Page 67 of Road Trip with a Vampire
He frowned. “Indeed.”
“It’s fitting that they have a dumb name,” I continued. “They’re these pretentious assholes who can trace their bloodlines to a group of very revered sires from centuries ago. Literally nobody cares about that, but to them it’s a huge deal. They’re absolute jerks to everyone else because of it.” I snorted. “Imighthave accidentally-on-purpose set a fire at a party they threw in the 1800s that burned the place to the ground.”
Peter raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Reginald covered up my involvement in that mess for years,” I continued. “Him getting on The Collective’s shit list for it is the only thing I feel guilty about with regard to that nonsense. As for the vampires who died in that fire?” I shook my head. “I hadn’t intended for anyone to die, but I’ll admit I haven’t lost a single wink of sleep over it in all the years since it happened.”
“I cannot imagine anyone more insufferable than a vampire who feels superior just because of who created them,” Peter said.
“Right?” I said, feeling vindicated. It was fleeting, though. I’d saved the worst for last. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. “Other accidents, I did lose sleep over. I more than lost sleep.”
As if he could tell I was struggling, Peter’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, massaging gently. I turned to look at him, surprised at how close we were sitting. When I’d begun sharing my story with him, I’d made sure there was plenty of space between our bodies. But inch by inch, revelation by revelation, we must have crept closer, as if pulled together by an invisible magnet.Now our legs were pressed together, knee to hip, our faces mere inches apart.
I closed my eyes, allowing myself to be soothed by his gentle, knowing touch.
“Do you want to tell me the rest of it?” Peter’s voice was a quiet rumble beside me. “No pressure, but I’m here if you want to share.”
I nodded, bracing myself.
“About a decade ago,” I began, my voice just above a whisper, “I planned a practical joke with an old vampire acquaintance of mine that got…out of hand.” I started picking at a loose thread on the hem of my shirt, no longer able to look Peter in the eye. If Peter judged me now, I didn’t want to see it.
“What was the practical joke?” he asked gently. Still massaging my shoulder.
“It was stupid,” I mumbled. “I created a big windstorm to herd people into a rec center outside of Chicago. My friend walked in there dressed as Timothée Chalamet, hoping to give everyone a big thrill.”
“Who’s Timothée Chalamet?”
“I’m not totally sure,” I admitted. “He’s an actor, I think. Popular among the youths. Anyway, my friend was very proud of having thought of this joke, and I went along with it because I thought it sounded funny. But it went badly.”
I chanced a glance at Peter’s face to gauge his reaction. He looked like he wanted to say something.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Did you set fire to this building, too?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“The building caught fire,” I admitted. “But this time, it wasn’t only me that caused it. It was a sort ofgusty wind meets fireeaters competitionsituation.” I gave him a sad smile. “Probably the first one in history.”
He huffed a gentle laugh. “Probably,” he agreed.
“No one died,” I continued. “Everyone who was injured ultimately made a full recovery, thank the gods. But hearing dozens of innocent people screaming and crying because they were hurt, because they were terrified, and knowing I had played a role in it…” I trailed off, shuddering. “A lot of them werechildren, Peter.”
“No one died,” he murmured. “Right? You just said so.”
“No one died,” I agreed. “But theycouldhave.”
“But they didn’t.”
I shook my head. “Regardless, it was the wake-up call I needed.”
Peter kept massaging my shoulder, kneading muscles I hadn’t even known were knotted up. I let him do it, enjoying his touch, even though I didn’t deserve such comfort. “Is that why you stopped using magic?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Though, when I think back on it, I realize it had been a long time coming. I didn’t like who I was or who I’dbeen.I needed to move on.” I shook my head. “The trouble with notoriety, though, is sometimes you don’tgetto move on. A person’s past can be a trap they can’t escape.”
“So you…left,” he said. “Made a new identity for yourself.”
I nodded.
“How?”
