 of Blood Descendants
Just like all the others, the woman tenses for just a moment, and then relaxes into a frozen state.
When I’d witnessed this very nearly same event happen two weeks ago, I’d been so horrified I’d immediately left. My hands had shaken the entire walk home. I didn’t get a moment of sleep that night.
Then, for an entire week, I was in hard denial about what I’d seen. I reasoned that something had been slipped into my drink, even though I hadn’t had one. I had definitely hallucinated. But I knew the truth in my gut.
Fangs plus blood plus victims being immobilized equals vampire.
I still can hardly believe what I’m seeing.
It took me another week to track down the location of another one of these parties. I only found out about it three hours ago.
And now here I am.
I scan the crowd again. I don’t know if I really expected her to be here. If she were okay, I would have heard from her. She’s not the type to simply disappear on me. So, I shouldn’t be surprised when I don’t find her face in the crowd.
The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself, but I’m desperate.
I pull my phone out and open it to a picture of Ophelia.
“Excuse me?” I say to the woman closest to me. “Have you seen this woman recently?”
“I don’t think so, but this is my first time coming to one of these parties,” she answers.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I move on. I ask the next man I come across. He says no. I ask two more women, and neither of them recognizes Ophelia.
I turn, scanning the crowd. If I can figure out who is working this party, they might be my best bet.
There, at the very back of the room, I see a man in a black suit open a door. He leads that first woman I spoke to through it and closes it behind them.
I take a step forward, something in my gut pulling me in that direction.
“Trust me, you don’t want to find out what’s going on behind that door.”
The deep voice behind me immediately stops me in my tracks.
Alarm bells go off in my brain. Something tingles along my skin. But a shiver runs down my spine at the timbre of the voice.
I turn, and the man is a perfect match to the voice.
He wears black from head to toe. Black motorcycle boots. Black jeans. Black tee shirt. Black leather jacket.
A wash of tattoos spreads from the neckline of his shirt, climbing up his throat, wrapping around his neck. There’s a thick, heavy silver chain around his neck. He has a wicked jawline and a clean-shaven face. Both ears are pierced with silver studs, and a matching silver hoop is through his left nostril.
Strong and vicious. That’s how I’d describe all of his facial features. Lips of an incubus. A nose every sculptor envies. Dark eyes and thick brows. And the most perfect dark wavy locks I’ve ever seen in my life.
He’s inarguably the most tempting man I’ve ever laid eyes on. But every inch of him radiates the same feeling: dangerous.
“You work here?” I manage to ask, even though my mouth is suddenly inexplicably dry.
“No,” he answers simply. He does a quick scan of me, but it’s entirely different from the way the man in the red suit looked at me. I feel as if this man is… evaluating me. Sizing me up.
I recognize that look. It’s the same one I use when I evaluate my clients at work. It’s the one I use to decide if they can handle themselves on the mat.
“Then how do you know what’s in that room?” I ask. I stand a little straighter. Even at my full height and wearing three-inch heels, he still towers above me. “How do you know I don’t want to find out?”
“Instinct,” he says simply.
I take half a step closer to him, never breaking eye contact. “The only instincts I trust are my own.”
