Page 7 of Even Vampires Bleed
“Awesome,” I hear him say, “So, I won’t remember my own name, but somehow I’ll still remember fey porn.”
I see him spiraling again, but this time it looks worse. His face closes off, and all I can see is despair and hopelessness.
I once again feel the need to hug him, but I’m not sure it would be welcome right about now. I’m not even sure he would welcome nice or comforting words right about now.
So, I do the next best thing.
“I don’t think we have the same kind of books in our libraries,” I say, trying to make myself look outraged.
I know what I just said is completely false, and he probably knows it, too, because Isabella—the main character I was telling him about earlier—is exactly that, fey, and with the detail of gore I gave him from my descriptions he probably already knows this book isn’t a “young adult” one.
A small, knowing smile appears on his face and right then, I know there is still a hint of hope inside of him.
“I’ll get you all my books one day, Little Luciole,” he answers, but my heart breaks when I see his smile turning sad once again.
This time I don’t hold myself back. I drop to the ground next to him and hug him with all my might.
His stills when my arms circle him, but after a few seconds his arms wrap around me and he squeezes me gently.
5
Cassiopé
It feels like an eternity when Léandre finally releases me from the hug, but I’m not gonna lie. I liked it. I liked it way too much.
I know I shouldn’t. I definitely know that now isn’t the right time for my little heart to get attached to him.
His future is more than unsure, and there is a high chance the man I’m seeing now won’t even be the same in only a day.
No, I can’t get attached.
One hug needs to be enough, and I need to leave him be.
Maybe not laying on the ground, sad and pretty drunk, though.
“Come with me. I’ll lead you to your room,” I tell him as I help him up, giving a look around the room. Angélique disappeared. Gods know where she went, and it looks like Elhyor followed her. “You might need to sleep to sober up some more,” I add.
“I’m not drunk,” he responds, but the words are slurred, and he realizes as he says it that he might actually be really drunk. “Okay, I am,” he says in a whisper, “but not to the point that I won’t remember what was said this afternoon.”
He seems to ponder what he just said, and then he adds, “Well, I’ll remember tomorrow; after that, it all depends on a teeny, tiny button on the devil’s holo. Am I right?”
He’s not wrong, so I can’t even deny what he just said. Instead, I steer the conversation in another direction.
“Want me to tell you the end of Isabella’s story?”
That seems to perk him up—as much as that could in his drunken state—and brings a small smile to his lips. My heart soars when I see that his smile has no sadness in it.
Maybe I can find a way to keep him entertained enough so he doesn’t drown in sadness until we find a way to save him.
“I don’t have Isabella’s story in my library,” Léandre mumbles, and I feel him sag against me.
Oh gods, he’s heavy.
I don’t know how I’m going to manage to help him up if he puts so much weight on me.
I’m not a warrior. My body doesn't have muscle. My time is spent in libraries. Yes, plural. Short of Versailles, I’ve visited all the libraries in Paris, and I’ve read more books than I can count. It might also help that bat speed isn’t to be underestimated, and that I can read faster than anyone I know.
“Léandre, any chance you can stand on your own?” I ask him. When I see the bewildered face he’s making, I add, “You’re crushing me, and I don’t think we’re going to make it up the stairs without crashing to the ground if we keep on like this.”
